reference
collectioi
book
kansas city
public library
kansas city,
missouri
STACKS REF 808.81 M21r
V.2
Hahony, Francis
Sylvester, 1804-1866.
The rellques of Father
Prout . .
1836.
FATHER PROUT.
J'UINTED BY R.OBSON, LEVEY, AND PIIANKJ.YN,
46 St, Martin's Lane.
in 'K u m % , .nil. AIH ii) '! s <','iu',,s in:
II.
JIAHJIES JFIRASKK, ^05, H8EC IEK V STTfKEET.
FATHER PROUT,
, in ify ount of orfc, Ireland
COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY
OLIVER YORKE, ESQ.
ILLUSTRATED BT
ALFRED CROQUIS, ESQ.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
EXORIARE aliquis nostris ex ossitus AUCTOK! JEneid, IT.
LONDON:
JAMES FRASER, 215 REGENT STREET.
1836.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
PAGE
THE SONGS OF FRANCE : ON WINE, WAR, WOMEN, WOODEN
SHOES, PHILOSOPHY, FROGS, AND FREE TRADE.
CHAPTER I. WINE AND WAR 1
CHAPTER II. WOMEN AND WOODEN SHOES ... 52
CHAPTER III. PHILOSOPHY 94
CHAPTER IV. FROGS AND FREE TRADE . . .147
THE SONGS OF ITALY.
CHAPTER I. 193
CHAPTER IL 237
JEROME VIDA'S SILKWORM .292
THE
RELIQUES
FATHER PROUT.
No. VII.
THE SONGS OF FRANCE.
ON WINE, WAR, WOMEN, WOODEN SHOES, PHILOSOPHY, FROGS,
AND FREE TRADE.
tf)e ^tout
CHAPTER I. WINE AND WAR.
" Favete linguis ! Carmina non prius
Audita, Musarum sacerdos,
Virginibus puerisque canto."
HOR. Carmen Sceculare.
" With many a foreign author grappling,
Thus have I, Prout, the Muses* chaplain,
Traced on REGINA'S virgin pages
Songs for * the boys ' of after-ages.'*
PROUT' s Transl. of Horace.
THAT illustrious utilitarian, Dr. Bowring, the knight-
errant of free trade, who is allowed to circulate
VOL. II. B
2 FATHER PEOUT S RELIQJCJES.
without a keeper (his derangement being considered
harmless) through the cities of France, and in whom
our Gallic neighbours have got an inexhaustible fund
of innocent merriment, an itinerant budget of fun,
will be in high glee at this October manifestation
of Prout's wisdom. Verily, the Doctor hath found
a kindred soul in the Priest. To promote the in-
terchange of national commodities, to facilitate the
commercial intercourse of the two countries, to cause
a blending and a chemical fusion of their mutual
produce, to establish an equilibrium between our
negative and their positive electricity ; such appears
to be the sublime aspiration of both these learned
pundits. But, alas ! the beneficial results attendant
on the efforts of each are widely dissimilar. They
are both Arcadians, but not equally gifted in the
rivalry of song. In sober sadness, we have to record
nothing of Dr. Bowring in the way of acquirement to
this country ; we have gained nothing by his labours :
our cottons, our iron, our woollens, and our coals, are
still without a passport to France ; while in certain
home-trades, brought by his calculations into direct
competition with the emancipated French, we have
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. 3
encountered a loss on our side to the tune of a few
millions. Not so with the exertions of Father Front :
he has enriched England at the expense of her rival,
and engrafted on our literature the best and choicest
productions of Gallic culture. Silently and unosten-
tatiously, on the bleak top of WatergrasshiM, he has
succeeded in naturalising these foreign vegetables,
and has associated himself in the gratitude of poste-
rity with Sir Walter Raleigh, the planter of the
potato. The inhabitants of these islands may now,
thanks to Prout ! sing or whistle the " Songs of
France," duty free, in their vernacular language ; a
vastly important acquisition! The beautiful tunes
of the "Ca ira" and " Charmante Gabrielle" will
become familiarised to our dull ears : instead of the
vulgar sound of " Peas upon a trencher," we shall
enjoy that barrel-organ luxury of France, te Partant
pour la Syrie ; " and for " The Minstrel Boy to the
wars is gone," we shall have the original, " Mal-
broock s'en va-t-en guerre." What can be imagined
more calculated to establish an harmonious under-
standing between the. two nations, than this attempt
of a benevolent clergyman to join them in a hearty
4 FATHER PROUT S RELIQUES.
chorus of common melody ? And why should the
hypercritic turn up his nose at the idea originated by
Prout of a grand f 'duo," composed of bass and tenor,
the roaring of the bull and the croaking of the frog ?
Far less to be patronised was the late musical festival
in Westminster Abbey, which " proved nothing."
To return to Dr. Bo wring. We have been quietly
observing (not without concern for our national pride)
the ludicrous exhibition he has been making of Him-
self in sundry places over the way. Palmerston is a
good cotton-ball in the paw of the veteran grimalkin
here at home ; but to furnish a butt for the waggery
of every provincial town in France, in the person of
a documentary doctor, is somewhat galling to our
national vanity. Commissions of inquiry are the
order of the day ; but some travelling < notes of
interrogation" are so mishapen and grotesque, that
the response or result is but a roar of laughter : " sol-
vuntur risu tabulae." This doctor, we perceive, is
now the hero of every dinner of every " Chambre de
Commerce ; " his toasts and his speeches, delivered in
Norman French, are, we are told, considered the ne
plus ultra of comic performance, especially towards
THE SONGS OF PRANCE. 5
the close of the banquet. He is now in Burgundy, a
most industrious labourer in the vineyard of his
commission; and enjoys such particular advantages
in that way, that the functionary on the woolsack is
said to cast a jealous eye on his missionary's depart-
ment: " invidia rumpantur ut ilia Codri." The
whole affair is indicative of that sad mixture of anile
imbecility and frothy ostentation so perceptible in all
the doings of Utilitarianism and Whiggery. Of these
commissioners, one and all, Phsedrus has long ago
given the prototype :
" Est ardelionum qusedam Iloinse natio
Trepidd concursans, occupata in otio,
Gratis anhelans, multtim agendo, nihil agens."
So no more on that topic.
The publication of this Prout Paper on the
" Songs of France," is intended by us, at this par-
ticular season, to have a salutary effect in counter-
acting the prevalent epidemic, which hurries away
our population in crowds to Paris or Boulogne. By
furnishing them here at home with French diet and a
literary fricassee, we hope to induce some, at least,
to remain in the country, and to forswear emigration.
6 FATHER PROUT S RELIQUES.
If our " preventive check" succeed, we shall have
deserved well of the shopkeepers in London and of
our own watering-places, which naturally look up to
us for protection and patronage. Indeed, we are
sorry to find the Parisian mania so visibly on the
increase, in spite of the strong animadversions of
Bombardinio, aided by the luminous notes of Sir
Morgan. The girls will never listen to good ad-
vice
" Each pretty minx in her conscience thinks that nothing can
improve her,
Unless she sees the Tuileries, and trips along the Louvre."
No ! never in the memory of REGINA has Regent
Street suffered such complete depopulation. It hath
emptied itself into the " Boulevards." We hope that
our city friends will keep an eye on the Monument,
lest it may elope from Pudding Lane to the " Place
Vendome:" for as to the preposterous idea of the
Thames flowing into the Seine, we cannot yet antici-
pate so alarming a phenomenon, although Juvenal has
recorded a similar event as having occurred in his
time
" Totus in Tyberim defluxit Orontes."
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. 7
But there is still balm in Gilead, there is still
corn in Egypt. The " chest" in which old Front
hath left a legacy of hoarded wisdom to the children
of men is open to us, for the comfort and instruction
of our contemporaries. It is rich in consolation, and
fraught with goodly maxims adapted to every state
and stage of sublunary vicissitude. The treatise of
the celebrated Boethius, " de Consolatione Philoso-
phica," worked wonders in its day, and assuaged the
tribulations of the folks in the dark ages. The sibyl-
line books were consulted in all cases of emergency.
Prout's strong box rather resembleth the oracular
portfolio of the Sibyl, inasmuch as it chiefly containeth
matters written in verse ; and even in prose it ap-
peareth poetical. Versified apophthegms are always
better attended to than mere prosaic crumbs of com-
fort; and we trust that the " Songs of France,"
which we are about to publish for the patriotic
purpose above mentioned, may have the desired
effect,
" Carmina vel ccelo possunt deducere lunam ;
Carmine Di super! placantur, carmine manes :
Dticite ab urlje domum, mea carmina, ducite Daphnim!"
8 FATHER PROUT'S REIIQUES.
When Saul went mad, the songs of the poet David
were the only effectual sedatives ; and in one of that
admirable series of homilies on Job, St. Chrysostom,
to fix the attention of his auditory, breaks out in fine
style : $epe ovv, ayontyre, *ny$ Aa$n7 yuOap
TO iJsaKfUKW ^eX0, x#t TYp avQpuntvriv yoovrts
nra^v 9 y.ai T. X. (Serm. III. in Jb5.) These French
Canticles are, in Prout's manuscript, given with ac-
companiment of introductory and explanatory ob-
servations, in which they swim like water-fowl on
the bosom of a placid and pellucid lake ; and to each
song there is underwritten an English translation,
like the liquid reflection of the floating bird in the
water beneath, so as to recall the beautiful image of
Wordsworth, talking of a swan, which, according to
the father of " lake poetry,"
" Floats double 'Swan and shadow."
Vale et fruere !
OLIVER YORKE.
Regent Street, 1st Oct. 1834.
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. \)
Watergrassliill, Oct. 1833.
I HAVE lived among the French : in the freshest
dawn of early youth, in the meridian hour of man-
hood's maturity, my lot was cast and my lines fell on
the pleasant places of that once-happy land. Full
gladly have I strayed among her gay hamlets and
her hospitable chateaux, anon breaking the brown
loaf of the peasant, and anon seated at the board of
her noblemen and her pontiffs. I have mixed indus-
triously with every rank and every denomination of
her people, tracing as I went along the peculiar indi-
cations of the Celt and the Frank, the Normand and
the Breton, the langue d'oui and the langue d'oc; not
at the same time overlooking the endemic features of
unrivalled Gascony. The manufacturing industry of
Lyons, the Gothic reminiscences of Tours, the his-
toric associations of Orleans, the mercantile enter-
prise and opulence of Bordeaux, Marseilles, the
emporium of the Levant, each claimed my wonder in
its turn. It was a goodly scene ! and, compared to
the ignoble and debased generation that now usurps
the soil, my recollections of ante-revolutionary France
are like dreams of an antediluvian world. And in
those days arose the voice of song. The charac-
teristic cheerfulness of the country found a vent for
its superabundant joy in jocund carols, and music
was at once the offspring and the parent of gaiety.
Sterne, in his " Sentimental Journey," had seen the
10 PATHEE PROUX'S RELIQUES.
peasantry whom he so graphically describes in that
passage concerning a marriage-feast a generous
flagon, grace after meat, and a dance on the green
turf under the canopy of approving Heaven, Nor
did the Irish heart of Goldsmith (who, like myself,
rambled on the banks of the Loire and the Garonne
with true pedestrian philosophy) fail to enter into the
spirit of joyous exuberance which animated the in-
habitants of each village through which he passed,
poor and pennyless, but a poet ; arid he himself tells
us that, with his flute in his pocket, he might not
fear to quarter himself on any district in the south of
France, such was the charm of music to the ear of
the natives in those happy days. It surely was not
of France that the poetic tourist spoke when he
opened his beautiful poem, " The Traveller," by
those sweet verses that tell of a loneliness little expe-
rienced on the banks of the Loire, however felt else-
where
" Remote, unfriended, solitary, slow ;
Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po, J> c.
