It is a melancholy pleasure to me to wander among these vestiges of the
departed great man; to trace his various thoughts from his earliest
infancy to the time when death robbed the world of what should have been
its brightest ornament, and left to it merely the paste and tinsel, the
gewgaw and tomfoolery of literature.
Of his father he has left many records. This person, upon whom the honour
of being Pellucid’s progenitor devolved, appears to have been a worthy
undertaker; an unprofitable one, however, for he never _undertook_
anything well, nor carried it out successfully. Nevertheless, his
failings or shortcomings in life, served but to increase the love his
son bore him, and which is manifested in many poetical scraps, evidently
written in early life, one of which, commencing—
“My father, my dear father, if a name
Dearer and holier were, it should be thine,”
is worthy of comparison with anything of Byron’s; it is, however, too
long for extract. To his schooldays also, I find many pleasing allusions
scattered through his manuscripts. In a letter to his sister (which, from
family reasons, I am precluded from publishing) he draws a wonderful
sketch of his pedagogue, whom he describes as being a man severe and
stern to view, but who often relaxed to a joke with his scholars, and was
the best hand at argument in the village, using words of such learned
length and wondrous sound, that the amazed rustics stood gaping at his
knowledge. His “Ode on a Distant Prospect of Islington Free-school,” is
also full of pleasing reminiscences of his younger days.
Late in life Rivers began to take a great interest in theatrical matters,
and I find among his MSS. the following poem, evidently written shortly
before his decease. One curious fact connected with these verses is,
that as executor of poor Pellucid, I am at present at loggerheads with
one Mr. McAuley, a Scotch gentleman, who, absurdly enough, claims their
authorship:—
GUSTAVUS.
A LAY OF DRURY LANE.
Great Smithius of Drury Lane,
By cape and truncheon swore
That Bold Gustavus Brookius
Should _perdu_ lie no more.
By staff and cape he swore it,
And named his opening night,
And sent his messengers abroad,
Each with a pile of orders stored,
To summon all they might.
East and west, and south and north,
The messengers repair;
Some hie them to the Regal Oak,
Some to the Arms of Eyre.
Shame on the false theatrical
Who would refuse to come,
When bold Gustavus Brookius
Enters the “Drama’s Home!”
The gallery-boys and pittites
Are pouring in amain,
And struggling in a turbid mass,
The theatre doors they gain.
From many a noisome alley,
From many a crowded court,
Great G. V. B.’s supporters
Have hastened to the sport.
From Kingsland’s leafy quarters,
From Camden’s noble town,
From where Belgravia’s daughters
On humble men look down;
From Islington the merry,
From Kensington the slow,
To meet the great Gustavus
The many-headed go.
The patrons of the Surrey,
Who e’er in shirt-sleeves sit,
While the refreshing foaming stout
Is handed round the pit,
Yield up their old allegiance,
And join the swelling train,
Crossing the Bridge of Waterloo,
To meet at Drury Lane.
Ho! fiddlers, scrape your catgut!
Ho! drummers, use your strength!
_HE_ comes, whose name on every wall
Measures six feet in length!
Who, though perchance he cannot
With Shakespeare move your souls,
Will gain your heartiest plaudits
By gifts of soup and coals!
Come, Phelps, come crouch unto him;
Come, Kean, and do the same;
You, famous by your own good deeds,
You by your father’s name!
Crouch to the great Gustavus,
Who has become the rage,
And proved himself, by feats of alms,
King of the British stage.