THE OVERFLOWINGS OF THE LATE
PELLUCID RIVERS, Esq.
Edited by Edmund H. Yates.
In submitting to the public some of the productions of my
lamented friend Rivers, I think it right to endeavour to sketch
some faint outline of the career of their illustrious author. “The
world knows nothing of its greatest men,” says Philip Van
Artevelde, and its general ignorance of Rivers clearly proves the
truth of the remark.
Born of poor but respectable parents, in the parish of St. Pancras,
at an early age Rivers evinced symptoms of that poetic talent
which, in later life, made him so renowned—I mean, which would
have made him so renowned, had he not been crushed by the
wretched blindness and illiberality of the publishers of the metropolis.
He could not have been more than five years of age when
he first burst forth in metrical numbers; it was at the family
dinner-table, when, pointing first to the smoking joint, then to the
domestic implement by which he was conveying a portion of it to
his mouth, he exclaimed—
A moment after, indicating the beer jug, his juvenile “poet’s eye,
in a fine frenzy rolling,” he continued, “chalk!” His meaning on
this point was vague, but it is generally considered he implied that
the liquid was not paid for at the time, but was chalked up behind
the door to the family account—a custom prevalent, I have ascertained,
in many parts of the United Kingdom. From that period
until his death he was constantly engaged in writing;—though his
name never appeared to any of his productions, they were most
extensively read; indeed, one of his minor poems—
“Dearest maid, I thee do love;
This my tender vows shall prove—
Little Cupid’s thrilling dart
Has found refuge in my heart,”
has been considered so successful, that the publication of it is
annually revived, and the fourteenth of February, sacred to St.
Valentine, is the day usually chosen for its reappearance.
For the last twenty years of his life, poor Rivers laboured under
severe fits of melancholy and depression, the cause of which he
long held secret. Shortly before his decease, however, he confided
to me the source of his grief. It was, that manuscripts which he
had forwarded on approval to various publishers, had been returned
as worthless, while a few months afterwards the same publishers
would send forth books of poems in which the most direct
plagiarisms from my poor friend’s productions would appear. He
made me solemnly pledge myself to see him righted in the opinion
of the world, and hence the publication of these papers.
I regret exceedingly to be obliged to hold up to public odium
names which have hitherto stood so highly as those of Mr. A—f—d
T—ys—n and his publisher, Mr. M—x—n, but I defy any candid
reader to peruse the following vigorous and striking stanzas of my
poor friend’s, and then turn to that weak and rambling production,
“L—cks—y H—ll,” without perceiving which is the grand
original, which the mean and despicable parody!
VAUXHALL.
Cabman, stop thy jaded knacker; cabman, draw thy slackened rein;
Take this sixpence—do not grumble, swear not at Sir Richard Mayne!
’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the cadgers bawl—
Sparkling rockets, squibs and crackers, whizzing over gay Vauxhall.
Gay Vauxhall! that in the summer all the youth of town attracts,
Glittering with its lamps and fireworks, and its flashing cataracts.
Many a night in yonder gilded temple, ere I went to rest,
Did I look on great Von Joel, mimicking the feathered nest;
Many a night I saw Hernandez in a tinsel garb arrayed,
With his odorif’rous ringlets tangled in a silver braid;
Here about the paths I wandered, chaffing, laughing all the time,
Laughing at the piebald clown, or listening to the minstrel’s rhyme;
When beneath the business-counter linendraper’s men reposed,
When in calm and peaceful slumber, sharp maternal eyes are closed;
When I dipt into the pewter pot that held the foaming stout,
When I quaffed the burning punch, or wildly sipped the “cold without.”
In the spring a finer cambric’s wrapped around the lordling’s breast;
In the spring the gent at Redmayne’s gets himself a Moses’ “vest;”
In the spring we make investment in a white or lilac glove;
In the spring my youthful fancy prompted me to fall in love.
Then she danced through all the ballet, as a fairy blithe and young,
Stood a tiptoe on a flow’ret or from clouds of pasteboard swung—
And I said, “Miss Julia Belmont, speak, and speak the truth to me,
Wilt thou from this fairy region with a heart congenial flee?”
On her lovely cheek and forehead came a blushing through her paint,
And she sank upon my bosom in the semblance of a faint;
Then she turned, her voice was broken (so, if I must tell the truth,
Was her English—all I pardoned in the generous warmth of youth),
Saying, “Pray excuse my feelings, nothing wrong, indeed, is meant,”
Saying, “Will you be my loveyer?” weeping, “You are quite the gent.”