For Goldy, the village-maiden lit up her brightest
smiles ; for him the tidy housewife, " on hospitable
cares intent," brought forth the wheaten loaf and the
well-seasoned sausage : to welcome the foreign trou-
badour, the master of the cottage and of the vineyard
produced his best can of wine, never loath for an
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. 11
excuse to drain a cheerful cup with an honest fellow ;
for,
" Si bend commemini, causse stint quinque bibendi :
Hospitis adventus, prsesens sitis atque futura,
Vel vini bonitas vel guselibet altera causa."
All this buoyancy of spirits, all this plentiful
gladness, found expression and utterance in the na-
tional music and songs of that period ; which are
animated and lively to excess, and bear testimony to
the brisk current of feeling and the exhilarating
influence from which they sprung. Each season of
the happy year, each incident of primitive and rural
life, each occurrence in village history, was chronicled
in uncouth rhythm, and chanted with choral glee.
The baptismal holyday, the marriage epoch, the sol-
dier's return, the " patron saint," the harvest and the
vintage, " le jour des rois," and " le jour de Noel,"
each was ushered in with the merry chime of parish-
bells and the extemporaneous outbreak of the rustic
muse. And when mellow autumn gave place to
hoary winter, the genial source of musical inspiration
was not frozen up in the hearts of the young, nor was
there any lack of traditionary ballads derived from
the memory of the old.
" Ici le chanvre prepare
Tourne autour du fuseau Gothique,
Et sur un bane mal assure
La bergSre la plus antique
12 FATHER PEOUT'S HELIQUES.
Chante la raort du ' Balafre '
D'une voix plaintive et tragique."
" While the merry fireblocks kindle,
While the gudewife twirls her spindle,
Hark the song which, nigh the embers,
Singe th yonder withered crone j
Well I ween that hag remembers
Many a war-tale past and gone."
This characteristic of the inhabitants of Gaul,
this constitutional attachment to music and melody,
has been early noticed by the writers of the middle
ages, and remarked on by her historians and philoso-
phers. The eloquent Salvian of Marseilles (A.D. 440),
in his book on Providence (" de Gubernatione Dei "),
says that his fellow-countrymen had a habit of drown-
ing care and banishing melancholy with songs :
" Cantilenis infortunia sua solantur." In the old
jurisprudence of the Gallic code we are told, by
lawyer De Marchangy, in his excellent work, " la
Gaule Poetique," that all the goods and chattels of a
debtor could be seized by the creditor, with the posi-
tive exception of any musical instrument, lyre, bag-
pipe, or flute, which happened to be in the house of
misfortune ; the lawgivers wisely and humanely pro-
viding a source
and the consequent development of the silk-trade
along the Rhone, to his fostering care the poetry of
France is indebted for many of her best and simplest
productions, the rondeau, the madrigal, the triolet,
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. 15
the lay, the virelai, and other measures equally me-
lodious. His own ditties (chiefly church hymns) are
preserved in the Bibliotheque du Roi, in his own
handwriting, adorned by his royal pencil with sundry
curious enluminations and allegorical emblems.
A rival settlement for the "sacred sisters*' was
established at the neighbouring court of Avignon,
where the temporary residence of the popes attracted
the learning of Italy and of the ecclesiastical world.
The combined talents of churchmen and of poets
shone with concentrated effulgence in that inost pic-
turesque and romantic of cities, fit cradle for the
muse of Petrarca, and the appropriate resort of every
contemporary excellence. The pontific presence shed
a lustre over this crowd of meritorious men, and ex-
cited a spirit of emulation in all the walks of science,
unknown in any other European capital: and to
Avignon in those days might be applied the observa-
tion of a Latin poet concerning that small town of
Italy which the residence of a single important per-
sonage sufficed to illustrate :
" Veios habitante Camillo,
Illlc Roma fuit"
LUCAN.
The immortal sonnets of Laura's lover, written in
the polished and elegant idiom of Lombardy, had a
perceptible effect in softening what was harsh, and
IQ FATHER PROUT J S RELIQUES.
refining what was uncouth, in the love-songs of the
Troubadours, whose language (not altogether obsolete
in Provence at the present time) bears a close afBnity
to the Italian. But this " light of song," however gra-
tifying to the lover of early literature, was but a sort
of crepuscular brightening, to herald in that glorious
dawn of true taste and knowledge which broke forth
at the appearance of Francis I. and Leo X. Then
it was that Europe's modern songsters, forming their
lyric effusions on the imperishable models of classical
antiquity, produced, for the bower and the banquet,
for the court and the camp, strains of unparalleled
sweetness and power. I have already enriched my
papers with a specimen of the love-ditties which the
amour of Francis and the unfortunate Comtesse de
Chateaubriand gave birth to. The royal lover has
himself recorded his chivalrous attachment in a song
which is preserved among the MSS. of the Duke of
Buckingham, in the Bibliotheque du Roi, It begins
thus :
" Ores que je la tiens sous ma loy,
Plus je regne amant qua roy,
Adieu, visages de cour," &c, &c.
Of the songs of Henri Quatre, addressed to Ga-
brielle d'Etrees, and of the ballads of Mary Stuart,
it were almost superfluous to say a word ; but in a
professed essay on so interesting a subject, it would
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. ' 17
be an unpardonable omission not to mention two such
illustrious contributors to the minstrelsy of France.
From crowned heads the transition to Maitre Adam
(the poetic carpenter) is rather abrupt; but he de-
serves most honourable rank among the tuneful bro-
therhood, and wsisfull of wise saws in his day. Without
quitting his humble profession of a joiner, he pub-
lished a volume of songs (Rheims, 1650) under the
modest title of " Dry Chips and Oak Shavings from the
Workshop of Adam Billaud." Some of these may be
met with in a paper of mine, headed the " Rogueries of
Tom Moore." Many of his staves are right well put
out of hand. But he had been preceded by Clement
Marot, a most cultivated poet, who had given the
tone to French versification. From the pen of Marot
I may give some characteristic productions before
I conckide this series of remarks on the popular
poetry of France. Malherbe was also a capital lyric
writer in the grandiose style, and at times very pathe-
tic* Ronsard and Panard were queer fellows, and much
to be laughed at. I could dwell with enthusiasm on
the merits of Jean de Meun, who, with Guillaume de
Lorris, concocted the " Roman de la Rose :" Villon,
Charles d'Orleans, Gringoire, Alain Chartier, Ber-
taut, and sundry others of the old school, deser-
vedly challenge the antiquary and critic's commenda-
tion. The subsequent glories of Voiture, Scuderi,
Dorat, Boufflers, Florian, Racan, and Chalieu, would
VOL. II, C
18 FATHER PROUT S RELIQUES.
claim their due share of notice, if the modern excel-
lence of Lamartine, Victor Hugo, Andre Chenier,
Chateaubriand, and Delavigne, like the rod of the
prophet, had not swallowed up the inferior spells of
the magicians who preceded them. But I cannot
keep back for a moment longer my unbounded ap-
plause, or repress my enthusiastic admiration of one
who has arisen in our days, to strike in France, with
a master-hand, the lyre of the troubadour, and to
fling into the shade all the triumphs of bygone
minstrelsy. Need I designate more fully the poet
Beranger, who has created for himself a style of
transcendent vigour and originality, and who has
sung of war, love, and wine, in strains far excelling
those of Blondel, Tyrtaeus, Pindar, or even the Tei'an
bard. He is now the genuine representative of Gallic
poesy in her convivial., her amatory, her warlike, and
her philosophic mood : and the plenitude of the in-
spiration that dwelt successively in the souls of all
the songsters of ancient France seems to have trans-
migrated into Beranger, and found a fit recipient in
his capacious and liberal mind :
" As some bright river, that, from fall to fall
In many a maze descending, bright in all,
Finds some fair region, where, each labyrinth past,
In one full lake of light it rests at last." Lalla Rookh,
I cannot therefore resist the impulse which hurries
me to the perpetration of an assault on the muse
THE SONGS OF FRANCE.
19
of Beranger : forcible abduction is here, if ever, jus-
tifiable, and she must forthwith cross the " Pas de
Calais," nolens volens, into merry England. How
shall we begin ? Wine is the grand topic with all
poets (after the ladies) ; I shall therefore give his
account of the introduction of the grape into Bur-
gundy and Champagne, effected through the instru-
mentality of the brave Brennus, the Celtic hero, and
the ancestor of our Irish Brennans.
Ou la Vigne planUe dans les
Gauks.
Brennus disait aux bons Gaulois,
" Celebrez un triomphe insigne !
Les champs de Rome ont pay6 mes
exploits,
Et j'en rapporte un cep de vigne;
Prives de son jus tout -puissant,
Nous avons vaincu pour en
boire ;
Sur nos coteaux que le pampre na-
issant
Serve a couronner la victoire.
Un jour, par ce raisin vermeil
Des peuples vous serez 1'envie ;
f) Song of
Or the Introduction of the Grape
into France,
TUNE The night before Larry."
When Brennus came "back here
from Rome,
These words he is said to have
spoken :
" "We have conquered, my boys !
* and brought home
A sprig of the vine for a token!
Cheer, my hearties! and welcome
to Gaul
This plant, -which we won from
the foeman ;
Tis enough to repay us for all
Our trouble in beating the Ro-
man;
Bless the gods ! and bad
luck to the geese !
! take, care to treat well the fair
guest,
From the blasts of the north to
protect her;
20
FATHER
RELIQtlES.
Bans son nectar plein des feux du
soleil
Tous les arts puiseront la vie.
duittatit nos bords favorises,
Mille vaisseaux iront sur 1'onde
Charges de vins et de fleurs pa-
voises,
Porter la joie autour du nionde.
Of your hillocks, the sunniest and
best
Make them hers, for the sake ol
her nectar.
She shall nurse your young Gauls
with her juice ;
Give life to ' the arts * in liba-
tions ;
While your ships round the globo
shall produce
The goblet of joy for all nations
But the foe shall not taste
of our cup.
Bacchus ! emhellls nos destins !
Un peuple hospitaller te prie,
Fais qu'un present, assis a nos
festins,
Qublie un moment sa patrie."
Brennus alors bennit les Cieux,
Creuse la terre avec sa lance,
Plante la vigne ! et les Gaulois
joyeux
Dans 1'avenir ont vu " la
France ! "
The poor exile who flies to our
hearth
Wine shall soothe, all his sor-
rows redressing ;
For the vine is the parent of mirth,
And to sit in its shade is a bless-
ing."
So the soil Brennus dug with his
lance,
'Mid the crowd of Gaul's war-
riors and sages ;
And our forefathers grim, of gay
France
Got a glimpse through the vista
of ages
And it gladdened the hearts
of the Gauls !
Such is the classical and profound range of
thought in which Beranger loves to indulge, amid
the unpretending effusions of a professed drinking
song ; embodying the noblest and most patriotic
aspirations in the simple form of an historical anec-
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. 21
dote, or a light and fanciful allegory. He abounds
in philanthropic sentiments and generous outbursts
of passionate eloquence, which come on the feelings
unexpectedly, and never fail to produce a corre-
sponding excitement in the heart of the listener. I
shall shortly return to his glorious canticles ; but
meantime, as we are on the chapter of wine, by way
of contrast to the style of Beranger, I may be
allowed to introduce a drinking ode of a totally
different character, and which, from its odd and
original conceptions, its ingenious special pleading,
and its harmless jocularity, I think deserving of
notice. It is 3 besides, of more ancient date ; and
my English version has been therefore set to the
old tune of " Life let us cherish."
to IStoges *$z HEati. TOtiu JBetar to citato:,
II pleut ! il pleut enfin ! Rain best doth nourish
Et la vigne alte*re"e Earth's pride, the budding vine .'
