'Tragedy , The' by Richard Harris Barham
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Quæque ipse miserrima vidi.-- VIRGIL.
Catherine of Cleves was a Lady of rank,
She had lands and fine houses, and cash in the Bank;
She had jewels and rings,
And a thousand smart things;
Was lovely and young,
With a rather sharp tongue,
And she wedded a Noble of high degree
With the star of the order of St. Esprit;
But the Duke de Guise
Was, by many degrees,
Her senior, and not very easy to please;
He'd a sneer on his lip, and a scowl with his eye,
And a frown on his brow,-- and he look'd like a Guy,--
So she took to intriguing
With Monsieur St. Megrin,
A young man of fashion, and figure, and worth,
But with no great pretensions to fortune or birth;
He would sing, fence, and dance
With the best man in France,
And took his rappee with genteel nonchalance;
He smiled, and he flatter'd, and flirted with ease,
And was very superior to Monseigneur de Guise.
Now Monsieur St. Megrin was curious to know
If the Lady approved of his passion or no;
So without more ado,
He put on his surtout,
And went to a man with a beard like a Jew.
One Signor Ruggieri,
A Cunning-man near, he
Could conjure, tell fortunes, and calculate tides,
Perform tricks on the cards, and Heaven knows what besides,
Bring back a stray'd cow, silver ladle, or spoon,
And was thought to be thick with the Man in the Moon.
The Sage took his stand
With his wand in his hand,
Drew a circle, then gave the dread word of command,
Saying solemnly --' Presto!-- Hey, quick!-- Cock-alorum!!'
When the Duchess immediately popped up before 'em.
Just then a Conjunction of Venus and Mars,
Or something peculiar above in the stars,
Attracted the notice of Signor Ruggieri,
Who 'bolted,' and left him alone with his deary.--
Monsieur St. Megrin went down on his knees,
And the Duchess shed tears large as marrow-fat peas,
When,-- fancy the shock,--
A loud double-knock,
Made the Lady cry 'Get up, you fool!-- there's De Guise!'--
'Twas his Grace, sure enough;
So Monsieur, looking bluff,
Strutted by, with his hat on, and fingering his ruff,
While, unseen by either, away flew the Dame
Through the opposite key-hole, the same way she came;
But, alack! and alas!
A mishap came to pass,
In her hurry she, somehow or other, let fall
A new silk Bandana she'd worn as a shawl;
She had used it for drying
Her bright eyes while crying,
And blowing her nose, as her Beau talk'd of 'dying!'
Now the Duke, who had seen it so lately adorn her,
And knew the great C with the Crown in the corner;
The instant he spied it smoked something amiss,
And said with some energy, 'D-- it! what's this?'
He went home in a fume,
And bounced into her room,
Crying, 'So, Ma'am, I find I've some cause to be jealous;
Look here!-- here's a proof you run after the fellows!
-- Now take up that pen,-- if it's bad choose a better,--
And write, as I dictate, this moment a letter
To Monsieur -- you know who!'
The Lady look'd blue;
But replied with much firmness --' Hang me if I do!'
De Guise grasped her wrist
With his great bony fist,
And pinch'd it, and gave it so painful a twist,
That his hard, iron gauntlet the flesh went an inch in,--
She did not mind death, but she could not stand pinching;
So she sat down and wrote
This polite little note:--
'Dear Mister St. Megrin,
The Chiefs of the League in
Our house mean to dine
This evening at nine;
I shall, soon after ten,
Slip away from the men,
And you'll find me up stairs in the drawing-room then;
Come up the back way, or those impudent thieves
Of Servants will see you; Yours,
Catherine of Cleves.'
She directed and sealed it, all pale as a ghost,
And De Guise put it into the Twopenny Post.
St. Megrin had almost jumped out of his skin
For joy that day when the post came in;
He read the note through,
Then began it anew,
And thought it almost too good news to be true.--
He clapped on his hat,
And a hood over that,
With a cloak to disguise him, and make him look fat;
So great his impatience, from half after four
He was waiting till Ten at De Guise's back-door.
When he heard the great clock of St. Genevieve chime
He ran up the back staircase six steps at a time;
He had scare made his bow,
He hardly knew how,
When alas! and alack!
There was no getting back,
For the drawing-room door was bang'd to with a whack;--
In vain he applied
To the handle and tried,
Somebody or other had locked it outside!
And the Duchess in agony mourn'd her mishap,
'We are caught like a couple of rats in a trap.'
Now the Duchess's Page,
About twelve years of age,
For so little a boy was remarkably sage;
And, just in the nick, to their joy and amazement,
Popp'd the Gas-lighter's ladder close under the casement.
But all would not do,--
Though St. Megrin got through
The window,-- below stood De Guise and his crew,
And though never man was more brave than St. Megrin,
Yet fighting a score is extremely fatiguing;
He thrust carte and tierce
Uncommonly fierce,
But not Beelzebub's self could their cuirasses pierce,
While his doublet and hose,
Being holiday clothes,
Were soon cut through and through from his knees to his nose.
Still an old crooked sixpence the Conjuror gave him
From pistol and sword was sufficient to save him,
But, when beat on his knees,
That confounded De Guise
Came behind with the 'fogle' that caused all this breeze,
Whipp'd it tight round his neck, and, when backward he'd jerk'd him,
The rest of the rascals jump'd on him and Burk'd him.
The poor little Page too himself got no quarter, but
Was served the same way,
And was found the next day
With his heels in the air and his head in the water-butt.
Catherine of Cleves
Roar'd 'Murder!' and 'Thieves!'
From the window above
While they murder'd her love;
Till, finding the rogues had accomplish'd his slaughter,
She drank Prussic acid without any water,
And died like a Duke and a Duchess's daughter!
