X.
My heart is full--my trunks as well; My mind and caps made up, My corsets shap’d by Mrs. Bell, Are promised ere I sup; With boots and shoes, Rivarta’s best, And dresses by Ducé, And a special license in my chest-- I’m going to Bombay!
JOHN JONES.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
“I saw the iron enter into his soul.”--STERNE.
John Jones he was a builder’s clerk, On ninety pounds a year, Before his head was engine-turn’d To be an engineer!
For, finding that the iron roads Were quite the public tale, Like Robin Redbreast, all his heart Was set upon a rail.
But oh! his schemes all ended ill, As schemes must come to nought, With men who try to make short cuts, When cut with something short.
His altitudes he did not take, Like any other elf; But first a spirit-level took, That levelled him, himself.
Then getting up, from left to right So many tacks he made, The ground he meant to go upon Got very well survey’d.
How crows may fly he did not care A single fig to know;-- He wish’d to make an iron road, And not an iron crow.
So, going to the Rose and Crown, To cut his studies short, The nearest way from _pint_ to _pint_, He found was through a quart.
According to this rule he plann’d His railroad o’er a cup; But when he came to lay it down, No soul would take it up!
Alas! not his the wily arts Of men as shrewd as rats, Who out of one sole _level_ make A precious lot of _flats_!
In vain from Z to crooked S, His devious line he show’d; Directors even seemed to wish For some directer road.
The writers of the public press All sneered at his design; And penny-a-liners wouldn’t give A penny for his line.
[Illustration: OVERTAKER AND UNDERTAKER.]
[Illustration: THE BATH GUIDE.]
Yet still he urged his darling scheme, In spite of all the fates; Until at last his zigzag ways Quite brought him into _straits_.
His money gone, of course he sank In debt from day to day,-- His way would not pay _him_--and so He could not pay his way.
Said he, “All parties run me down-- How bitter is my cup! My landlord is the only man That ever runs me up!
“And he begins to talk of scores, And will not draw a cork;”-- And then he rail’d at Fortune, since He could not rail at York!
The morrow, in a fatal noose They found him hanging fast; This sentence scribbled on the wall,-- “I’ve got my line at last!”
Twelve men upon the body sate, And thus, on oath, did say, “We find he got his _gruel_, ‘cause He couldn’t have his _way_!”
POMPEY’S GHOST.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
“Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same.”--COWPER.
’Twas twelve o’clock, not twelve at night, But twelve o’clock at noon, Because the sun was shining bright, And not the silver moon: A proper time for friends to call, Or Pots, or Penny Post; When, lo! as Phœbe sat at work, She saw her Pompey’s Ghost!
Now when a female has a call From people that are dead, Like Paris ladies, she receives Her visitors in bed: But Pompey’s Spirit could not come Like spirits that are white, Because he was a Blackamoor, And wouldn’t show at night!
But of all unexpected things That happen to us here, The most unpleasant is a rise In what is very dear: So Phœbe scream’d an awful scream, To prove the seaman’s text, That after black appearances, White squalls will follow next.
“Oh, Phœbe dear! oh, Phœbe dear! Don’t go to scream or faint; You think because I’m black I am The Devil, but I ain’t! Behind the heels of Lady Lambe I walk’d whilst I had breath; But that is past, and I am now A-walking after Death!
“No murder, though, I come to tell, By base and bloody crime; So, Phœbe dear, put off your fits Till some more fitting time; No Crowner, like a boatswain’s mate, My body need attack, With his round dozen to find out Why I have died so black.
“One Sunday, shortly after tea, My skin began to burn, As if I had in my inside A heater, like the urn. Delirious in the night I grew, And as I lay in bed, They say I gather’d all the wool You see upon my head.
“His Lordship for his doctor sent, My treatment to begin-- I wish that he had call’d him out, Before he call’d him in! For though to physic he was bred, And pass’d at Surgeons’ Hall, To make his post a sinecure He never cured at all!