Va se voir restaur6 e Grapes best will flourish
Par Tin bienfait divin. On which the dewdrops shine.
De 1'eau chantons la gloire, Then why should water meet with scorn,
On la meprise en vain, Or why its claim, to praise resign?
C'est 1'eau qui nous fait boire "When from that bounteous source is born
Du vin ! du vin 1 du vin ! * The vine 1 the vine ! the vine !
C'est par 1'eau, fen conviens, Rain best disposes
Que Dicu fit le deluge ; Earth for each blossom and each bud j
Mais ce souverain Juge True } we are told by Moses,
Mit le mal pres du bien 1 Once it brought on " a flood : "
FATHER PROUT S RELIQUES.
Du deluge 1'histoire
Fait naitre le raisin ;
C'est 1'eau qui nous fait boire
Duvin! duvin! duvin!
But while that flood did all immerse,
All save old Noah's holy line,
Pray read the chapter and the verse
The vine is there ! the vine !
All! combien je jouis
Quand la rivi&re apporte
Des vins de toute sorte
Et de tous les pays !
Ma cave est mon armoire
A 1'instant tout est plein ;
C'est 1'eau qui nous fait boire
Du vin ! du vin ! du vin !
Wine by water-carriage
Round the globe is best convoyed ;
Then why disparage
A path for old Bacchus made ?
"When in our docks the cargo lands
Which foreign merchants here consign,
The vine's red empire wide expands
The vine! the vine ! the vine 1
Par un terns sec et beau
Le meunier du village,
Se morfond sans ouvrage,
II ne boit que de 1'eau ;
II rentre dans sa gloire
Quand 1'eau rentre au
moulin;
C'est Teau qui lui fait boire
Du vin ! du vin ! du vin !
Rain makes the miller
Work his glad wheel the livelong day;
Rain brings the siller,
And drives dull care away :
For without rain he lacks the stream,
And fain o'er watery cups must pine;
But when it rains, he courts, I deem,
The vine ! the vine 1 the vine ! *
* This idea, containing an apparent paradox, has been fre-
quently worked up in the quaint writings of the Hooks and Ilo-
gerses of the middle ages. There is an old Jesuit's riddle, which
I learnt among other wise saws at their colleges, from which it
will appear that this Miller is a regular Joe.
Q. " Suave bibo vinum quoties mihi suppetit unda ;
Undaque si desit, quid bibo?"
E. " Tristis aquam I"
PROUT.
THE SONGS OP FRANCE.
23
Faut-il un trait nouveau ?
Mes amis, je le guette;
Voyez a la guinguette
Entrer ce porteur d'eau!
II y perd la memoire
Des travaux du matin;
C'est 1'eau qui lui fait boire
Du vin ! du vin ! du vin 1
Though all good judges
Water's worth now understand,
Mark yon chiel who drudges
With buckets in each hand ;
He toils with water through the town,
Until he spies a certain " sign,"
Where entering, all his labour done,
He drains thy juice, vine !
Mais a vous chanter 1'eau
Je sens que je m'altere ;
Domiez moi vite un verre
Du doux jus du tonneau
Ce vin vient de la Loire,
Ou bien des bords du Rhin;
C'est 1'eau qui nous fait boire
Du vin ! du vin ! du vin !
But pure water singing
Dries full soon the poet's tongue ;
So crown all by bringing
A draft drawn from the bung
Of yonder cask, that wine contains
Of Loire's good vintage or the Rhine ;
Queen of whose teeming margin reigns
The vine! the vine! the vine!
It must be acknowledged that not even Pindar
himself, when he struck the glorious key-note of
Apta-rov pev ffi&p, produced a more complimentary
panegyric on the liquid element than our French
songster. But it is not merely on water that the
French have shewn more talent than the illustrious
Boeotian, for on horses also they have completely
thrown him into the shade. This is what I call
fighting with the Grecian cock on his own favourite
dunghill, and beating him in his own stable-yard*
The " Olympic races'* nevr furnished a more sub-
lime equestrian ode than the celebrated song of the
*' Cossack to his Horse," by Beranger ; and Pindar's
" racing calendar," or " the sporting magazine" of
24 FATHER PROUT ? S RELIQUES.
Greece, may be searched in vain for any thing supe-
rior in the way of horse poetry. Homer may talk
of his Hector 'EKTO/JO^ fanobapoio but the Tartar
jockey from the river Don beats the Trojan hollow.
Turpin's " black Bess " is the only modern attempt
that can be compared to
tin
Viens, mon coursier, noble ami du Cosaque,
Vole au signal des trompettes du nord ;
Prompt au pillage, intrepide a 1'attaque,
Prete sous moi des ailes a la mort.
L*or n'enricliit ni ton frein ni ta selle,
Mais attends tout du prix de mes exploits :
Hennis d'orgueil, 6 mon coursier fidele,
Et foule aux pieds les peuples et Ics rois.
La paix qui fuit m'abandonne tes guides,
La vieille Europe a perdu ses remparts ;
Viens de trsors combler mes mains avides,
Viens reposer dans 1'asile des arts,
Retourne boire a la Seine rebellc,
Oft, tout sanglant, tu t'es lave deux fois :
Hennis d'orgueil, o mon coursier fidele,
Et foule aux pieds les peuples et les rois.
Comme en tin fort, princes, nobles, et prStres,
Tous assie"gs par leurs sujets souffrans,
Nous ont cri : Venez, soyez nos maitres
Nous scrons serfs pour demeurer tyraris !
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. 25
J'ai pris ma lance, et tous vont devant elle
Humilier, et le sceptre et la croix :
Hennis d'orgueil, 6 mon coursier fidele,
Et foule aux pieds les peuples et les rois.
J'ai d'un geant vu le fantome immense
Sur nos bivouacs fixer un ceil ardent ;
II s'ecria : Morx regne recommence !
Et de sa hache il montrait i'Occident:
Du roi des Huns c'etait 1' ombre immortelle ;
Fils d'Attila, j'obeis & sa voix:
Hennis d'orgueil, 6 mon coursier fiddle,
Et foule aux pieds les peuples et les rois.
Tout cet eclat dont 1' Europe est si fiere,
Tout ce savoir qui ne la defend pas,
S'engloutira dans les flots de poussiere
Qu'autour de moi vont soulever tes pas.
Efface, efface, en la course nouvelle,
Temples, palais, mceurs, souvenirs, et lois !
Hennis d'orgueil, 6 mon coursier fidele,
Et foule aux pieds les peuples et les rois.
f)* Jj>ang of ti)e Cn^acfe.
Come, arouse thee up, my gallant horse, and bear thy rider on !
The comrade thou, and the friend, I trow 3 of the dweller on
" the Don."
Pillage and Death have spread their wings! 'tis the hour to
hie thee forth,
And with thy hoofs an echo wake to the trumpets of the North !
Nor gems nor gold do men behold upon thy saddle-tree ;
But earth affords the wealth of lords for thy master and for thee,
26 FATHER PROUT'S RELIQUES.
Then fiercely neigh, my charger grey 1 ! thy chest is proud
and ample ;
And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride
of her heroes trample !
Europe is weak she hath grown old her bulwarks are laid
low;
She is loath to hear the hlast of war she shrinketh from a foe !
Come, in our turn, let us sojourn in her goodly haunts of joy
In the pillar'd porch to wave the torch, and her palaces destroy I
Proud as when first thou slakd'st thy thirst in the flow of con-
quer' d Seine,
Aye shalt thou lave, within that wave, thy blood- red flanks
again.
Then fiercely neigh, my gallant grey! O ! thy chest is strong
and ample ;
And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride
of her heroes trample I
Kings are beleaguer' d on their thrones by their own vassal
crew;
And in their den quake noblemen, and priests are bearded too ;
And loud they yelp for the Cossacks' help to keep their bonds-
men down,
And they think it meet, while they kiss our feet, to wear a
tyrant's crown !
The sceptre now to my lance shall bow, and the crosier and the
cross,
All shall bend alike, when I lift my pike, and aloft THAT SCEP-
TRE toss !
Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey ! O ! thy chest is broad
and ample ;
And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the
pride of her heroes trample !
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. 27
In a night of storm I have seen a form ! and the figure was a
GIANT,
And his eye was bent on the Cossack's tent, and his look was
all defiant;
Kingly his crest and towards the West with his battle-axe he
pointed j
And the " form" I saw was ATTILA! of this earth the scourge
anointed.
From the Cossacks' camp let the horseman's tramp the coming
crash announce ;
Let the vulture whet his beak sharp set, on the carrion field to
pounce :
And proudly neigh, my charger grey ! ! thy chest is broad
and ample ;
And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the
pride of her heroes trample !
What boots old Europe's boasted fame, on which she builds re-
liance,
When the North shall launch its avalanche on her works of art
and science ?
Hath she not wept her cities swept by our hordes of trampling
stallions ?
And tower and arch crush' d in the march of our barbarous
battalions ?
Can we not wield our fathers' shield? the same war-hatchet
handle ?
Do our blades want length, or the reapers' strength, for the har-
vest of the Vandal ?
Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey, for thy chest is strong
and ample ;
And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride
of her heroes trample !
28 FATHER PROUT'S RELIQUES.
In the foregoing glorious song of the Cossack to
his Horse, Beranger appears to me to have signally
evinced that peculiar talent discoverable in most of
his lyrical impersonations, which enables him so com-
pletely to identify himself with the character he
undertakes to portray, that the poet is lost sight of
in the all-absorbing splendour of the theme. Here
we have the mind hurried away with irresistible grasp,
and flung down among the wild scenery of the river
Don, amid the tents of the Scythians and an encamp-
ment of the North. If we are sufficiently dull to
resist the impulse that would transport our rapt
soul to the region of the poet's inspiration, still, even
on the quiet tympanum of our effeminate ear, there
cometh the sound of a barbarian cavalry, heard
most fearfully distinct, thundering along the rapid and
sonorous march of the stanza ; the terrific spectre
of the King of the Huns frowns on our startled
fancy; and we look on this sudden outpouring of
Beranger's tremendous poetry with the sensation
of Virgil's shepherd, awed at the torrent that sweeps
down from the Apennines,
" Stupct inscius alto
Accipiens sonitum saxi de vertice pastor,"
There is more where that came from. And if, instead
of oriental imagery and " barbaric pearl and gold,"
camels, palm-trees, "fyulbuls, Iiouris, frankincense,
THE SONGS OF TRANCE. 29
silver veils, and other gewgaws with which Tom
Moore has glutted the market of literature in his
" Lalla Rookh," we could prevail on our poetasters
to use sterner stuff, to dig the iron mines of the
North, and send their Pegasus to a week's training
among the Cossacks, rely on it we should have more
vigour and energy in the bone and muscle of the
winged animal. Our drawing-room poets, instead of
taking tea and cake with Mrs. Norton, and eau
sucree with Lady Blessington, should partake of the
rough diet and masculine beverage of this hardy
tribe, whose cookery has been described in " Hudi-
bras," * and of whom the swan of Mantua gently
singeth with becoming admiration:
" Et lac concretum cum sanguine potat equino."
Lord Byron is never more spirited and vigorous
than when he recounts the catastrophe of Mazeppa ;
and in the whole of that sublime rhapsody, the " Pil-
grimage of Childe Harold," there is not a line (where
all is breathing the loftiest enthusiasm and rapture)
to be compared to his northern slave, his " dying
gladiator,"
" Butchered to make a Roman holyday !"
Oh ! he is truly great, when, in the fulness of pro-
* The lines are quoted in our Father's Apology for Lent,
Vol. I. p. 24.
30 FATHER PROTJT'S RELIQUES.
phetic inspiration, he calls on the Goths to " arise
and glut their ire !" However, I hope none will
attempt to woo the muse of the North, unless poets
of solid pretensions and capabilities : if Tom Moore
were to present himself to the nymph's notice, I fear
he would catch a Tartar.
