[“A.A.C.”], “Improvising ‘To Order'” (The New Monthly Magazine and Humorist)

Performer Name:

 

Performance Venue:

 

Performance Date:

 

Author:

“A.A.C.”

Date Written:

 

Language:

English

Publication Title:

The New Monthly Magazine and Humorist

Article Title:

Improvising “To Order”

Page Numbers:

50: 555-556

Additional Info:

Theodore Hook became editor of the NMM in 1837.

Publisher:

Henry Colburn

Place of Publication:

London

Date Published:

1837

Text:

[555] Improvising "To Order"

"Incipe, si quid habes."

Virg. Ecl. 9th.

Editor. AH, Couplet, my dear fellow, how d'ye do? 
	How odd—my thoughts that moment turned on you; 
	Think of, you know, the——

Couplet. Me? you surely jest—
	Why should on me your fancy deign to rest?

Editor. The fact is this—but first, pray take a chair—
	Though strange it seems, I've got a page to spare—
	Much at your service—nay, no nods or winks—
	Come, knock some lines off, just to fill up chinks. 

Couplet. Well then, if so, your subject first select. 

Editor. True, but what's common I at once reject. 
	No pithless poesy—no jingling rhyme—
	Eau sucre canzonets, or ode sublime: 
	Soar far above such maudlin, and fal-lal, 
	And quit thee, England, "an thou lov'st me, Hal." 

Couplet. What distant clime, where burns the solar ray, 
	Shall swell the measure of the poet's lay? 
	Say, shall his muse the western world explore, 
	Or rest her pinions on the Afric shore?
	Portray the horrors of that hapless land, 
	The dreary desert, and its scorching, sand,—
	The laden'd camel, and the lengthen'd train
	Of weary pilgrims o'er the boundless plain? 
	Seeking, though faint, with wild and panting haste, 
	Some bubbling fountain in the trackless waste. 

Editor. No more--such arid scenes our senses rack—
	We long, like Falstaff, for a cup of sack. 

Couplet. Then turn we thence, more joyously to feast
	On the gay splendour of the gorgeous East, 
	To breathe the Harem's love-inspiring air, 
	And kindling view each beauteous wanton there, 
	Sing of the murmu'd wish, and half-drawn sigh, 
	The heaving bosom, and the melting eye; 
	Or say how Echo labours to prolong 
	The dying cadence of the Georgian's song; 
	Or mark the airy dance, whose rapid maze 
	Some glowing charm in every turn betrays, 
	While the light folds are so disposed to shade, 
	But not conceal, the beauties of the maid. 
	Sing of these charms!—yes, charms like these, which gave
	A sultan often captive to his slave; 
	For who but holly hermits could withstand
	The laughing daughters of that golden land?
	Where all might pass for Houries [?] from above,
	Or reign as sisters of the Queen of Love!

Editor. Enough, enough! thy Pegasus restrain; 
	The curb has slacken'd—tighten, pray, thy rein—
	[556]
	He gallops hard—no more—now turn him round—
	And trot him gently over fresher ground; 
	Thy eastern fancies few, methinks, will brook,
	Who once have read (who has not?) "Lalla Rookh;"
	So, "verbum sat," we would not give thee pain, 
	Now mount thy hobby, and be off again. 

Couplet. Would the muse seek for themes of classic lore?
	Then let her hover near the Tuscan shore—
	Fair, fallen Italy—behold the fate
	Of mighty nations in thy humbled state!
	Alas! who sighs not as he views the dome
	Of proud, imperial,—now, but papal Rome?
	Whose towering eagles once their wings unfurl'd,
	And proudly swept triumphant o'er the world,—
	And who laments not in his heart the day 
	That sees a feeble monk usurp the sway
	Which Cæsar held, and there dominion claim
	O'er realms that echoed with a Pompey's fame,—
	O'er plains where Rome her valiant cohorts led,—
	Where Marius conquer'd, and Horatii bled; 
	While a dark zealot race succeeds the sage
	And brilliant meteors of th' Augustan age. 
	Foul fall the day, and ill betide the hour, 
	That gave that country to a bigot's power!

Editor. Egad, friend Couplet, this is "Ercles' vein."
	Now twelve lines more, or so,—spur on again.
	Of Greece can nothing rather fine be said? 
	Come—cross the Adriatic;—"Go it, Ned."

Couplet. Would the Muse now her magic wings expand
	To waft her gently o'er the Grecian land;
	Oh! let her course be slow whene'er her eyes
	Shall view the columns of great Athens rise. 
	Land of the brave, thrice favoured from above,
	The fount of learning, and the throne of love!
	Whose sons were valiant as her daughters fair, 
	Diana's glory, and Minerva's care!
	Land of the brave, what bosom bold and free, 
	But hails thy pass, renown'd Thermopylæ!
	Whose spirit burns not as it soars around,
	Immortal Marathon, thy battle-ground!
	Yet of those days reflect no more with bliss,—
	Think what Greece was—behold what now she is. 

Editor. There, that will do,—so lay aside thy shell,
	For an impromptu it is passing well.
	Now some fair guerdon for thy song demand—
	What wouldst thou seek—some office high and grand?
	Bard to the "blues" I'll make thee,—thou shalt see it. 
Couplet. You don't say so?
Editor. I do,—upon my eyes be it. 

Notes:

Collected by:

CB