Love took up the glass before me, filled it foaming to the brim,
Love changed every comic ballad to a sweet euphonious hymn!
Many a morning in the railway did we run to Richmond, Kew,
And her hunger cleared my pockets oft of shillings not a few!
Many an evening down at Greenwich did we eat the pleasant “bait,”
Till I found my earnings going at a rather rapid rate.—
Oh! Miss Belmont, fickle-hearted! Oh, Miss Belmont, known too late!
Oh, that horrid, horrid Richmond, oh, the cursed, cursed “bait.”
Falser far than Lola Montes, falser e’en than Alice Gray,
Scorner of a faithful press-man, sharer of a tumbler’s pay!—
Is it well to wish thee happy? having once loved me—to wed
With a fool who gains his living by his heels and not his head!
As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,
And, pursuing his profession, he will strive to drag thee down.
He will hold thee, in the winter, when his fooleries begin,
Something better than his wig, a little dearer than his gin.
What is this? his legs are bending! think’st thou he is weary, faint?
Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, how he tastes of paint!
Am I mad, that I should cherish memories of the by-gone time?
Think of loving one whose husband fools it in a pantomime!
Never, though my mortal summers should be lengthened to the sum
Granted to the aged Parr, or more illustrious Widdicomb—
Comfort!—talk to me of comfort!—what is comfort here below?
Lies it in iced drinks in summer, aquascutum coats in snow?
Think not thou wilt know its meaning, wait of all his vows the proof,
Till the manager is sulky, and the rain pours through the roof:
See, his life he acts in dreams, while thou art staring in his face,
Listen to his hollow laughter, mark his effort at grimace!
Thou shalt hear “Hot Codlins” muttered in his vision-haunted sleep,
Thou shalt hear his feigned ecstatics, thou shalt hear his curses deep:
Let them fall on gay Vauxhall, that scene to me of deepest woe,
But—the waiters are departing, and perhaps I’d better go!
Such is the noble ballad of Vauxhall! but Rivers was master of
all styles. The following exquisite picture of the joys and sorrows
of modern domestic life presents an example of that happy blending
of the real and the romantic with which the head of Rivers
overflowed. The ballad of “Boreäna” has been kindly communicated
by my literary friend Frank Fairleigh, who knew, loved,
and admired Rivers as much as myself. After pointing out some
of the more subtle and mysterious beauties of this matchless lyric,
Fairleigh adds, “and yet after this, A—f—d T—ny—n had the
face to publish that bombastic, trashy ballad of “Oriana,” and
pretend it was original; where does that misguided man expect to
go to?”
THE BALLAD OF BOREÄNA.
My brain is wearied with thy prate,
Boreäna,
I sit and curse my hapless fate,
Boreäna,
What time the rain pours down the gutter,
Still your platitudes you utter,
Boreäna,
I unholy wishes mutter,
Boreäna.
Ere the night-light’s flame was fading,
Boreäna,
While the cats were serenading,
Boreäna,
Sheep were bleating, oxen lowing,
We heard the beasts to Smithfield going,
Boreäna,
You said the butcher’s bill was owing,
Boreäna.
At Cremorne, we two alone,
Boreäna,
Ere my wisdom teeth were grown,
Boreäna,
While the dancers gaily hopped,
And the brass band never stopped,
Boreäna,
I to thee the question popped,
Boreäna.
She stood behind the area gate,
Boreäna,
She did it just to aggravate,
Boreäna,
She saw me wink, she heard me swear,
She recognized the scoundrel there,
Boreäna,
She knows a bailiff I can’t bear,
Boreäna.
The cursed writ he pushed it through,
Boreäna,
The area rails, and gave it you,
Boreäna,
The infernal summons me un-nerved,
He from his duty never swerved,
Boreäna,
On thee, my bride, the writ he served,
Boreäna.
Oh! narrow-minded County Court,
Boreäna,
’Tis death to me, to them ’tis sport,
Boreäna,
Oh! stab in my most tender place,
My pocket! oh! the deep disgrace,
Boreäna,
I fell down flat upon my face,
Boreäna.
They fined me at the next court day,
Boreäna,
Locked up, how can I get away,
Boreäna?
I don’t perceive of hope a ray,
’Tis a true bill, but, oh! I say,
Boreäna,
How without tin am I to pay,
Boreäna?
When turns the never-pausing mill,
Boreäna,
I tread, I do not dare stand still,
Boreäna:
At home, of beer thou drink’st thy fill,
I may not come to thee and swill,
Boreäna,
I hear the rolling of the mill,
Boreäna.
Chapter II.