This dissertation has led me away from the sub-
ject-matter of my essays, to which I faithfully return.
The " Songs of France," properly so called, exhibit
a fund of inexhaustible good-humour, at the same
time that they are fraught with the most exalted
philosophy. Addison has endeavoured in the " Spec-
tator" to emulate Cornelius a Lapide, by writing a
" commentary" on the ballad of " Chevy Chase ;" and
the public is greatly indebted to him for having
revealed the recondite value of that excellent old
chant : but there is a French lyrical composition
coeval with the English ballad aforesaid, and con-
taining at least an equal quantity of contemporary
wisdom. The opening verses may give a specimen
of its wonderful and profound range of thought.
They run thus :
" Le bon roy Dagobert
Avait mis sa culotte & 1'envers ;
Le bon Saint Eloy
Lui dit, ' O mon roy !
Votre majest6
S'est mal culottS ! J
THE SONGS OP PRANCE. 31
' Eh bien,' dit ce bon roy,
' Je vais la remettre a I'endroit.' "*
I do not, as in other cases, follow up this French
quotation by a literal version of its meaning in Eng-
* Dagobert II., king of Australisia, or southern France, was
conveyed away in his infancy to Ireland, according to the histo-
rians of the country, by orders of a designing maire du palais, who
wished to get rid of him. (See Mezeray, Hist, de Fran.; the Je-
suit Daniel, Hist. Franc,; and Abbe Mac Geoghehan, Hist
d'Irlande.) He was educated at the school of Lismore, so cele-
brated by the venerable Bede as a college of European reputation.
His peculiar manner of wearing his clothes would seem to have
been learned in Cork. As to St. Eloi, he was a brassfounder and
a tinker, besides being a saint. He is the patron of the Dublin
corporation guild of smiths, who call him (ignorantly) St. Loy.
This saint was a queer fellow and a good Latin poet. The king,
one day, as he was going into his chariot, a machine of clumsy
contrivance, drawn by four oxen in the style described by Boi-
leau
" Quatre boeufs attelfis, d'un pas tranquil et lent,
Promenaient dans Paris le monarque indolent"
was, as usual, attended by his favourite, St. Eloi, and jokingly
asked him to make a couplet extempore before the drive. Eloi
(like Tom Moore) never made verses without stipulating for the
wages of song ; and having got a promise of two oxen for his dis-
tich, he launched out into the following apostrophe
" Aacendit Dagobert, veniat "bos turns et alter
In nostrum stabulum, carpere ibl pabulum !"
King Dagobert was not a bad hand at Latin verses himself, for he
32 FATHER PROUT S RELIQTJES.
lish, for several reasons ; of which the principal is,
that I intend to revert to the song itself in nay second
chapter, when I shall come to treat of " frogs" and
" wooden shoes." But it may be well to instruct
the superficial reader, that in this apparently simple
stanza there is a deep blow aimed at the imbecility
of the then reigning monarch ; and that under the
culotte there lieth much hidden mystery, to be one
day explained by one Sartor Resartus, Professor
Teufelsdrockh, a German philosopher.
Confining myself, therefore, for the present, to
wine and war, this being the categorical title of
such songs as I choose to huddle together in this
first chapter I proceed to give a notable war-song ,
of which the tune is well known throughout Europe,
but the words and the poetry are on the point of
being effaced from the superficial memory of this
flimsy generation. By 'my recording them in these
papers, posterity will not be deprived of their racy
humour and exquisite naivete : nor shall a future age
be reduced to confess with the interlocutor in the
" Eclogues," " numeros memini, si verba tenerem"
is supposed to have written that exquisite elegy sung at the muss
for the dead in our liturgy
" Dies irse, dies ilia
Solvet saeclum in favilia,
Teste David, cum sibyllS,," &c,
which has been translated by Lord Eoscommon, PROUT.
THE SONGS OE FRANCE. 33
Who has not hummed or whistled in his life-time the
immortal air of MALBROUCK ? Still, if the best anti-
quary, or the most universally read scholar in Great
Britain, were called on to supply the original poetic
composition, such as it burst on the world in the de-
cline of the classic era of Queen Anne and Louis XIV.,
I fear he would be unable to gratify the curiosity
of an eager public in so interesting an inquiry. For
many reasons, therefore, it is highly meet and proper
that I should consign it to the imperishable tablets of
these written memorials, which I confidently antici-
pate will one day be given to the general gaze : and
here, then, followeth the song of the lamentable death
of the illustrious John Churchill, which did not take
place, by some mistake, but was nevertheless cele-
brated as follows :
J&altoutiu
Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre, Malbrouck, the prince of command-
Mi ron ton, ton ton, mi ron taine, ers,
Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre, Is gone to the war in Flanders ;
On n'sjait quand il reviendra. [t&r. His fame is like Alexander's ;
But when will he come home ? \ter.
II reviendra a Piques, Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or
Mi ron ton, ton ton, mi ron taine, Perhaps he may come at Easter.
II reviendra a Pagues, Egad! he had better make haste, or
Ou a la Trinity, [ter. We fear he may never come. Iter.
VOL* II. D
FATHER PROXIES RELIQUES.
La Trinit^ se passe,
Mi ron ton, ton ton, mi ron taine,
La Trinity se passe,
Malbrouck ne revient pas. [ter.
Madame a sa tour monte,
Mi ron ton, ton ton, mi ron taine,
Madame a sa tour monte,
Leplushautqu'onpeutmonter. [ter.
For " Trinity Feast" is over,
And has brought no news from
Dover ;
And Easter is past, moreover ;
And Malbrouck still delays. [ter.
Milady in her watch-tower
Spends many a pensive hour,
Not well knowing why or how her
Dear lord from England stays, [ter.
Elle voit venir un page,
Mi ron ton, ton ton, mi ron taine,
Elle voit venir un page
De noir tout habil!6. [ter.
While sitting quite forlorn in
That tower, she spies returning
A page clad in deep mourning,
With fainting steps and slow. [ler.
Mon page, 6 mon beau page,
Mi ron ton, ton ton, mi ron taine,
Mon page, 6 mon beau page,
Quelle nouvelle apportez ? [ter.
La nouvelle que j'apporte,
Mi ron ton, ton ton, mi ron taine,
La nouvelle que j'apporte
Vos beaux yeux vont pleurer. [ter.
" page, prithee, come faster ;
What news do you bring of your
master 1
I fear there is some disaster, '
Your looks are so full of wo." [ter,
" The news I bring, fair lady,"
With sorrowful accent said he,
" Is one you are not ready
So soon, alas! to hear. [ter.
Monsieur Malbrouck est mort,
Mi ron ton, ton ton, mi ron taine,
Monsieur Malbrouck est mort,
Est mort et enterre'.* [ter.
But since to speak I'm hurried,"
Added this page, quite flurried,
" Malbrouck is dead and buried!"
(And here he shed a tear.) [ter.
* Idea taken from the eighteenth book of the Iliad, where
the death of Patroclus is announced to Achilles :
Ks/rw;
vixvos 5j
THE SONGS OP FRANCE,
35
Je 1'ai vu porter en terre,
Mi ron ton, ton ton, mi ron taine,
Je 1'ai vu porter en terre
Par quatrez' officiers. [ter.
L'un portait son grand sabre,
Mi ron ton, ton ton, mi ron taine,
L'un portait son grand sabre,
L'autre son bouclier. [ter.
Le troisieme son casque,
Mi ron ton, ton ton, mi ron taine,
Le troisieme son casque,
Panache renverse". [ter.
L'autre, je ne s^ais pas Men,
Mi ron ton, ton ton, mi ron taine,
L'autre, je ne sgais pas Men,
Mais je crois qu'il ne portait rien.
Her.
" He's dead ! he's dead as a herring!
For I beheld his ' lerring,'
And four officers transferring
His corpse away from the field. [ter.
One officer carried his sabre,
And he carried it not without la-
bour,
Much envying his next neighbour,
Who only bore a shield. {ter.
The third was helmet-bearer
That helmet which on its wearer
Filled all who saw with terror,
And covered a hero's brains. [ter.
Now, having got so far, I
Find that (by the Lord Harry!)
The fourth is left nothing to carry;
So there the thing remains." [ter.
Such, O phlegmatic inhabitants of these coun-
tries ! is the celebrated funeral song of Malbrouck.
It is what we would in Ireland call a keen over the
dead, with this difference, that the lamented deceased
is, among us, generally dead outright, with a hole in
his scull ; whereas the subject of the pathetic elegy
of " Monsieur" was, at the time of its composition,
both alive and kicking all before him. It may not
be uninteresting to D'Israeli (who will find many
other literary curiosities among my papers) to learn,
that both the tune and the words were composed as
a " lullaby" to set the infant dauphin to sleep; and
36 TATHEE PROUT'S RELIQUES.
that, having succeeded in his primary object of sopo-
rific efficacy, the poet or poetess (for some make
Madame de Sevigne the authoress of " Malbrouck,"
she being a sort of L. E. L. in her day) deemed
historical accuracy and verisimilitude but minor con-
siderations. It is a singular fact, which I have learnt,
among other matters, from my esteemed friend, James
Roche, Esq., that this tune is the only one relished
by the South Sea islanders, who find it " most mu-
sical, most melancholy."
There is nothing like variety in a literary compo-
sition ; and as we have just given a war-song, or a
lullaby, we shall introduce a different subject, to
avoid monotony, and to break the uniformity of our
essay. We shall therefore give the poet Beranger's
famous ode to Dr. Lardner, concerning his " Cyclo-
paedia," which is little known to the British public,
but is highly deserving of notice. The occasion which
gave rise to this lyrical effusion was the recent trip of
Dionysius Lardner to Paris, and his proposal (con-
veyed through Dr. Bowring) to Beranger, of a hand-
some remuneration, if the poet would sing or say a
good word about his " Cabinet Cyclopaedia," which
Dr. Bowring translated as " son Encyclopedic des
Cabinets " (query d'aisance ?) Lardner gave the poet
a dinner on the strength of the expected commenda-
tory poem, when the following song was composed
after the third bottle :
THE SONGS OF FRANCE.
irapw Be IBamocUs.
De Damocles 1'epee est bien connue,
En songe a table il m'a semb!6 la
voir;
Sous cette epe et menaeante et
nue,
Denis 1'ancien me forgait a m'as-
seoir.
Je m'ecriais que mon destin s'a-
cheve
La coupe en main, au doux bruit
des concerts,
O vieux Denis, je me ris de ton
glaive,
Je bois, je chante, et je siffle tes
vers!
" Que du m6pris la haine aumoins
me sauve ! "
Dit ce pedant, qui rompt un fil
leger;
Le fer pesant tombe sur ma tSte
chauve,
J'entends cesmots, " Denis sgait
se venger ! "
Me voila mort et poursuivant mon
rSve
a coupe en main, je re"pete aux
enfers,
vieux Denis, je me ris de ton
glaive,
Je bois, je chante, et je siffle tes
vers!
W&t Bimur of JBioitpsius.
O I who hath not heard of the sword
which old Dennis
Hung over the head of a Stoic ?
And how the stern sage bore that
terrible menace
With a fortitude not quite heroic?
There's a Dennis the " tyrant of
Cecily "night,
(Most sincerely I pity his lady,
ah!)
Now this Dennis is doomed for his
sins to indite
A " Cabinet Cyclopaedia."
He pressed me to dine, and he
placed on my head
An appropriate garland of poppies;
And, lo! from the ceiling there
hung by a thread
A bale of unsaleable copies.
" Puff my writings," he cried, " or
your skull will be crashed I "
" That I cannot," I answered, with
honesty flushed,
" Be your name Dionysius or
Thady, ah!
