SONGS, CHORUSES,
AND CONCERTED PIECES FROM
‘THE VILLAGE COQUETTES’
A COMIC OPERA
1836
THE VILLAGE COQUETTES
About the year 1834, when the earliest of the Sketches by Boz were appearing in print, a young composer named John Hullah set to music a portion of an opera called The Gondolier, which he thought might prove successful on the stage. Twelve months later Hullah became acquainted with Charles Dickens, whose name was then unknown to those outside his own immediate circle, and it occurred to him that he and ‘Boz’ might combine their forces by converting The Gondolier into a popular play. Dickens, who always entertained a passion for the theatre, entered into the project at once, and informed Hullah that he had a little unpublished story by him which he thought would dramatise well—even better than The Gondolier notion; confessing that he would rather deal with familiar English scenes than with the unfamiliar Venetian environment of the play favoured by Hullah. The title of The Gondolier was consequently abandoned, and a novel subject found and put forward as The Village Coquettes, a comic opera of which songs, duets, and concerted pieces were to form constituent parts. Dickens, of course, became responsible for the libretto and Hullah for the music; and when completed the little play was offered to, and accepted by, Braham, the lessee of the St. James’s Theatre, who expressed an earnest desire to be the first to introduce ‘Boz’ to the public as a dramatic writer. A favourite comedian of that day, John Pritt Harley, after reading the words of the opera prior to its representation, declared it was ‘a sure card,’ and felt so confident of its success that he offered to wager ten pounds that it would run fifty nights!—an assurance which at once decided Braham to produce it.
The Village Coquettes, described on the title-page of the printed copies as ‘A Comic Opera, in Two Acts,’ was played for the first time on December 6, 1836, with Braham and Harley in the cast. In his preface to the play (published contemporaneously by Richard Bentley, and dedicated to Harley) Dickens explained that ‘the libretto of an opera must be, to a certain extent, a mere vehicle for the music,’ and that ‘it is scarcely fair or reasonable to judge it by those strict rules of criticism which would be justly applicable to a five-act tragedy or a finished comedy.’ There is no doubt that the merits of the play were based upon the songs set to Hullah’s music rather than upon the play itself, and it is said that Harley’s reputation as a vocalist was established by his able rendering of them.
The Village Coquettes enjoyed a run of nineteen nights in London during the season, and was then transferred to Edinburgh, where it was performed under the management of Mr. Ramsay, a friend of Sir Walter Scott. Sala, as a boy of ten, witnessed its first representation in London, and ever retained a vivid impression of the event; while especial interest appertains to the fact that a copy of the play became the means of first bringing Dickens into personal communication with John Forster, his life-long friend and biographer. It is more than probable that ‘Boz’ felt a little elated by the reception accorded by the public to the ‘dramatic bantling,’ but as time progressed he realised that the somewhat unfavourable comments of the critics were not entirely devoid of truth. Indeed, when in 1843 it was proposed to revive the play, he expressed a hope that it might be allowed ‘to sink into its native obscurity.’ ‘I did it,’ he explained, ‘in a fit of damnable good-nature long ago, for Hullah, who wrote some very pretty music to it. I just put down for everybody what everybody at the St. James’s Theatre wanted to say and do, and what they could say and do best, and I have been most sincerely repentant ever since.’ The novelist confessed that both the operetta and a little farce called The Strange Gentleman (the latter written as ‘a practical joke’ for the St. James’s Theatre about the same time) were done ‘without the least consideration or regard to reputation’; he also declared that he ‘wouldn’t repeat them for a thousand pounds apiece,’ and devoutly wished these early dramatic efforts to be forgotten. À propos of this, the late Frederick Locker-Lampson has recorded that when he asked Dickens (about a year before the great writer’s death) whether he possessed a copy of The Village Coquettes, his reply was, ‘No; and if I knew it was in my house, and if I could not get rid of it in any other way, I would burn the wing of the house where it was!’
