Posts tagged ‘1799’

Saturday, 13 April 2019

Lines 248-293 [Description of London] from “The Love of Gain: A Poem. Imitated from the Thirteenth Satire of Juvenal” by Matthew Gregory Lewis

Ye giddy, gay, and proud,
Who swell great London’s ever-bustling crowd,
London, where all extremes together meet,
Folly’s chief throne, and Wisdom’s gravest seat;
Where disagreements in agreement lie,
Our close-knit mass of contrariety;
Where throng the rich and poor, the fool and knave,
Where statesmen juggle, and where patriots rave;
Where balls for advocates prepare their work,
And embryo law-suits in a whisper lurk;
Where Cupid pays in specie for his wiles,
And judges frown whene’er a lady smiles;
Where equal farce continual sport affords
At Covent-Garden, or the House of Lords;
Where beggars with feigned tears and ready smiles,
Cringe to St. James, or blubber to St. Giles;
Ye who confusedly sail in motley trim
Down this full flood of pleasure, business, whim,
Whether you frame smooth, glib, and specious lies
To cheat a tradesman, or to raise supplies,
With private or with public misery sport,
Cheats upon ‘Change, or Parasites at Court,
Now pause awhile!—For one reflecting hour
Forego your hopes of gain, your dreams of power,
And hark, while tells the Muse what monstrous crimes,
What new-found sins reserv’d for our strange times,
Their hideous forms to Addington betray,
From morn’s first languish to the death of day.
Here mark the thankless child, the unnatural sire,
The Pandar slave who lets his spouse for hire,
The adulterous friend, the trusted wanton wife,
The brother aiming at the brother’s life,
The rake who cools in beauty’s arms his heat,
Then lets her starve, or ply for bread the street,
And that dark train of foes to moral rules,
Thieves, Bawds, Assassins, Gamblers, Knaves, and Fools,
Fools, who would fain be knaves …… No more I’ll write,
Hence, odious forms, nor longer shock my sight!
Else by disgust and scorn to madness driven,
Bursting those chains which bind my soul to Heaven,
I shall disdain to breathe such tainted air,
Shall blush an human form like these to wear,
For present ease shall barter future bliss,
And sure no world can be more black than this,
Deep in my swelling heart shall plunge the knife,
And cry, while flies my soul from mortal strife,
“Heaven bless my father, though he gave me life!”

From: Lewis, M. G., The Love of Gain: A Poem. Imitated from the Thirteenth Satire of Juvenal, 1799, J. Bell: London, pp. 27-33.
(https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/ecco/004786389.0001.000/)

Date: 1799

By: Matthew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818)

Friday, 20 March 2015

A Receipt for Writing a Novel by Mary Cumberland Alcock

Would you a fav’rite novel make,
Try hard your reader’s heart to break,
For who is pleas’d, if not tormented?
(Novels for that were first invented).
‘Gainst nature, reason, sense, combine
To carry on your bold design,
And those ingredients I shall mention,
Compounded with your own invention,
I’m sure will answer my intention.
Of love take first a due proportion —
It serves to keep the heart in motion:
Of jealousy a powerful zest,
Of all tormenting passions best;
Of horror mix a copious share,
And duels you must never spare;
Hysteric fits at Ieast a score,
Or, if you find occasion, more;
But fainting fits you need not measure,
The fair ones have them at their pleasure;
Of sighs and groans take no account,
But throw them in to vast amount;
A frantic fever you may add,
Most authors make their lovers mad;
Rack well your hero’s nerves and heart,
And let your heroine take her part;
Her fine blue eyes were made to weep,
Nor should she ever taste of sleep;
Ply her with terrors day or night,
And keep her always in a fright,
But in a carriage when you get her,
Be sure you fairly overset her;
If she will break her bones — why let her:
Again, if e’er she walks abroad,
Of course you bring some wicked lord,
Who with three ruffians snaps his prey,
And to a castle speeds away;
There close confin’d in haunted tower,
You leave your captive in his power,
Till dead with horror and dismay,
She scales the walk and flies away.

Now you contrive the lovers meeting,
To set your reader’s heart a beating,
But ere they’ve had a moment’s leisure,
Be sure to interrupt their pleasure;
Provide yourself with fresh alarms
To tear ’em from each other’s arms;
No matter by what fate they’re parted,
So that you keep them broken-hearted.

A cruel father some prepare
To drag her by her flaxen hair;
Some raise a storm, and some a ghost,
Take either, which may please you most.
But this you must with care observe,
That when you’ve wound up every nerve
With expectation, hope and fear,
Hero and heroine must disappear.
Some fill one book, some two without ’em,
And ne’er concern their heads about ’em,
This greatly rests the writer’s brain,
For any story, that gives pain,
You now throw in — no matter what,
However foreign to the plot,
So it but serves to swell the book,
You foist it in with desperate hook —
A masquerade, a murder’d peer,
His throat just cut from ear to ear —
A rake turn’d hermit — a fond maid
Run mad, by some false loon betray ‘d —
These stores supply the female pen,
Which writes them o’er and o’er again,
And readers likewise may be found
To circulate them round and round.

Now at your fable’s close devise
Some grand event to give surprize —
Suppose your hero knows no mother —
Suppose he proves the heroine’s brother —
This at one stroke dissolves each tie,
Far as from east to west they fly:
At length when every woe’s expended,
And your last volume’s nearly ended,
Clear the mistake, and introduce
Some tatt’ling nurse to cut the noose,
The spell is broke — again they meet
Expiring at each other’s feet;
Their friends lie breathless on the floor —
You drop your pen; you can no more —
And ere your reader can recover,
They’re married — and your history’s over.

From: Alcock, Mary, Poems, etc., etc. by the Late Mrs. Mary Alcock, 1799, C. Dilly, Poultry: London, pp. 89-94.
(https://archive.org/stream/poemscc00alcogoog#page/n126/mode/2up)

Date: 1799 (published)

By: Mary Cumberland Alcock (c1742-1798)

Tuesday, 27 May 2014

Oh! Where, Tell Me Where? by Anne MacVicar Grant

Oh! where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone?
Oh! where, tell me where is your Highland laddie gone?
He’s gone with streaming banners where noble deeds are done.
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home,
He’s gone with streaming banners where noble deeds are done.
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home.

Oh! where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?
Oh! where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?
He dwelt among the holly trees, beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing followed him the day he went away,
He dwelt beneath the holly trees, beside the river Spey,
And many a blessing followed him the day he went away.

Oh! what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?
Oh! what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war.
And a plaid across the manly breast, that yet shall wear a star,
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across the manly breast, that yet shall wear a star.

Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound
Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound?
The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye,
The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
And for his king and country dear, with pleasure would he die.

But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonnie bounds.
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonnie bounds ;
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his war-like name resounds,
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his war-like name resounds.

From: http://bluebellstrilogy.com/blog/2010/04/blue-bells-the-folk-song/

Date: 1799

By: Anne MacVicar Grant (1755-1838)

Alternative Titles: The New Highland Lad; The Bluebells of Scotland; The Bells of Scotland; O Where, Tell Me Where