Old Dennis, my boy, though I were
to enjoy
But one glass and one song, still
one laugh, loud and long,
I should have at your Cyclopaedia."
So adieu, Dr. Lardner, for the present, ass In
prcesenti; and turn we to other topics of song.
38 FATHER PROUT'S RELIQUES.
In tins " ode to Dr. Lardner" the eye of the con-
noisseur has no doubt detected sundry latent indica-
tions of the poet's wonderful cleverness and consum-
mate drollery ; but it is in ennobling so insignificant
a subject, by a reference to historical anecdote and
classic allegory, that the delicate tact and singular
ability of Beranger are to be admired. It will be in
the recollection of every reader of the elegant and
polished fabulist of Rome, the ingenious Phsedrus,
that he greatly commends the Greek troubadour, Si-
monides of Cos, for his poetical stratagem, when
hired to sing the praise of some obscure candidate for
the honours of the Olympic race-course. The bard,
finding no material for verse in the life of his vulgar
hero, launched forth into an encomium on Castor and
Pollux, those twin-brothers of the olden turf, from
whom he ever afterwards derived good luck and
celestial patronage. But further to illustrate this
grand feature in the songs of Beranger, and this
predominant propensity of the French poet, I will
now give a most beautiful exemplification of his
talent in dignifying a most homely subject by the
admixture of Greek and Roman associations. The
French original is rather too long to be transcribed
here ; and as my translation is not, in this case, a
literal version, the less it is confronted with its proto-
type the better. The last stanza I do not pretend to
understand rightly, so I put it at the bottom of the
THE SONGS OF ERANCE. 39
page in a note,* supposing that my readers may not
be so blind as I confess I am concerning this intricate
and enigmatical passage of the ode,
According to Ber anger, Songster.
My dwelling is ample,
And I've set an example
For all lovers of wine to follow ;
If my home you should ask,
I have drain' d out a cask,
And I dwell in the fragrant hollow !
A disciple am I of Diogenes
1 his tub a most classical lodging is !
'Tis a "beautiful alcove for thinking;
"Tis, besides, a cool grotto for drinking:
Moreover, the parish throughout
You can readily roll it about.
Ol the berth
For a lover of mirth
To revel in jokes, and to lodge in ease,
Is the classical tub of Diogenes !
" Diogene! sous ton manteau,
Libre et content, je ris, je bois, sans gne;
Libre et content, je roule mon tonneau 1
Lanterne en main, dans 1'Athenes moderne
Chercher tin homme est un dessein fort beau ;
Mais quand le soir voit briller ma lanterne,
C'est aux amours ctu'elle sert de flambeau."
40 FATHER PEOUT'S EELIQUES.
In politics I s m no adept,
And into my tub when I 've crept,
They may canvass in vain for my vote.
For besides, after all the great cry and hubbub,
REFORM gave no " ten- pound franchise" to my tub ;
So your " bill" I don't value a groat!
And as for that idol of filth and vulgarity,
Adored now-a-days, and yclept Popularity,
To my home
Should it come,
And my hogshead's bright aperture darken,
Think not to such summons I 'd hearken.
No ! I'd say to that goule grim and gaunt,
Vile phantom, avaunt 1
Get thee out of my sight !
For thy clumsy opacity shuts out the light
Of the gay glorious sun
From my classical tun,
Where a hater of cant and a lover of fun
Fain would revel in mirth, and would lodge in ease
The classical tub of Diogenes !
In the park of St. Cloud there stares at you
A fine Grecian statue
Of my liege, the philosopher cynical :
There he stands on a pinnacle,
And his lantern is placed on the ground,
While, with hoth eyes fixed wholly on
The favourite haunt of Napoleon,
*' A MAN," he exclaims, " by the powers, I have found 1"
But for me, when at eve I go sauntering
On the boulevards of Athens, " Love" carries my lantern;
THE SONGS OF PRANCE, 41
And, egad ! though I walk most demurely,
For a man I 'm not looking full surely :
Nay, I 'm sometimes brought drunk home,
Like honest Jack Reeve, or like honest Tom Buncombe^
O ! the nest
For a lover of jest
To revel in fun, and to lodge in ease,
Is the classical tub of Diogenes !
So much for the poet's capability of embellishing
what is low and vulgar by the magic wand of antique
recollections : proprie communia dicere, is a secret as
rare as ever ; and none but genuine fellows, such as
Byron, Horace, Scott, and Beranger, were in posses-
sion of this valuable tradition. When Hercules took
a distaff in hand, he made but a poor spinner, and
broke all the threads, to the great amusement of his
mistress ; but Beranger would have gracefully gone
through even that minor accomplishment, at the same
time that the war-club and the battle-axe lost nothing
of their power when wielded by his hand. Such is
the amazing versatility of genius !
Can any thing be found, in the whole range of
sentimental rhapsodies and tender effusions of min-
gled love, enthusiasm, and patriotism, to compare
with the following beautiful ode of this songster of
" the tub," who herein shews most strikingly with
what facility he can diversify his style, vary his tone,
and run " through each mood of the lyre, while a
master in all !"
42
FATHER PUOUT S RELIQUES.
Chanson, 1822.
L'Ai brillait, et ma jeune xnal-
tresse
Chantait les dieux dans la Grece
oublie"s ;
Nous comparions notre France a la
Grece,
Quand un pigeon vint s'abattre
& nos pieds.
Nseris decouvre un billet sous son
aile;
II le portait vers des foyers
cli6ris
Bois dans ma coupe, O messager
fiddle !
Et dors en paix sur le sein de
Naeris.
A Dream, 1822.
Ellen sat by my side, and I held
To her lip the gay cup in my
bower,
When a bird at our feet we boheld,
As we talked of old Greece in
that hour;
And his wing bore a burden of love,
To some fair one the secret soul
telling
drink of my cup, carrier-dove !
And sleep on the bosom of Ellen,
II est tombe", las d'un trop-long
voyage ;
Eendons-lui vite et force et li-
berte".
D'un traffiquaht remplit-il le mes-
sage?
Va-t-il d'amour parler a la
beaute" ?
Peut-6tre il porte au nid qui le rap-
pelle
Xes derniers vo3ux d'infortun6s
proscrita*
Bois dans ma coupe, messager
fldele!
Et dors en paix sur le sein de
Kaeris.
Thou art tired rest awhile, and
anon
Thou shalt soar, with new energy
thrilling,
To the land of that far-off fair one,
If such be the task thou'rt ful-
filling ;
But perhaps thou dost waft the last
word
Of despair, wrung from valour
and duty
Then, drink of my cup, carrier-
bird!
And sleep on the bosom of
Beauty.
THE SONGS OF FRANCE.
43
Mais du billet quelques mots me
font croire
Qu'il est en France & des Grecs
apporte;
II vient d'Athenes ; il doit parler
de gloire ;
Lisons-le done par droit de pa-
rente
"Athene est libre!" Amis, quelle
nouvelle !
Q,ue de lauriers tout-a-coup re-
fleuris
Bois dans ma coupe, messager
fidele !
Et dors en paix sur le sein de
Naeris.
Ha ! these lines are from Greece !
Well I knew
The loved idiom 1 Be mine the
perusal.
Son of France, I'm a child of Greece
too;
And a kinsman mil brook no
refusal.
" Greece is free .'" all the gods have
concurred
To fill up our joy's brimming
measure
drink of my cup, carrier-bird!
And sleep on the bosom of Plea-
sure.
Athene est libre! Ah ! buvons a la
Grece !
Naeris, voici de nouveaux demi-
dieux !
L'Europe en vain, tremblante de
vieillesse,
Desheritait ces aine*s glorieux.
Us sont vainqueurs ! Athenes, tou-
jours belle,
N'est plus vouee au culte des
debris !
Bois dans ma coupe, O messager
fidele !
Et dors en paix sur le sein de
Nseris.
Greece is free! Let us drink to
that land,
To our elders in fame! Did ye
merit
Thus to struggle alone, glorious
band!
From whose sires we our free-
dom inherit?
Those old glories, which kings
would destroy,
Greece regains, never, never to
lose 'em !
drink of my cup, bird of joy !
And sleep on my Ellen's soft
bosom.
Athene est Hire! 0, muse des Pin-
dares,
Reprends ton sceptre, et ta lyre,
et ta voix !
Athene est libre, en depit des bar-
bares !
Muse of Athens! thy lyre quick
resume !
None thy anthem of freedom
shall hinder;
Give Anacreon joy in his tomb,
And gladden the ashes of Pindar.
FATHER PEOUT'S RELIQUES.
Athene est libre, en dSpit de nos
rois!
Que 1'univers toujours, instruit par
elle,
Retrouve encore Ath6nes dans
Paris
Bois dans ma coupe, O messager
fidele !
Et dors en paix sur le sein de
Naeris.
Beau voyageur du pays des Hel-
lenes,
Repose-toi; puis vole a tes
amours !
Vole, et bientOt, reporte" dans
Athenes,
Keviens braver et tyrans et vau-
tours.
A taut des rois dont le tr8ne chan-
cele,
I>'un peuple libre apporte encore
lescris
Bois dans ma coupe, messager
fidele !
Et dors en palx sur le sein de
Nseris.
After this specimen of Beranger's poetic powers*
in the sentimental line, I shall take leave of him for
the remainder of this chapter ; promising, however, to
draw largely on his inexhaustible exchequer when
* It would be an insult to the classic scholar to remind him
that BSranger has taken the hint of this song from Anacreon's
E^^ xatta, &o6iy, #o9tv xmffffM, ode 15, (jitxta cod. Vatic.)
PROUT.
Ellen! fold that bright bird to thy
breast,
Nor permit him henceforth to
desert you
drink of my cup, winged guest !
And sleep on the bosom of Virtue.
But no, he must hie to his home,
To the nest -where his bride is
awaiting ;
Soon again to our climate he'll
come,
The young glories of Athens
relating,
The baseness of kings to reprove,
To blush our vile rulers com-
pelling !
Then drink of my goblet, dov? 1
And sleep on the breast of my
Ellen.*
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. 45
next I levy my contributions on the French. But
I cannot get out of this refined and delicate mood of
quotations without indulging in the luxury of one
more ballad, an exquisite one, from the pen of my
favourite Millevoye. Poor young fellow! he died
when full of promise, in early life ; and these are
the last lines his pale hand traced on paper, a few
days before he expired in the pretty village of
Neuilly, near Paris, whither he had been ordered by
the physician, in hopes of prolonging, by country air,
a life so dear to the Muses. Listen to the notes of
the swan !
? pottr JHm* HRomanu.
Neuilly, Octobre 1820.'
Dans la solitaire bourgade,
Revant a ses maux tristement,
Languissait un pauvre malade,
D'un mal qui le va consumant :
II disait, " Gens de la chaumiere,
Voici 1'heure de la priere,
Et le tintement du befroi;
Vous qui priez, priez pour moi!
Mais quand vous verrez la cascade
S'ombrager de sombres rameaux,
Vous direz, ' Le jeune malade
Est delivre de tous ses maux.'
for jftle*
By Millevoye, on Ms Death-bed at the
Village of Neuilly.
Silent, remote, this hamlet seems
How hush'd the "breeze! the eve
how calm !
Light through my dying chamber
beams,
But hope comes not, nor healing
balm.
Kind villagers 1 God bless your shed!
Hark! 'tis for prayer the evening
bell
Oh, stay ! and near my dying bed,
Maiden, for me your rosary tell !
When leaves shall strew the water-
fall,
In the sad close of autumn drear,
Say, " The sick youth is freed from
all
FATHER PROUT S RELIQUES.
Alors revenez sur cette rive,
Chanter la complainte naive,
Et quand tintera le befroi,
Vous qui priez, priez pour moi !
Ma compagne, ma seule amie,
Digne objet d'un constant amour!