Although, perhaps, not of a high order of merit, The Village Coquettes is not without bibliographical interest, and may be regarded as a musical and literary curiosity. Copies of the first edition of the little play are now seldom met with, and whenever a perfect impression comes into the market it commands a good price, even as much as £10 or £12,—indeed, a particularly fine copy was sold at Sotheby’s in 1889 for twenty-five pounds. In 1878 the words of the opera were reprinted in facsimile by Richard Bentley, for which a frontispiece was etched by F. W. Pailthorpe a year later.
THE VILLAGE COQUETTES
Round
Hail to the merry Autumn days, when yellow corn-fields shine, Far brighter than the costly cup that holds the monarch’s wine! Hail to the merry harvest time, the gayest of the year, The time of rich and bounteous crops, rejoicing, and good cheer! ’Tis pleasant on a fine Spring morn to see the buds expand, ’Tis pleasant in the Summer time to view the teeming land; ’Tis pleasant on a Winter’s night to crouch around the blaze,— But what are joys like these, my boys, to Autumn’s merry days! Then hail to merry Autumn days, when yellow corn-fields shine, Far brighter than the costly cup that holds the monarch’s wine! And hail to merry harvest time, the gayest of the year, The time of rich and bounteous crops, rejoicing, and good cheer!
Lucy’s Song
Love is not a feeling to pass away, Like the balmy breath of a summer day; It is not—it cannot be—laid aside; It is not a thing to forget or hide. It clings to the heart, ah, woe is me! As the ivy clings to the old oak tree. Love is not a passion of earthly mould, As a thirst for honour, or fame, or gold: For when all these wishes have died away, The deep strong love of a brighter day, Though nourished in secret, consumes the more, As the slow rust eats to the iron’s core.
Squire Norton’s Song
That very wise head, old Æsop, said, The bow should be sometimes loose; Keep it tight for ever, the string you sever:— Let’s turn his old moral to use. The world forget, and let us yet, The glass our spirits buoying, Revel to-night in those moments bright Which make life worth enjoying. The cares of the day, old moralists say, Are quite enough to perplex one; Then drive to-day’s sorrow away till to-morrow, And then put it off till the next one. Chorus—The cares of the day, etc. Some plodding old crones, the heartless drones! Appeal to my cool reflection, And ask me whether such nights can ever Charm sober recollection. Yes, yes! I cry, I’ll grieve and die, When those I love forsake me; But while friends so dear surround me here, Let Care, if he can, o’ertake me. Chorus—The cares of the day, etc.
George Edmunds’ Song
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here; Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear! How like the hopes of childhood’s day, Thick clust’ring on the bough! How like those hopes in their decay— How faded are they now! Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here; Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear! Wither’d leaves, wither’d leaves, that fly before the gale: Withered leaves, withered leaves, ye tell a mournful tale, Of love once true, and friends once kind, And happy moments fled: Dispersed by every breath of wind, Forgotten, changed, or dead! Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here! Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
Rose’s Song
Some folks who have grown old and sour, Say love does nothing but annoy. The fact is, they have had their hour, So envy what they can’t enjoy. I like the glance—I like the sigh— That does of ardent passion tell! If some folks were as young as I, I’m sure they’d like it quite as well. Old maiden aunts so hate the men, So well know how wives are harried, It makes them sad—not jealous—when They see their poor dear nieces married. All men are fair and false, they know, And with deep sighs they assail ’em, It’s so long since they tried men, though, I rather think their mem’ries fail ’em.
Duet (Flam and Rose)
lam. ’Tis true I’m caressed by the witty, The envy of all the fine beaux, The pet of the court and the city, But still, I’m the lover of Rose. Rose. Country sweethearts, oh, how I despise! And oh! how delighted I am To think that I shine in the eyes Of the elegant—sweet—Mr. Flam. Flam. Allow me [offers to kiss her]. Rose. Pray don’t be so bold, sir [kisses her]. Flam. What sweets on that honey’d lip hang! Rose. Your presumption, I know, I should scold, sir, But I really can’t scold Mr. Flam. Both. Then let us be happy together, Content with the world as it goes, An unchangeable couple for ever, Mr. Flam and his beautiful Rose.