My poor friend had always within him a certain classical fondness
of the ancient style of poetry; none of your vulgar Alcaics
and Sapphics—“These,” he used to remark, “Horace, Tibullus,
or any fellow of that calibre could manage; but the glorious hexameters
and pentameters of Homer, Virgil, and Ovid,—they’re the
things, my boy!” His delight in this species of composition was
so great that at school we used to call him, as a nickname,
“Professor Long-and-short-fellow.” It curdles my blood to think
that some obscure person in America, who has latterly been indulging
in dactyllic and spondaic metre, has dared to name himself
partly in imitation of the sobriquét by which we designated
our friend.
Recollecting poor Pellucid’s warm admiration of the hexameter
then, I have made strict search among his papers, on the chance
of finding some classical Latin or Greek poem of his composition,
but without success. At one time a ray of hope darted through
me, as I came upon a paper carefully folded, and docketted,
“Notions for a Fight between Hector and Achilles;” I unfolded it
eagerly, but, alas! it was only a fragment, the words “Arma
virumque cano” were legibly inscribed in my friend’s neat hand,
but it was evident that he had either been called away, or that the
Muse had deserted him at the critical moment, as he had left it
without another word. At length I chanced to find the following
poem, descriptive of a picnic at Cliefden and its consequences, in
the true classical verse, but, before submitting it to the world, I
must remark that on the outside cover of the MS. is written, in
pencil, and in a hand very similar to that of Mr. B—, the publisher,
of F— Street, “Query? Evang’—;” the rest of the
word is illegible, and I could never comprehend the meaning of
the comment.
PICNIC-ALINE.
These are the green woods of Cliefden. The glorious oaks and the chestnuts
All appertain to the Duke, whose residence stands in the distance—
Stands like a toyhouse of childhood, besprinkled all over with windows—
Stands like a pudding at Christmas, a white surface dotted with black things.
Loud from the neighbouring river, the deep-voiced clamorous bargée
Roars, and in accents opprobrious hollas to have the lock opened.
These are the green woods of Cliefden. But where are the people who in them
Laughed like a man when he lists to the breath-catching accents of Buckstone?
Where are the wondrous white waistcoats, the flimsy baréges and muslins,
Worn by the swells and the ladies who came here on pleasant excursions?
Gone are those light-hearted people, flirtations, perhaps love, even marriage,
All have had woeful effect since Mrs. Merillian’s picnic;
And of that great merrymaking, some bottles in tinfoil enveloped,
And a glove dropped by Jane Page, are the vestiges only remaining!
Ye who take pleasure in picnics and doat on excursions aquatic,
Flying the smoke of the city, vexations and troubles of business,
List to a joyous tradition of one which was held once at Cliefden—
List to a tale of cold chicken, champagne, bitter beer, lobster salad!
Brilliantly burst forth the sun o’er the pleasant meadows of Cliefden,
Bathed in his beautiful light, the daisies and daffydowndillies
Shone like those fanciful gems made by Beverly, at the Lyceum:
Calmly the whole of the morning untrodden, unseen, and unnoticed,
Lay all the valley around; but when from Maidenhead’s steeple
Clashed the four quarters of noon, then come the first batch of the rev’llers,
Come in a large open boat, broad-bottomed, and decked with tarpaulin,
Which from the sun’s scorching rays formed a needful and pleasant protection.
Here were seated the belles of the fête, Kate and Ellen Merillian,
Fairest of all demoiselles who dwell in Belgravia’s quarters.
With them came Margaret Stewart, their pretty cousin from Scotland,
Marian Vernon, and eke, to give proper tone to the party,
Old Mrs. Blinder, who’s deaf, and so chaperoned most discreetly.
Nor did they lack cavaliers—Jack Wilson, the fast and the funny,
Pride of the Board of Control, delight of his club and his office,
Sat at the stern of the boat, alternately singing and smoking;
There, too, was Captain De Boots, of Her Majesty’s Household Brigade, he
Sat by the side of Miss Vernon, and talked in so earnest a whisper,
That the rest called it “a case,” and begged to have “cake and gloves” sent them.
Scarce was the party on shore when several ran up to meet them,
Chattering, laughing young girls, and matrons more serious and sober,
Men from the City, resplendent in whiskers and large-patterned trousers—
Men from the West, who relied on their manners much more than their costume—
Marvellous were the shirt-collars encircling the necks of the young ones,
Seemed it as though they were made of a cross between buckram and mill-board;
Marvellous, too, was their conduct, a mixture of insult and folly,
Gods! how absurd were their airs, how silly, insane, and precocious.