Je lui avais consacre" ma vie,
He"las! je ne vis qu'un jour!
Plaignez-la, gens de la chaumiere,
Lorsque, & 1'heure de la priere,
Elle viendra sous le befroi;
Vous qui priez, priez pour moi!"
The pangs and wo he suffered
here."
So may ye speak of him that's gone ;
But when your belfry tolls my
knell,
Pray for the soul of that lost one
Maiden, for me your rosary tell !
Oh! pity her, in sable robe,
Who to my grassy grave will come ;
Nor seek a hidden wound to probe
She was my love! point out my
tomb ;
Tell her my life should have been
hers
'Twas but a day! God's will I-
'tis well:
But weep with her, kind villagers !
Maiden, for me your rosary tell !
Simple, unaffected, this is true poetry, and goes
to the heart. One ballad like the foregoing is worth
a cart-load of soi-disant pathetic elegies, monodies,
soliloquies, melodies, and t( bards' legacies." Apropos,
talking of melodies, I just now recollect one in Tom-
my's own style, which it would be a pity to keep
from him : indeed, only for his late conduct, I would
have enclosed it to him, and allowed him to pass it
off as his own, in the same way as forty other French
compositions, which he has had the effrontery to
claim as his original property. To save him the
trouble of translating it into Moorish rhyme, I have
done the job myself; and it may challenge competi-
tion with his best concetti and most captivating
THE SONGS OF TRANCE. 47
similes. The song is from an old troubadour called
Pierre Ronsard, from whom Tommy has picked up
many a good thing ere now.
La poudre qui dans ce cristal Dear Tom, d'ye see the rill
Le cours des heures nous retrace, Of sand within this phial?
Lorsque dans un petit canal It runs like in a mill,
Souvent elle passe et repasse, And tells time like a dial.
Tut Ronsard, qui, un jour, morbleu! That sand was once Eonsard,
Par les beaux yeux de sa Clytandre Till Fanny D*** look'd at him.*
Soudain fut transform^ en feu, Her eye burnt up the bard
Et il n'en reste que la cendre. He's pulverised! an atom!
Cendre ! qui ne t'arrStes jamais, Now, at this tale so horrid,
Tu temoigneras une chose, Pray learn to keep your smile hid,
C'est qu'ayant vu de tels attraits, For Fanny's zone is " torrid,"
Le coeur onque~s ne repose. And fire is in her eyelid, f
* A gipsy had cautioned M. de la Mothe Vayer against
going too near a dyke ; but in defiance of the prophecy he mar-
ried a demoiselle De la Fosse :
" Infoved qui te moriturum dixit haruspex
Non mentitus erat ; conjugis ilia fuit ! "
O.Y.
f Ronsard has no claim to this ingenious concetto : it is to be
found among the poems of Jerome Amalthi, who flourished in
the 14th century.
" Perspicuo in vitro pulvis qui dividit horas,
Et vagus angustum ssepe recurrit iter,
Olira erat Alcippus, qui, Gallse ut vidit ocellos,
Arsit, et est caeco factus ab igne cinis,
Irrequiete cinis ! miserum testabere amantem
More tuo nullS posse quiete fnii." O. Y,
48 FATHER PR-OUT'S RELIQUES,
Now who, after this magnificent sample of French
gallantry, will refuse to that merry nation the sceptre
of supremacy in the department of love-songs and
amorous effusions ? Indeed, the language of polite
courtship, and the dialect of soft talk, is so redolent
among us of French origin and Gallic associations,
that the thing speaks for itself. Any one who talks
to the ladies must adopt French phraseology. The
servant-maid in the court of Pilate found out Peter
to be from Galilee by his accent ; and so may the
dialect of France be traced in all the forms and modes
of speech employed in addressing the fair. Petits
soins air distinguk faite an tour naivete billet
d oux affaire de cceiir boudoir, &c. &c., and a
thousand other expressions, have crept, in spite of us,
into our every-day usage. It was so of old with the
Romans in reference to Greek, which was the favour-
ite conversational vehicle of gallantry among the dan-
dies of the Via Sacra : at least we have (to say no-
thing of Juvenal) the authority of that excellent critic,
Quintilian, who informs us that his contemporaries,
in their sonnets to the Roman ladies, stuffed their
verses with Greek terms. I think his words are:
" Tanto est sermo Grsecus Latino jucundior, ut nostri
poetee, quoties carmen dulce esse voluexunt, illorum.
id nominibus exornent." (Quint, xii. cap. 10, sec, 33.)
And again, in another passage, he says (lib. x. cap. 1.),
" Ita ut mihi sermo Romanus non reciperc videatur
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. 49
illam soils concessam Atticis Venerem." Our own
Quintilian, Addison, has a curious paper in his
" Spectator," complaining of the great number of
military terms imported, during the Marlborough
campaigns, from the fighting dictionary of France :
the influx of this slang he considered as a great dis-
grace to his fellow-countrymen, a humiliating badge
of foreign conquest not to be tolerated. Neverthe-
less, chevaux de frise hors de combat aide de
camp dkpot etat major brigade, and a host
of other locutions, have taken such root in our soil,
that it were vain to murmur at the circumstance
of their foreign growth. So it is with the manual of
love : it is replete with the idiom of France ; and
there is no use in denying the superiority of that
versatile tongue for the purpose of bamboozling the
gentler portion of the creation. I might triumphantly
refer to the epistolary and conversational embellish-
ments it has furnished to the " Fudge Family in
Paris/' one of Tommy's happiest efforts at humour ;
but I intend returning to the subject in a fresh
chapter.
Meantime, I think it but fair to make some com-
pensation to the French for all the sentimental matters
we have derived from their vocabulary ; and I there-
fore conclude this first essay on the " Songs of
France" by giving them a specimen of our own love-
ditties, translated as well as my old hand can render
VOL. II. E
50
FATHER PROUT S RELIQUES.
the young feelings of passionate endearment into ap-
propriate French expression :
Meet me by moonlight alone,
And then I will tell you a tale
Must toe told by the light of the
moon,
In the grove at the end of the
vale.
remember ! be sure to be there ;
For though dearly the moonlight
I prize,
1 care not for all in the air,
If I want the sweet light of thine
eyes.
Then meet me by moonlight
alone.
Viens au bosquet, ce soir, sans
temoin,
Dans le vallon, au clair de la
lune;
Ce que Ton t'y dira n'a besoin
Ni de jour ni d'oreille importune.
Mais surtout rends-toi la sans
faillir,
Car la lune a bien moins de lu-
miere
Que ramour n'en sgait faire jaillir
De ta languissante paupiere.
Sois an bosquet au clair de la
lune.
Daylight was made for the gay,
For the thoughtless, the heart-
less, the free ;
But there's something about the
moon's ray
That is dearer to you, love, and
me.
Oh ! be sure to be there ; for I said
I would shew to the night-
flowers their xopavco^ vcavcov UQV.
We have nothing further to add in this introduc-
tory prolusion, only to acknowledge the receipt of
the following communication from Germany, refer-
ring to our last batch of " Songs of France." It is
from the pen of a stanch friend of old England, and
an uncompromising disciple of REGINA the sterling
patriot, the eloquent lawyer, and the facetious knight,
Sir Charles Wetherell. Great men's peculiarities
attract no small share of public attention : thus, ex.
gr. Napoleon's method of plunging his fore-finger
58 FATHER PROUl's RELIQUES.
and thumb into his waistcoat-pocket, in lieu of a
snuff-box, was the subject of much European com-
mentary ; and one of the twelve Caesars was nick-
named Caligula from a peculiar sort of Wellington
boot which he happened to fancy. (Vide Suet, in
vita.) Some irreverent poet has not scrupled to
notice the distinguishing feature in our learned corre-
spondent's habiliment, stating him to be
" Much famed for length of sound sagacious speeches,
More still for brevity of braceless b< s."
A quotation, by the by, not irrelevant to the topic on
which Sir Charles has favoured us with a line.
" Aix-la-Chapelle, October 7.
" DEAR YORKE,
" I've just been paying my devotions
to the tomb of Charlemagne (the pride of this ci-
devant metropolis of Europe), and on my return to
my hotel I find your last Number on my table. What
the deuce do you mean (at page 30, vol. ii.) by giving
a new and unheard-of version of the excellent song
on " Le bon Roy Dagobert," who, you say, " avait mis
sa culotte a I'envers ;" whereas all good editions read
" de tr avers;" which is quite a different sense, lectio
longe emendatior ; for he wore the garment, not inside
out, but wrong side foremost. Again, it was not of
THE SONGS OF PRANCE. 59
Australesia that he was king, but of e Gallia braccata.'
Let me not meet any similar blunders in the sub-
sequent songs, my old cock!
" Yours in haste,
" C. W."
Wishing him a pleasant tour through the Germanic
confederation, and hoping it may be long ere he
reach that fatal goal of all human pilgrimage, the diet
of Worms, we bow to the baronet's opinion, and
stand corrected.
OLIVER YORKE.
Nov. 1st, 1834.
WatergrassMZl, Nov. 1833.
" ILLE ego qui quondam," is an old Latin formula,
first used in the reign of Augustus, to connect the
epic cantos of the warlike Jineid with a far more
polished and irreproachable poem, its agricultural
predecessor. Virgil (something like Lord Althorp
when he indulges in a day-dream, and thinks post-
erity will forgive all his political blunders in consi-
deration of his excellent breed of cattle) sought thus
to bolster up the manifest imperfections of his heroic
and epic characters by a cunning reference to the
60 FATHER PROUT S RELIQUES.
unexceptionable Meliboeus, and to that excellent old
Calabrian farmer whose bees hummed so tunefully
under the " lofty towers of QEbalia." This is an old
trick : it is a part of the tactics of literature., well
understood by that awfully numerous fraternity, the
novel-writers, who never fail, on the title-page of each
successive production, to mention some previous per-
formance of glorious memory, adroitly reminding the
public of their bygone trophies in the field of litera-
ture, and of some fortunate hit already made in the
chance-medley of modern authorship. Now, in ven-
turing to refer to a previous paper on the " Songs of
France," my object is not similar : my thoughts are
not their thoughts. Totally unknown to my contem-
poraries, and anxious to cultivate the privilege of
obscurity, it is when I am mouldering in the quiet
tomb where my rustic parishioners shall have laid me,
that these papers, the offspring of my leisure, shall
start into life, and bask in the blaze of publicity.
Some paternal publisher perhaps some maternal
magazine will take charge of the learned deposit,
and hatch my eggs with all the triumph of successful
incubation. But and this is the sole object of these
preliminary remarks let there be care taken to keep
each batch separate, and each brood distinct. The
French hen's family should not be mixed up with the
chickens of the Muscovy duck; and each series of
" Prout Papers" should be categorically arranged.
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. 61
" Series juncturaque pollet " (Hor. " Ars Poet."). For
instance : the present essay ought to come after one
bearing the date of " October," and containing songs
about " wine ;" such topic being appropriate to that
mellow month, which, from time immemorial (no
doubt because it happens to rhyme with the word
" sober") has been set apart for jollification.
I have called these effusions the offspring of my
leisure ; nor do I see any cause why the hours not
claimed by my sacerdotal functions should be refused
to the pursuits of literature. I do not think that
Erasmus was a discredit to his cloth, though he
penned the Maptas Eyxw/woy. The sonnets of Francis
Petrarca were not deemed a high misdemeanour at
the papal court of Avignon, though written by a
priest. Nor was Vida a less exemplary bishop in
his diocese of Albi, for having sung in immortal verse
the labours of the silk-worm (" Bombyces," Bale,
1537), and the game of chess (" Schiaccia Ludus,"
Romse, 1527). Yet I doubt not (for I know some-
thing of mankind) that there may be found, when I am
dead, in some paltry provincial circle of gossips, the
chosen haunt of dulness and all uncharitableness,
creatures without heart and without brains, who will
industriously malign my motives, and try to stigma-
tise my writings, as unbefitting the exalted character
in which I glory that of an aged priest (however
unworthy), and a humble joint in the hierarchy of the
62 FATHER PROUT'S EELiaUES.
venerable cliurch of Rome. To them I say, that my
zeal for the character of " my order" was not less
than theirs ; and that, while their short-sightedness
I deplore, their rancorous malevolence I contemplate
not in anger, but in sorrow. Their efforts can only
recoil on themselves. When a snake in the island of
Malta entwined itself round the arm of Paul, with
intent to sting the teacher of the Gentiles, he gently
shook the viper from his wrist; and he was not to
blame if the reptile fell into the fire.