“The doctor look’d about my breast, And then about my back, And then he shook his head and said, ‘Your case looks very black.’ And first he sent me hot cayenne, And then gamboge to swallow,-- But still my fever would not turn To Scarlet or to Yellow!
“With madder and with turmeric He made his next attack; But neither he nor all his drugs Could stop my dying black. At last I got so sick of life, And sick of being dosed, One Monday morning I gave up My physic and the ghost!
“Oh, Phœbe dear, what pain it was To sever every tie! You know black beetles feel as much As giants when they die-- And if there is a bridal bed, Or bride of little worth, It’s lying in a bed of mould, Along with Mother Earth.
“Alas! some happy, happy day In church I hoped to stand, And like a muff of sable skin Receive your lily hand; But sternly with that piebald match My fate untimely clashes-- For now, like Pompe-double-i, I’m sleeping in my ashes!
“And now farewell!--a last farewell! I’m wanted down below, And have but time enough to add One word before I go,-- In mourning crape and bombazine Ne’er spend your precious pelf-- Don’t go in black for me,--for I Can do it for myself.
“Henceforth within my grave I rest, But Death who there inherits, Allow’d my spirit leave to come, You seem’d so out of spirits; But do not sigh, and do not cry, By grief too much engross’d-- Nor, for a ghost of colour, turn The colour of a ghost!
“Again farewell, my Phœbe dear! Once more a last adieu! For I must make myself as scarce As swans of sable hue.” From black to grey, from grey to nought, The shape began to fade, And, like an egg, though not so white, The Ghost was newly laid!
TO MR. WRENCH AT THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE.[14]
Oh very pleasant Mr. Wrench,-- The first, upon the pit’s first bench, I’ve scrambled to my place, To hail thee on these summer boards With joy, even critic-craft affords, And watch thy welcome face!
Ere thou art come, how I rejoice To hear thy free and easy voice, Lounging about the slips; And then thy figure comes and owns The voice as careless as the tones That saunter from thy lips.
Oh come and cast a quiet glance, To glad a nameless friend, askance The lamps’ ascending glare; Better it is than bended knees, Heart-squeezing, and profound congés-- That old familiar air.
Even in the street, in that apt face, Full of gay gravity, I trace The soul of native whim; A constant, never-failing store Of quiet mirth, that ne’er runs o’er, But aye is near the brim.
Quoth I, “There goes a happy wight, Inimical to spleen and spite, And careless of all care; Who oils the ruffled waves of strife, And makes the work-day suit of life Of very easy wear.
Lord! if he had some people’s ills To cope--their hungry bonds and bills, How faintly they would tease; Things that have cost both tears and sighs-- Their foes, as motelings in his eyes-- Their duns, his summer fleas!
The stage, I guess, is not thy school-- Thou dost not antic like the fool That wept behind his mask; Thy playing is thy play--a sport-- A revel, as perform’d at Court, And not a trade--a task!
Gay _Freeman_, art thou hired for _him_? No--‘tis thy humour and thy whim To be that easy guest; Whereas whoever plays for pelf, (Like Bennett) only gives _him_-self, Or _her_--like Mrs. West!
Nay, thou--to look beyond the stage, Thy life is but another page Continued of the play; The same companionable sprite-- Thy whim and pleasantry by night Are with thee in the day!
LOVE, WITH A WITNESS.
He has shav’d off his whiskers and blacken’d his brows, Wears a patch and a wig of false hair,-- But it’s him--Oh it’s him!--we exchanged lovers’ vows, When I lived up in Cavendish Square.
He had beautiful eyes, and his lips were the same, And his voice was as soft as a flute-- Like a Lord or a Marquis he look’d when he came, To make love in his master’s best suit.
If I lived for a thousand long years from my birth, I shall never forget what he told; How he lov’d me beyond the rich women of earth, With their jewels and silver and gold?