Now began frolic and mirth, pleasant pastimes and games in which all joined,
And where e’en fathers and mothers partook of the fun with their children,
“Hunting the Slipper,” (“by Jove! what fun can be had at that same, sir!”)
“How, when, and where!” “Prisoner’s Base!” but not until dinner was over
Played they at Blindman’s Buff, the climax of riot and revel.
Gathering their dresses close round them, the ladies sat down on the herbage,
Laughing at every speech, and screaming at popping champagne corks,
While their attentive gallants were constantly hovering near them,
Handing the wings of cold fowls and trembling blancmanges and jellies.
More can I not write at present. I’ve striven to laugh on this subject,
But ’neath my placid external beats sadly a heart crushed and blighted!
Shall I confess to ye the reason? Know then, that at this said picnic,
Fired by the fumes of champagne and strong deleterious potions,
Placed I my fortune and hand at the feet of Emily Robins!
Know then, that losing my balance I sprawled on the greensward before her,
And, ere the evening was o’er, got outrageously thrashed by her brother!
Note by the Editor.—In transcribing this poem from my friend’s MS., I
feel it my duty to state that his touching description of his love was not
without foundation. The “knock-down blow” he received did not entirely
floor him; he sought to see the lady again, and, on being repulsed, commenced
a very pretty little poem, beginning—
“When he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his faults and his follies behind.”
Here he stopped, which, I think, was a pity, as he evidently possessed the
feeling and talents essential to an amatory poet.
Chapter III.
It is a melancholy pleasure to me to wander among these
vestiges of the departed great man; to trace his various thoughts
from his earliest infancy to the time when death robbed the world
of what should have been its brightest ornament, and left to it
merely the paste and tinsel, the gewgaw and tomfoolery of
literature.
Of his father he has left many records. This person, upon
whom the honour of being Pellucid’s progenitor devolved, appears
to have been a worthy undertaker; an unprofitable one, however,
for he never undertook anything well, nor carried it out successfully.
Nevertheless, his failings or shortcomings in life, served
but to increase the love his son bore him, and which is manifested
in many poetical scraps, evidently written in early life, one of
which, commencing—
“My father, my dear father, if a name
Dearer and holier were, it should be thine,”
is worthy of comparison with anything of Byron’s; it is, however,
too long for extract. To his schooldays also, I find many pleasing
allusions scattered through his manuscripts. In a letter to his
sister (which, from family reasons, I am precluded from publishing)
he draws a wonderful sketch of his pedagogue, whom he describes
as being a man severe and stern to view, but who often
relaxed to a joke with his scholars, and was the best hand at
argument in the village, using words of such learned length and
wondrous sound, that the amazed rustics stood gaping at his
knowledge. His “Ode on a Distant Prospect of Islington Free-school,”
is also full of pleasing reminiscences of his younger
days.
Late in life Rivers began to take a great interest in theatrical
matters, and I find among his MSS. the following poem, evidently
written shortly before his decease. One curious fact connected
with these verses is, that as executor of poor Pellucid, I am at
present at loggerheads with one Mr. McAuley, a Scotch gentleman,
who, absurdly enough, claims their authorship:—
GUSTAVUS.
A LAY OF DRURY LANE.
Great Smithius of Drury Lane,
By cape and truncheon swore
That Bold Gustavus Brookius
Should perdu lie no more.
By staff and cape he swore it,
And named his opening night,
And sent his messengers abroad,
Each with a pile of orders stored,
To summon all they might.
East and west, and south and north,
The messengers repair;
Some hie them to the Regal Oak,
Some to the Arms of Eyre.
Shame on the false theatrical
Who would refuse to come,
When bold Gustavus Brookius
Enters the “Drama’s Home!”
The gallery-boys and pittites
Are pouring in amain,
And struggling in a turbid mass,
The theatre doors they gain.
From many a noisome alley,
From many a crowded court,
Great G. V. B.’s supporters
Have hastened to the sport.
From Kingsland’s leafy quarters,
From Camden’s noble town,
From where Belgravia’s daughters
On humble men look down;
From Islington the merry,
From Kensington the slow,
To meet the great Gustavus
The many-headed go.
The patrons of the Surrey,
Who e’er in shirt-sleeves sit,
While the refreshing foaming stout
Is handed round the pit,
Yield up their old allegiance,
And join the swelling train,
Crossing the Bridge of Waterloo,
To meet at Drury Lane.
Ho! fiddlers, scrape your catgut!
Ho! drummers, use your strength!
HE comes, whose name on every wall
Measures six feet in length!
Who, though perchance he cannot
With Shakespeare move your souls,
Will gain your heartiest plaudits
By gifts of soup and coals!