But to return to the interesting subject of our
literary researches. Full gladly do I once more re-
sume the pleasant theme, and launch my simple skiff
on the wide expanse of song
" Once more upon the waters ; yea, once more !"
The minstrelsy of France is to me an inexhaustible
source of intellectual pleasure, and it shall not be my
fault if I do not carry the public with me in the
appreciation I make of such refined enjoyment. The
admirers of what is delicate in thought, or polished in
expression, will need no apology for drawing their
attention to these exquisite trifles : and the student
of general literature will acknowledge the connecting
link which unites, though unseen, the most apparently
remote and seemingly dissimilar departments of hu-
man knowledge, " Omnes enim artes, quse ad huma-
nitatem pertinent, habent quoddam commune vincu-
THE SONGS OF FBANCE. 63
lum," sayeth Cicero (pro Arckid poeta). But in the
pleasant province of legendary lore through which I
propose to make excursions, there are certain local
and national features of attraction peculiarly captivat-
ing. To what class of Englishmen, since the conquest
of this fair island and its unfortunate sister by the
chivalrous Normans, can the songs of that gallant
race of noble marauders and glorious pirates be with-
out thrilling interest ? Not to relish such specimens
of spirit-stirring poesy, the besotted native must be
only fit to herd among swine, with a collar round his
neck, like the Saxon serf of Cedric; or else be a
superficial idiot, like " Wamba, the son of Wit-less
the jester." Selecting one class of the educated pub-
lic, by way of exemplification, where all are con-
cerned, to that most acute and discriminating body,
the Bar, the language of France and her troubadours
cometh in the character of a professional acquaint-
ance, to be carefully cultivated ; and most happy
shall I deem myself if, by submitting to their perusal
these gay and amusing ballads, I shall have reconciled
them to the many tedious hours they are doomed to
spend in conning over what to them must otherwise
appear the semi-barbarous terms of jurisprudence
bequeathed by William le Roux with the very struc-
ture of Westminster Hall, and coeval with its oak
roof and its cobwebs, In reference to the Gallic
64 FATHER PROUT'S RELIQUES.
origin of our law and its idiom, it was Juvenal who
wrote that inspired verse (Sat, XV. v. 110)
" Gallia causidicos docuit facunda Britannos:"
and in that single line he furnished an incontestable
proof that poetry is akin to prophecy, and that the
" eye in a fine frenzy rolling" can discover even the
most improbable future event in the womb of time.
A knowledge of the ancient vocabulary of France
is admitted to be of high importance in the perusal
of our early writers on history, as well as on legisla-
tion : its aid may be felt in poetry and prose, as well
as in Chancery and Doctors' Commons. An old song
has been found of consequence in elucidating an un-
intelligible clause or a disputed construction; and,
singular to relate, the only title-deed the Genoese can
put forward to claim the invention of the mariners'
compass is the lay of a French troubadour.* Few
are aware to what extent the volatile literature of our
merry neighbours has pervaded the mass of British
authorship, and by what secret influences of imitation
and of reminiscence the spirit of Norman song has
flitted through the conquered island of Britain. From
Geoffry Chaucer to Tom Moore (a vast interval !),
* A ballad, " La Bible," from the pen of Guyot de Proving,
dated A.D. 1190, and commencing, " De nostre pere 1'apostoile."
It is a pasquinade against the Court of Rome. PROUT.
THE SONGS OP FRANCE.
65
there is not one, save the immortal Shakespeare per-
haps, whose writings do not betray the secret working
of this foreign essence, mixed up with the crude ma-
terial of Saxon growth, and causing a sort of gentle
fermentation most delectable to the natives. Take>
for example, Oliver Goldsmith, whom every school-
boy knows by heart, and every critic calls an emi-
nently English writer of undoubted originality ; now
place in juxtaposition with an old French song two of
his much-admired fugitive pieces, the " Elegy on a
Mad Dog," and the "Panegyric of Mrs. Mary Blaze,"
and judge for yourself if I have not a case in point :
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there lived a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran.
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had
To comfort friends and foes ;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
Messires, vous plaist-il d'ouir,
L'air du fameux La Palisse 2
EL pourra vous rejouir,
Pourvu qu'il vous divertisse.
II etait .affahle et doux,
De rhiimeur de fen son pere ;
II n'Stait guere en courroux,
Si ce n'est dans sa colere.
Bien instmit des le berceau,
Onques, tant etait honnte,
II ne mettait son chapeau,
Qu'il ne se couvrit la tete.
So much for this Islington model of a gentleman,
whose final catastrophe, and the point which forms
66
FATHER
RELIQUES.
the sting of the whole " Elegy," is but a literal version
of a long-established Gallic epigram, viz.
Quand un serpent mordit Atirele,
often."
" Oh, my guilt it is great! can my sin be forgiven ?
Its result, holy monk! is alas, 'tis a DAUPHIN !"
And the friar grew pale at so startling a tale,
But he whispered, " jpor us, somte, procure
76 FATHER PROUT'S RELIQUES.
(Sij toill grant it, 3E town) afcfag tsntf from tf;e queen."
Sing for your king, young 1 and gay troubadour !
Sing well you may, troubadour young and gay I
Then the monk said a prayer, and the sin, light as air,
Flew away from the penitent's soul ;
And to Paris went Richard to sing for the fair,
" Virelai," sonnet gay, and l( carolle : "
And he mingled with joy in the festival there.
Oh ! while beauty and song can allure,
May our old royal race never want for an heir !
Sing for your king, young and gay troubadour !
Sing well you may, troubadour young and gay !
It does not enter into my plan to expatiate on the
moral conclusion or political empvQLoy which this ballad
suggests, and which the sarcastic ingenuity of Be-
ranger has so adroitly insinuated. It is in fact a
lyrical epigram. The vein of thought is deep and
serious, if dug by the admirers of hereditary legis-
lation, or the defenders of the divine right of kings.
To the venerable owls who flutter through the dark
Gothic purlieus of the Herald's College, this view
of the matter may seem a perfectly " new light :" in
sooth, it sheds a quiet ray on the awful sublimities of
genealogical investigation, and cannot but edify the
laborious and hyperpanegyrical Mr. Burke, the com-
piler of peerages and pedigrees for each and all of us.
Excellent man ! may his subscribers be as numerous
as the leaves of his book, and his gains commensurate
THE SONGS OF FRANCE. 77
with the extent of human vanity ! Beranger's ode on
the Dauphin's birth-day may serve as a commentary
on the well-known passage of Boileau (pilfered un-
ceremoniously by Pope), in which the current of
princely blood is said to flow with proverbial purity
" de Lucrece en Lucrece;" and such is the recognised
truth of the commentary, that I understand an edition
of the song has been published by order of the Uni-
versity of Prague, in Bohemia, 'tis imagined, " in
usum Delphini." Vive Henri Cinq !
On all matters in which the character of the ladies
may be involved, I recommend constant caution and
the most scrupulous forbearance to both poets and
historians. The model of this delicate attention may
be found among the troubadours. I more particu-
larly allude to the Norman school of French poesie ;
for I regret to state, that in Provence there was not
always the same veneration and mysterious homage
paid to the gentler sex, whose very frailties should be
shrouded by the poet, and concealed from tlie vulgar
gaze of the profane. In Normandy and the adjacent
provinces, the spirit of chivalry was truly such as
described by our hot-headed Irish orator, when,
speaking of Marie Antoinette, he fancies ten thousand
swords ready to leap from their scabbards at the
very suspicion of an insult. This instinctive wor-
ship of beauty seems to have accompanied that
gallant race of noble adventurers from their Scandi-
78
FATHER PROUT S RELIQUES.
navian' settlements beyond the Elbe and the Rhine;
for we find the sentiment attributed to their ancestors
by Tacitus, in his admirable work " De Moribus
Germanorum," where he writes, as well as I can recol-
lect, as follows : " Inesse guinetiam foeminis sanctum
aliquid et providum putant." The ballad of " Grise-
lidis," to which I have made allusion in talking of the
" Canterbury Tales/' and which I then promised to
give in its original old Norman simplicity, finely illus-
trates all that is noble and chivalrous in their respect
for female loveliness and purity. My English ver-
sion, to harmonise with the French, runs in the old
ballad idiom, as nearly as I can imitate that quaint
style.
Romance.
Escoutez icy jouvenceUes,
Ecoutez aussy damoiseaux,
Vault mieux estre bone que belle,
Vault mieux estre loyal que
Tbeau!
Beaut6 passe, passe jeunesse,
Bont6 reste et gagne les coeurs ;
Avec doulceur et gentillesse
Espines se changent en fleurs.
Belle, mais pauvre et souffreteuse,
Vivoit jadis Grzseledis ;
A Romaunt.
List to my ballad, for 'twas made ex-
presse,
Damsels, for you ;
Better to be (beyond all lovelinesse)
LoyaU and true !
Fadetb. fair face, bright beauty blooms
awhile,
Soon to departe ;
Goodness abydeth aye; and gentle
smyle
Gaineth yc hearte.
There lived a maiden, beautifull but
poore,
Gleaning ye fields;
THE SONGS OF FBANCE.
79
Alloit aux champs, estoit glaneuse,
Filoit beau lin, gardoit brebis ;
N'estoit fylle de hault parage,
N'avoit comte ny joyaux d'or,
Mais avoit plus, car estait sage
Mieulx vault sagesse que tresor!
Poor pittaunce shepherd's crook upon
ye moor,
Or distaff yields!
Yet tho' no castel hers had ever been,
Jewells nor golde,
Kindnesse she hadde and virtue;
thyngs, I ween,
Better fowrfolde!
Ung jour qu'aux champs estoit
seulette,
Vinst a passer Sire Gaultier,
Las ! sans chien estoit la pauvrette,
Sans page estoit le chevalier ;
Mais en ce siecle, oil 1'innocence
N'avoit a craindre aucun danger,
Vertu veilloit, dormoit prudence,
Beaulx terns n'auriez pas du
changer !
One day a cavalier, Sir Walter night,
Travelled that way ;
Nor dogge ye shepherdesse, nor page
ye knight
Hadde on that day.
But in those times of innocence and
truth,
Virtue alone
Kept vigil in our land ; bright days, in
sooth,
"Where are ye gone ?
Tant quo sommeille la bergere,
Beau sire eust le terns d'admirer,
Mais des qu'entr'ouvrist la pau-
piere,
Fust forc6 de s'en amourer ;
" Belle/' dit-il, " serez ma mie,
Si voulez venir a ma cour I "
" Nenny, seigneur, vous remercie,
Honneur vault bien playsir
d'amour?"
Long on ye maiden, as she slept, he
Could gaze for months I
But when awaking, two soft eyelids
raised,
Loved her at once !
" Fair one, a knight's true love canst
thou despise,
With golden store 2"
" Sir Knight, true love I value, but I
prize
Honour far more ! M
" Vertu, dit-il, passe noblesse 1
Serez ma femme des ce jour
Serez dame, serez comtesse,
Si me jurez, au nom d'amour,
" I too prize honour above high descent
And all beside;
Maiden, be mine I yes, if thou wilt con-
sent,
Be thou my bride 1
80
FATHER PKOUT S RELIQUES.