Moral.
Take warning, ye Fair, from this tale of the Bard's,
And don't go where fortunes are told on the cards!
But steer clear of Conjurors,-- never put query
To 'Wise Mrs. Williams,' or folks like Ruggieri.
When alone in your room shut the door close, and lock it;
Above all,-- keep your handkerchief safe in your pocket!
Lest you too should stumble, and Lord Leveson Gower, he
Be call'd on,-- sad poet!-- to tell your sad story!
Editor 1 Interpretation
Poetry, Tragedy, The: A Masterpiece of Irony and Satire
By Richard Harris Barham
"Is there anything in the world more beautiful than poetry?" I asked myself as I picked up Richard Harris Barham's "Poetry, Tragedy, The." And yet, as I read through its pages, I found myself laughing, sometimes even bursting out in guffaws. Was this really a serious work of literature, or a parody of it?
Published in 1845, "Poetry, Tragedy, The" is a collection of satirical poems that poke fun at the conventions of poetry and the literary world. Barham's wit and irony are evident from the very first poem, "The Early Poet," where he describes the struggles of a young poet trying to find inspiration:
He felt that strong poetic power Which none can feel but at that hour, When, to the eye of youthful Hope, Life's future prospects brightest ope, And Fancy, at her fairy call, Gives to the world an airier thrall.
But as the poem progresses, we see the young poet's ambition turn into desperation, as he tries to impress his peers and gain recognition:
One critic hints, "Your rhymes are flat;" Another, "What an awkward hat!" ... He vows that, since the world's so cold, He'll never be a bard when old.
Barham's use of language is delightful, and his mastery of rhyme and meter is evident in every poem. But what sets "Poetry, Tragedy, The" apart is his skill at turning the very conventions of poetry against itself. In "The Sonnet," for instance, he parodies the strict rules of the sonnet form:
A Sonnet? pretty little thing! Neat, weighty, tuneful, tight: And yet, as used by practis'd bards, An instrument of spite.
Here, Barham suggests that the sonnet form is all too often used by poets to show off their skills, rather than to express genuine emotion or thought. By doing so, he exposes the pretentiousness of many poets and highlights the importance of sincerity in literature.
Another example of Barham's ability to subvert poetic conventions can be seen in "The Ode," where he mocks the grandiose language and lofty themes of traditional odes:
Thou, too, hast thy high-sounding name, Ode! but what is thy real claim To rank amid the classic choir, And be the theme of learned desire?
Here, Barham questions the very essence of the ode form, and playfully suggests that it is an overrated form of poetry.
But perhaps the most impressive aspect of "Poetry, Tragedy, The" is the way in which Barham seamlessly blends humor with tragedy. In "The Ballad of the Starved Sailor," for instance, we are introduced to a young man who sets out to sea, only to be stranded for weeks without food:
For fourteen days he paddled on, And felt his strength decay; And then the food he'd counted on Was all eaten away.
Despite the serious subject matter, Barham manages to create a light-hearted tone by using a simple and repetitive rhyme scheme. But as the poem progresses, the humor fades away, and we are left with a poignant and tragic image:
With glassy eye and haggard cheek, He sat him down to die; And e'er the morn had dawn'd again, Had breathed his latest sigh.
Through this clever use of humor and tragedy, Barham reminds us of the fragility of life and the importance of cherishing every moment.
In conclusion, "Poetry, Tragedy, The" is a masterpiece of irony and satire, and a delightful read for anyone interested in the history of English literature. Barham's wit and humor are infectious, and his ability to subvert poetic conventions while still maintaining a sense of sincerity is truly remarkable. From the hilarious "Epitaph Upon a Disappointed Poet" to the poignant "The Ballad of the Starved Sailor," this collection of poems is sure to leave a lasting impression on any reader.
Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation
The classic poetry tragedy, "The Ingoldsby Legends" written by Richard Harris Barham, is a masterpiece that has stood the test of time. This collection of poems, first published in 1840, is a unique blend of humor, horror, and tragedy that has captivated readers for generations.
Barham's writing style is characterized by his use of vivid imagery, clever wordplay, and a keen sense of irony. His poems are often dark and macabre, but they are also infused with a sense of humor that makes them all the more enjoyable to read.
One of the most striking features of "The Ingoldsby Legends" is the way in which Barham weaves together different genres and styles of writing. Some of the poems are written in a traditional ballad style, while others are more like short stories or even plays. This eclectic mix of styles keeps the reader engaged and adds to the overall richness of the collection.
Perhaps the most famous poem in "The Ingoldsby Legends" is "The Jackdaw of Rheims." This tragic tale tells the story of a mischievous jackdaw who steals a cardinal's ring and is subsequently punished by being forced to wear a penitential robe and live a life of solitude. The poem is notable for its use of repetition and rhyme, which give it a musical quality that is both haunting and beautiful.
Another standout poem in the collection is "The Spectre of Tappington." This eerie tale tells the story of a ghostly apparition that haunts a family's ancestral home. The poem is notable for its use of suspense and tension, as well as its vivid descriptions of the supernatural.
Despite the dark themes and subject matter of many of the poems in "The Ingoldsby Legends," Barham's writing is always infused with a sense of humanity and compassion. He has a keen eye for the foibles and flaws of human nature, but he also recognizes the inherent goodness and resilience of the human spirit.
Overall, "The Ingoldsby Legends" is a masterpiece of poetry and storytelling that has stood the test of time. Barham's unique blend of humor, horror, and tragedy is as captivating today as it was when the collection was first published over 180 years ago. Whether you are a fan of poetry, horror, or just great storytelling, "The Ingoldsby Legends" is a must-read for anyone who loves great literature.
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