Come, Phelps, come crouch unto him;
Come, Kean, and do the same;
You, famous by your own good deeds,
You by your father’s name!
Crouch to the great Gustavus,
Who has become the rage,
And proved himself, by feats of alms,
King of the British stage.
Chapter IV.
“Poeta nascitur non fit,” is a trite but wise aphorism. Few
men have selected such varied subjects as my friend Rivers, and
few have dealt with their choice so successfully. Unlike your
modern writers, who put on one suit of similes and wear it threadbare
(such as Alessandro Smiffini, for instance, who is never
tired of gazing at the moon or dipping in the sea), Pellucid’s
kindly nature immortalises even the most trivial occurrences of
his life. The following extract from his works will show what I
mean. Unblessed with riches, he had incurred a small bill at a
restaurant, in the neighbourhood of his lodgings, and one night
the proprietor of the hostelry effected an entrance into his
apartment, and refused to quit until the claim was settled. This
circumstance, which would have discomposed a less happy mind,
gave him the idea for a set of verses, which he named “The
Tankard,” and which he calls, “A Domestic Scene turned into
Poetry.” Again, on this manuscript is a pencilled query (in the
same writing to which I have before alluded), “Does he mean
Edgar Poe—try?” I confess this joke is beyond my poor powers
of brain. Perhaps my readers will be able to interpret it, when
they read the verses, which run thus:—
THE TANKARD.
Sitting in my lonely chamber, in this dreary, dark December,
Gazing on the whitening ashes of my fastly-fading fire,
Pond’ring o’er my misspent chances with that grief which time enhances—
Misdirected application, wanting aims and objects higher,—
Aims to which I should aspire.
As I sat thus wond’ring, thinking, fancy unto fancy linking,
In the half-expiring embers many a scene and form I traced—
Many a by-gone scene of gladness, yielding now but care and sadness,—
Many a form once fondly cherished, now by misery’s hand effaced,—
Forms which Venus’ self had graced.
Suddenly, my system shocking, at my door there came a knocking,
Loud and furious,—such a rat-tat never had I heard before;
Through the keyhole I stood peeping, heart into my mouth up-leaping,
Till at length, my teeth unclenching, faintly said I, “What a bore!”
Gently, calmly, teeth unclenching, faintly said I, “What a bore!”
Said the echo, “Pay your score!”
At this solemn warning trembling, some short time I stood dissembling,
Till again the iron knocker beat its summons ’gainst the door,
Then, the oak wide open throwing, stood I on the threshold bowing—
Bows such as, save motley tumbler, mortal never bowed before,—
Bows which even Mr. Flexmore never yet had tried before:
Said the echo, “Pay your score!”
Grasping then the light, upstanding, looked I round the dreary landing,
Looked at every wall, the ceiling, looked upon the very floor,
Nought I saw there but a Tankard, from the which that night I’d drank hard,—
Drank as drank our good forefathers in the merry days of yore,—
In the corner stood the Tankard, where it oft had stood before,—
Stood and muttered, “Pay your score!”
Much I marvelled at this pewter, surely ne’er in past or future
Has been, will be, such a wonder, such a Tankard learned in lore!
Gazing at it more intensely, stared I more and more immensely
When it added, “Come, old boy, you’ve many a promise made before,—
False they were as John O’Connell’s, who would ‘die upon the floor!’
Now for once—come, pay your score!”
From my placid temper starting, and upon the Tankard darting,
With one furious hurl I flung it down before the porter’s door;
But as I my oak was locking, heard I then the self-same knocking,
And on looking out I saw the Tankard sitting as before,—
Sitting, squatting in the self-same corner as it sat before,—
Sitting, crying “Pay your score!”
And the Tankard, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
In the very self-same corner where it sat in days of yore:
And its pewter still is shining, and it bears the frothy lining,
Which the night when first I drained its cooling beverage it bore,
But my mouth that frothy lining never, never tasted more,
Since it muttered, “Pay your score!”
I have concluded my extracts; the remaining poems are
principally of a private and personal nature, which renders them
unfitted for publication.
After a perusal of his verses there will, I trust, be very few
persons who will not at once appreciate the powers of my
lamented friend, and grieve over the illiberal treatment he experienced.
Should I find that tardy justice is done to his productions,
and that they meet with that posthumous popularity
which is undoubtedly their due, the effort which I have made to
bring him into notice, and to shake the dii majores of the literary
world on their unstable thrones, will not have been unrewarded.
Edmund H. Yates.
LONDON:
SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET
COVENT GARDEN.