De m'obe'ir quand devrai, mme
Bien durement, vous ordonner ? "
" Sire, obei'r & ce qu'on aime
Est bien plus doux que com-
mander?"
Ne jura pour estre comtesse,
Mais avoit vu le chevalier;
A 1'amour seul fist la promesse :
Puis monta sur son destrier.
N'avoit besoin de bienseances
Le terns heureux des tonnes
mceurs ;
Fausses Stoient les apparances,
Nobles et vrays estoient les
cceurs !
Tant chevaucherent par la plaine
QAi'arriverent a la citfi ;
Griseledis fust souveraine
De ce riche et puissant comte;
Chascun 1'aima ; sous son empire
Chascun ressentit ses bienfaits :
Beaut6 previent, doulceur attire,
Bonte gagne et fixe a jamais !
Swear but to do ye bidding of thy liege
Faithful and fond."
" Tell not of oaths, Sir Knight; is not
love's pledge
A better bond ? "
Not for his castel and his broad do-
main,
Spoke so ye maid,
But that she loved ye handsome
knight : Love fain
Would be obeyed.
On ye same charger with the knight
she rodde,
So passed along;
Nor blame feared she, for then all
hearts were good ;
None dreamed of wrong
And they rodde on untill rose on ye
sight
His castel towers ;
And there that maiden lived with that
good knight
In marriage bowers,
Diffusing blessings among all who
dwelt
Within that vale :
Goodness abydeth aye her smile is
felt,
Tho' beauty fail !
Lives there one with soul so dead as not to admire
the genuine high-mindedness of these primitive times,
expressed in this pleasing record of what was no
romance, but matter of frequent occurrence in the
days of chivalry ? . The ballad has got into many Ian-
THE SONOS OF FRANCE. 81
guages, and is interwoven most industriously with
the traditional recollections of many a noble house ;
but the original is undoubtedly the above. Tom
Moore (whose rogueries are infinite) has twisted it
into a thing which he calls a melody, " You remem-
ber Ellen, our hamlet's pride ;" and he has tacked a
note to the stolen ditty, wherein, with his usual tuft-
hunting and toad-eating propensities, he seeks to con-
nect the story with " an interesting tale told of a
certain noble family in England." Unfortunately for
such attempts, the lays of the 'Norman troubadours,
like the Government ropes in the dock-yard at Ports-
mouth, have in their texture a certain inimitable twist
and a peculiarity of workmanship, by which they are
recognised at once when they get into the possession
of thieves.
These Normans were a glorious race ! No, neither
the sons of Greece in their palmiest day of warlike
adventure (o%Xo$ A%atwv), nor the children of the Tiber,
that miscellany of bandits and outlaws (twrba Remi\
ever displayed such daring energy as the tribe of
enterprising Northerns who, in the seventh, eighth,
and subsequent centuries, affrighted and dazzled the
world with the splendour of their achievements.
From the peninsula of Jutland, their narrow home on
the Baltic, they went forth to select the choicest
lands and the fairest provinces of the south for their
VOL. ii. G
82 FATHER PKOUT S RELIQUES.
portion: the banks of the Seine,* the kingdom of
Naples, the island of Sicily, the Morea, Palestine,
Constantinople, England, Ireland, they conquered in
succession. The proudest names in each land through
which they passed glory in tracing up a Norman
origin ; and while their descendants form the truest
and most honourable aristocracy in Europe, their
troubadours still reign paramount, and unsurpassed
in every mode and form of the tuneful mystery. The
architectural remains of that wonderful people are
not more picturesque and beautiful than the frag-
ments of their ballads and their war-songs ; and Be-
ranger himself (by the by, a Norman patronymic, and
an evidence of the poet's excellent lineage) has but
inherited the lyre of that celebrated minstrel who is
thus described in a contemporary poem on the con-
quest of this island by William :
Taillefer ki mult bien cantout, Dan TaUyfer, who sang right well,
Sur ung cheval ki tost allout, Borne on a goodly haridelle,
Devant le host allout cantant Pranced in the van and led the train,
De Karlemain e de Reliant. "With songs of Roland and of Charle-
maine,
* Such was the terror with which they inspired the natives of
France before Duke Hollo's conversion to Christianity, that there
is in the office of the Parisian Breviary a hymn, composed about
that period, and containing a prayer against the Normans
" Auferte gentem perfldam
Credentium de finftras," &c. &c. ;
which remains to this day a memorial of consternation. PROUT.
THE SONGS OF FRANCE.
83
But I venture to say, that never was Charlemagne
sung by his ablest troubadour in loftier strains than
those in which Beranger has chanted the great modern
inheritor of his iron crown, anointed like him by a
Pope, and like him the sole arbitrator of European
kingdoms and destinies.
te Soufanirs tm ^pettplc.
J5 Granger.
On parlera de sa gloire
Sous le chaume bien long-
temps ;
I/humble toit, dans cinquante
ans,
Ne connattra plus d'autre histoire.
La viendront les villageois
Dire alors a quelque vieille;
Par des r6cits d'autrefois,
Mere, abr6gez notre veille :
Bien, dit-on, qu'il nous ait nui,
Le peuple encor le revere,
Oui, le revere.
Parlez-noxis de lui, grand'mere !
Parlez-nous de lui !
popular ^^collections of
They'll talk of HIM for years to come,
In cottage chronicle and tale;
When for aught else renown is dumb,
His legend shall prevail !
Then in the hamlet's honoured chair
Shall sit some aged dame,
Teaching to lowly clovra and villager
That narrative of fame.
'Tis true, they'll say, his gorgeous
throne
France Wed to raise ;
But he was all our own !
Mother ! say something in his praise
O speak of him always !
" Mes enfans, dans ce village,
Suivi de rois, il passa,
Voila bien long- temps de 9a :
Je venais d'entrer en menage.
A, pied grimpant le coteau,
Oil pour voir je m'6 tais noise ;
II avait petit chapeau,
Avec redingote grise.
" I saw him pass : his was a host,
Countless beyond your young ima-
ginings
My children, he could boast
A train of conquered kings !
And when he came this road,
3 Twas on my bridal day.
He wore, for near to him I stood,
Cocked hat and surcoat grey.
84
FATHER PROUT S RELIQUES.
Pres de M je me troublai,
II me dit, ' Bonjour, ma chere!
Bonjour, ma chere ! ' "
II vous a parle, grand'mere !
H vous a parle !
I blushed; lie said, 'Be of good cheer !
Courage, my dear ! '
That was his very word."
Mother ! then this really occurred,
And you his voice could hear !
" L'an d'apres, moipauvre femme,
A Paris etant un jour,
Je le vis avec sa cour :
II se rendait a Notre -Dame.
To us les cceurs etaient contens;
On admirait son cortege,
Chacun disait, ' Quel beau
terns !
Le Ciel toujours le protege.'
Son sourire etait bien doux,
D'un fils Dieu le rendait pere,
Le rendait pere ! "
&uel beau jour pour vous,
grand'mere !
Quel beau jour pour vous 1
" A year rolled on, when next at
Paris I,
Lone woman that I am,
Saw him pass by,
Girt with hi$ peers, to kneel at Notre
Dame.
I knew by merry chime and signal
gun,
God granted him a son,
And ! I wept for joy !
For why not weep when warrior-men
did,
Who gazed upon that sight so splendid,
And blest th' imperial boy?
Never did noonday sun shine out so
bright!
O what a sight!"
Mother ! for you that must have been
A glorious scene !
" Mais quand la pauvre Cham-
pagne
Put en proie aux etrangers,
Lui, bravant tous les dangers,
Semblait seul tenir la campagne.
Un soir^tout comrne aujourd'hui,
J'entends frapper a la porte ;
J'ouvre, bon Dieu! C'ETAIT
LUll
Suivi d'une faible escorte.
" But when all Europe's gathered
strength
Burst o'er the French frontier at length,
'Twill scarcely be believed
What wonders, single-handed, he
achieved.
Such general ne'er lived !
One evening on my threshold stood
A guest 'TWAS HE I Of warriors
few
He had a toil-worn retinue.
THE SONGS OF TRANCE.
II s'asseoit oil me voila,
S'6criant : ' Oh, guelle guerre !
Oh, quelle guerre ! ' "
II s'est assis la, grand'mere !
II s'est assis la !
" l J'ai faim,' dit-il ; et bien vite
Je sers piquette et pain bis.
Puis il seche ses habits ;
MSme & dormir le feu 1'invite.
Au reveil, voyant mes pleurs,
II me dit : Bonne esperance !
Je cours de tous ses malheurs
Sous Paris venger la France !'
II part; et comme un tre'sor
J'ai depuis garde" son verre,
Garde" son verre."
Vous 1'avez encor, grand'mere!
Vousl'avezencor!
" Le voici. Mais a sa perte
Le heros fut entralne.
Lui, qu'uN- PAPB a couronne",
Est mort dans un Sle de"serte.
Long-temps aucun ne 1'a cru;
On disait : ' n va paraltre.
Par mer il est aceouru;
L'etranger va voir son maitre/
Quand d'erreur on nous tira,
Ma douleur fut bien amere.
He flung himself into this chair of
wood,
Muttering, meantime, with fearful
air,
* Quelle guerre ! oJi, quelle guerre !' "
Mother ! and did our emperor sit there,
Upon that very chair?
" He said, ' Give me some food.'
Brown loaf I gave, and homely wine,
And made the Mndling fireblocks
shine,
To dry his cloak with wet "bedewed.
Soon by the bonny blaze he slept,
Then waking chid me (for I wept) ;
' Courage!' he cried, ' 111 strike for all
Under the sacred wall
Of France's noble capital !'
Those were his words : I've treasured
up
With pride that same wine-cup ;
And for its weight in gold
It never shall be sold I "
Mother ! on that proud relic let us gaze.
keep that cup always !
" But, through some fatal witchery,
He, whom A POPE had crowned and
blest,
Perished, my sons! by foulest trea-
chery:
Cast on an isle far in the lonely West.
Long time sad rumours were afloat
The fatal tidings we would spurn,
Still hoping from that isle remote
Once more our hero would return.
But when the dark announcement drew
Tears from the virtuous and the
brave
86 FATHER PROUT'S RELIQUES.
Put "bien amere." When the sad whisper proved too true,
Dieu vous be"nira, grand'utere j A flood of grief I to his memory gave.
Dieu vous benira! Peace to the glorious dead ! "
Mother ! may God his fullest blessing
shed
Upon your aged head !
Such songs embalm the glories of a conqueror
in the hearts of the people, and will do more to
endear the memory of Napoleon to posterity than
all the efforts of the historian. Can it be believed,
however, that the government which lately disgraced
France that of the imbecile Charles X. had the
folly to pick a personal quarrel with this powerful
master of the lyre, and to provoke the wrath of
genius, which no one yet aroused and got off un-
scathed by its lightning. Beranger was prosecuted
before the tribunal of the cour d' assizes for a song !
And nothing, perhaps, contributed more to the cata-
strophe that soon overtook the persecutor of the
Muses than the disgrace and ridicule which covered
the royal faction, in consequence of this first attack
on the liberty of the press and the freedom of that
freest of all trades, the craft of the troubadour. The
prophecy contained in the ode in question was real-
ised to the letter : even the allusion to that old Gallic
emblem the cock, which Louis Philippe has now
made the ornament of the restored tricolor, confirms
the fact of inspiration.
THE SONGS OF FRANCE.
87
1C bleu* IBrapeatu
Beranger.
De mes vieux compagnons de
gloire
Je viens de me voir entourS ;
Nos souvenirs m'ont enivr,
Le vin m'a rendu la memoire.
Fier de mes exploits et des 