Squire Norton’s Song
The child and the old man sat alone In the quiet, peaceful shade Of the old green boughs, that had richly grown In the deep, thick forest glade. It was a soft and pleasant sound, That rustling of the oak; And the gentle breeze played lightly round, As thus the fair boy spoke:— ‘Dear father, what can honour be, Of which I hear men rave? Field, cell and cloister, land and sea, The tempest and the grave:— It lives in all, ’tis sought in each, ’Tis never heard or seen: Now tell me, father, I beseech, What can this honour mean?’ ‘It is a name—a name, my child,— It lived in other days, When men were rude, their passions wild, Their sport, thick battle-frays. When, in armour bright, the warrior bold Knelt to his lady’s eyes: Beneath the abbey pavement old That warrior’s dust now lies. ‘The iron hearts of that old day Have mouldered in the grave; And chivalry has passed away, With knights so true and brave; The honour, which to them was life, Throbs in no bosom now; It only gilds the gambler’s strife, Or decks the worthless vow.’
Duet (The Squire and Lucy)
Squire. In rich and lofty station shine, Before his jealous eyes; In golden splendour, lady mine, This peasant youth despise. Lucy [apart; the Squire regarding her attentively]. Oh! it would be revenge indeed, With scorn his glance to meet. I, I, his humble pleading heed! I’d spurn him from my feet. Squire. With love and rage her bosom’s torn, And rash the choice will be; Lucy. With love and rage my bosom’s torn, And rash the choice will be. Squire. From hence she quickly must be borne, Her home, her home, she’ll flee. Lucy. Oh! long shall I have cause to mourn My home, my home, for thee!
Sestet and Chorus
Young Benson. Turn him from the farm! From his home will you cast The old man who has tilled it for years! Ev’ry tree, ev’ry flower, is linked with the past, And a friend of his childhood appears. Turn him from the farm! O’er its grassy hillside, A gay boy he once loved to range; His boyhood has fled, and its dear friends are dead, But these meadows have never known change.
Edmunds. Oppressor, hear me! Lucy. On my knees I implore. Squire. I command it, and you will obey. Rose. Rise, dear Lucy, rise; you shall not kneel before The tyrant who drives us away. Squire. Your sorrows are useless, your prayers are in vain: I command it, and you will begone. I’ll hear no more. Edmunds. No, they shall not beg again Of a man whom I view with deep scorn. Flam. Do not yield. Young Benson. Squire. Lucy. Rose. } Leave the farm! Edmunds. Your pow’r I despise. Squire. And your threats, boy, I disregard too. Flam. Do not yield. Young Benson. Squire. Lucy. Rose. } Leave the farm!
Rose. If he leaves it, he dies. Edmunds. This base act, proud man, you shall rue. Young Benson. Turn him from the farm! From his home will you cast, The old man who has tilled it for years? Ev’ry tree, ev’ry flower, is linked with the past, And a friend of his childhood appears! Squire. Yes, yes, leave the farm! From his home I will cast The old man who has tilled it for years; Though each tree and flower is linked with the past, And a friend of his childhood appears. Chorus. He has turned from his farm! From his home he has cast The old man who has tilled it for years; Though each tree and flower is linked with the past, And a friend of his childhood appears.
