Thackeray Part 9

He draws his picture without a line omitted or a line too much, saying with apparent facility all that he has to say, and so saying it that every word conveys its natural meaning.

When a squall, upon a sudden, Came o'er the waters scudding; And the clouds began to gather, And the sea was lashed to lather, And the lowering thunder grumbled, And the lightning jumped and tumbled, And the s.h.i.+p and all the ocean Woke up in wild commotion.

Then the wind set up a howling, And the poodle dog a yowling, And the c.o.c.ks began a crowing, And the old cow raised a lowing, As she heard the tempest blowing; And fowls and geese did cackle, And the cordage and the tackle Began to shriek and crackle; And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, And down the deck in runnels; And the rus.h.i.+ng water soaks all, From the seamen in the fo'ksal To the stokers whose black faces Peer out of their bed-places; And the captain, he was bawling, And the sailors pulling, hauling, And the quarter-deck tarpauling Was s.h.i.+vered in the squalling; And the pa.s.sengers awaken, Most pitifully shaken; And the steward jumps up and hastens For the necessary basins.

Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered, And they knelt, and moaned, and s.h.i.+vered, As the plunging waters met them, And splashed and overset them; And they call in their emergence Upon countless saints and virgins; And their marrowbones are bended, And they think the world is ended.

And the Turkish women for'ard Were frightened and behorror'd; And shrieking and bewildering, The mothers clutched their children; The men sang "Allah! Illah!

Mashallah Bis-millah!"

As the warning waters doused them, And splashed them and soused them And they called upon the Prophet, And thought but little of it.

Then all the fleas in Jewry Jumped up and bit like fury; And the progeny of Jacob Did on the main-deck wake up.

(I wot these greasy Rabbins Would never pay for cabins); And each man moaned and jabbered in His filthy Jewish gaberdine, In woe and lamentation, And howling consternation.

And the splas.h.i.+ng water drenches Their dirty brats and wenches; And they crawl from bales and benches, In a hundred thousand stenches.

This was the White Squall famous, Which latterly o'ercame us.

_Peg of Limavaddy_ has always been very popular, and the public have not, I think, been generally aware that the young lady in question lived in truth at Newton Limavady (with one d). But with the correct name Thackeray would hardly have been so successful with his rhymes.

Citizen or Squire Tory, Whig, or Radi- Cal would all desire Peg of Limavaddy.

Had I Homer's fire Or that of Sergeant Taddy Meetly I'd admire Peg of Limavaddy.

And till I expire Or till I go mad I Will sing unto my lyre Peg of Limavaddy.

_The Cane-bottomed Chair_ is another, better, I think, than _Peg of Limavaddy_, as containing that mixture of burlesque with the pathetic which belonged so peculiarly to Thackeray, and which was indeed the very essence of his genius.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, There's one that I love and I cherish the best.

For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair.

'Tis a bandy-legged, high-bottomed, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when f.a.n.n.y sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.

She comes from the past and revisits my room, She looks as she then did all beauty and bloom; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.

This, in the volume which I have now before me, is followed by a picture of f.a.n.n.y in the chair, to which I cannot but take exception. I am quite sure that when f.a.n.n.y graced the room and seated herself in the chair of her old bachelor friend, she had not on a low dress and loosely-flowing drawing-room shawl, nor was there a footstool ready for her feet. I doubt also the headgear. f.a.n.n.y on that occasion was dressed in her morning apparel, and had walked through the streets, carried no fan, and wore no brooch but one that might be necessary for pinning her shawl.

_The Great Cossack Epic_ is the longest of the ballads. It is a legend of St. Sophia of Kioff, telling how Father Hyacinth, by the aid of St.

Sophia, whose wooden statue he carried with him, escaped across the Borysthenes with all the Cossacks at his tail. It is very good fun; but not equal to many of the others. Nor is the _Carmen Lilliense_ quite to my taste. I should not have declared at once that it had come from Thackeray's hand, had I not known it.

But who could doubt the _Bouillabaisse_? Who else could have written that? Who at the same moment could have been so merry and so melancholy,--could have gone so deep into the regrets of life, with words so appropriate to its jollities? I do not know how far my readers will agree with me that to read it always must be a fresh pleasure; but in order that they may agree with me, if they can, I will give it to them entire. If there be one whom it does not please, he will like nothing that Thackeray ever wrote in verse.

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.

A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Pet.i.ts Champs its name is-- The New Street of the Little Fields; And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a n.o.ble dish is,-- A sort of soup, or broth, or brew Or hotch-potch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at Terre's tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks.

And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly sure his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

I wonder if the house still there is?

Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-cheeked ecaillere is Still opening oysters at the door.

Is Terre still alive and able?

I recollect his droll grimace; He'd come and smile before your table, And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.

We enter,--nothing's changed or older.

"How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?"

The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder,-- "Monsieur is dead this many a day."

"It is the lot of saint and sinner; So honest Terre's run his race."

"What will Monsieur require for dinner?"

"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"

"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer, "Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?"

"Tell me a good one." "That I can, sir: The chambertin with yellow seal."

"So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."

My old accustomed corner here is, The table still is in the nook; Ah! vanish'd many a busy year is This well-known chair since last I took.

When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

Where are you, old companions trusty, Of early days here met to dine?

Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty; I'll pledge them in the good old wine.

The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; There's poor old Fred in the _Gazette_; O'er James's head the gra.s.s is growing.

Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!

I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place,--but not alone.

A fair young face was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me!

There's no one now to share my cup.

I drink it as the Fates ordain it.

Come fill it, and have done with rhymes; Fill up the lonely gla.s.s, and drain it In memory of dear old times.

Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.

Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse.

I am not disposed to say that Thackeray will hold a high place among English poets. He would have been the first to ridicule such an a.s.sumption made on his behalf. But I think that his verses will be more popular than those of many highly reputed poets, and that as years roll on they will gain rather than lose in public estimation.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Chair--_i.e._ Chairman.

[8] _I.e._ The P. and O. Company.

CHAPTER IX.