Quartet
Squire. Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own Through all changes Fortune may make; The base charge of falsehood I never have known; This promise I never will break. Rose and Lucy. { Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own Through all changes Fortune may make. Rose and Lucy. { The base charge of falsehood he never has known; This promise he never will break. [Enter Young Benson.] Young Benson. My sister here! Lucy! begone, I command. Squire. To your home I restore you again. Young Benson. No boon I’ll accept from that treacherous hand As the price of my fair sister’s fame. Squire. To your home! Young Benson [to Lucy]. Hence away! Lucy. Brother dear, I obey. Squire. I restore. Young Benson. Hence away! Young Benson, Rose, and Lucy. } Let us leave. Lucy. He swears it, dear brother. Squire. I swear it. Young Benson. Away! Squire. I swear it. Young Benson. You swear to deceive. Squire. Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own Through all changes Fortune may make. Lucy and Rose. { Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own Through all changes Fortune may make. Young Benson. Hear him swear, hear him swear, that the farm is our own Through all changes Fortune may make. Squire. The base charge of falsehood I never have known, This promise I never will break. Lucy and Rose. { The base charge of falsehood he never has known, This promise he never will break. Young Benson. The base charge of falsehood he often has known, This promise he surely will break.
Squire Norton’s Song
There’s a charm in Spring, when ev’rything Is bursting from the ground; When pleasant show’rs bring forth the flow’rs And all is life around. In summer day, the fragrant hay Most sweetly scents the breeze; And all is still, save murm’ring rill, Or sound of humming bees. Old Autumn comes;—with trusty gun In quest of birds we roam: Unerring aim, we mark the game, And proudly bear it home. A winter’s night has its delight, Well warmed to bed we go: A winter’s day, we’re blithe and gay, Snipe-shooting in the snow. A country life, without the strife And noisy din of town, Is all I need, I take no heed Of splendour or renown. And when I die, oh, let me lie Where trees above me wave; Let wild plants bloom around my tomb, My quiet country grave!
Young Benson’s Song
My fair home is no longer mine; From its roof-tree I’m driven away. Alas! who will tend the old vine, Which I planted in infancy’s day! The garden, the beautiful flowers, The oak with its branches on high, Dear friends of my happiest hours, Among thee I long hoped to die. The briar, the moss, and the bramble, Along the green paths will run wild: The paths where I once used to ramble, An innocent, light-hearted child.
Duet (The Squire and Edmunds)
Squire. Listen, though I do not fear you, Listen to me, ere we part. Edmunds. List to you! Yes, I will hear you. Squire. Yours alone is Lucy’s heart, I swear it, by that Heav’n above me. Edmunds. What! can I believe my ears! Could I hope that she still loves me? Squire. Banish all these doubts and fears, If a love were e’er worth gaining, If love were ever fond and true, No disguise or passion feigning, Such is her young love for you. Squire. Listen, though I do not fear you, Listen to me, ere we part. Edmunds. List to you! yes, I will hear you, Mine alone is her young heart.
Lucy’s Song
How beautiful at eventide To see the twilight shadows pale, Steal o’er the landscape, far and wide, O’er stream and meadow, mound and dale. How soft is Nature’s calm repose When ev’ning skies their cool dews weep: The gentlest wind more gently blows, As if to soothe her in her sleep! The gay morn breaks, Mists roll away, All Nature awakes To glorious day. In my breast alone Dark shadows remain; The peace it has known It can never regain.
Chorus
Join the dance, with step as light As ev’ry heart should be to-night; Music, shake the lofty dome, In honour of our Harvest Home. Join the dance, and banish care, All are young, and gay, and fair; Even age has youthful grown, In honour of our Harvest Home. Join the dance, bright faces beam, Sweet lips smile, and dark eyes gleam; All these charms have hither come, In honour of our Harvest Home. Join the dance, with step as light, As ev’ry heart should be to-night; Music shake the lofty dome In honour of our Harvest Home.
Quintet
No light bound Of stag or timid hare, O’er the ground Where startled herds repair, Do we prize So high, or hold so dear, As the eyes That light our pleasures here. No cool breeze That gently plays by night, O’er calm seas, Whose waters glisten bright; No soft moan That sighs across the lea, Harvest Home, Is half so sweet as thee!