When he kiss’d me and bade me adieu with a sigh, By the light of the sweetest of moons, Oh how little I dreamt I was bidding good-bye To my Missis’s tea-pot and spoons!
LINES BY A SCHOOL-BOY.
When I was first a scholar, I went to Dr. Monk, And elephant-like I had, sir, a cake put in my trunk; The Rev. Doctor Monk, sir, was very grave and prim, He stood full six foot high, sir, and we all looked up to him.
They didn’t pinch and starve us, as here they do at York, For every boy was ask’d, sir, to bring a knife and fork. And then I had a chum too, to fag and all of that, I made him sum up my sums too, and eat up all my fat.
For goodness we had prizes, and birch for doing ill, But none of the Birch that visits the bottom of Cornhill. And we’d half a dozen ushers to teach us Latin and Greek, And all we’d got in our heads, sir, was combed out once a week.
And then we had a shop, too, for lollipops and squibs, Where I often had a lick, sir, at Buonaparty’s ribs! Oh! if I was at Clapham, at my old school again, In the rod I could fancy honey, and sugar in the cane.
ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON
ON HER RETURN TO THE STAGE.
“It was Maria!-- And better fate did Maria deserve than to have her banns forbid-- She had, since that, she told me, strayed as far as Rome, and walked round St. Peter’s once--and returned back--.”
_See the whole story in Sterne and the newspapers._
Thou art come back again to the stage Quite as blooming as when thou didst leave it; And ’tis well for this fortunate age That thou didst not, by going off, grieve it! It is pleasant to see thee again-- Right pleasant to see thee, by Herclé, Unmolested by pea-colour’d Hayne! And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley!
Thy sweet foot, my Foote, is as light (Not _my_ Foote--I speak by correction) As the snow on some mountain at night, Or the snow that has long on thy neck shone. The Pit is in raptures to free thee, The Boxes impatient to greet thee, The Galleries quite clam’rous to see thee, And thy scenic relations to meet thee!
Ah, where was thy sacred retreat? Maria! ah, where hast thou been, With thy two little wandering Feet, Far away from all peace and pea-green! Far away from Fitzhardinge the bold, Far away from himself and his lot! I envy the place thou hast stroll’d, If a stroller thou art--which thou’rt not!
Sterne met thee, poor wandering thing, Methinks, at the close of the day-- When thy Billy had just slipp’d his string, And thy little dog quite gone astray-- He bade thee to sorrow no more-- He wish’d thee to lull thy distress In his bosom--he couldn’t do more, And a Christian could hardly do less!
Ah, me! for thy small plaintive pipe I fear we must look at thine eye-- That eye--forced so often to wipe That the handkerchief never got dry! Oh sure ’tis a barbarous deed To give pain to the feminine mind-- But the wooer that left thee to bleed Was a creature more killing than kind!
The man that could tread on a worm Is a brute--and inhuman to boot; But he merits a much harsher term That can wantonly tread on a Foote! Soft mercy and gentleness blend To make up a Quaker--but he That spurn’d thee could scarce be a _Friend_, Though he dealt in that Thou-ing of thee!
They that loved thee, Maria, have flown! The friends of the midsummer hour! But those friends now in anguish atone, And mourn o’er thy desolate bow’r. Friend Hayne, the Green Man, is quite out, Yea, utterly out of his bias; And the faithful Fitzhardinge, no doubt, Is counting his Ave Marias!
Ah, where wast thou driven away To feast on thy desolate woe? We have witness’d thy weeping in play, But none saw the earnest tears flow-- Perchance thou wert truly forlorn,-- Though none but the fairies could mark Where they hung upon some Berkeley thorn, Or the thistle in Burderop Park!
Ah, perhaps, when old age’s white snow Has silver’d the crown of Hayne’s nob-- For even the greenest will grow As hoary as “White-headed Bob--” He’ll wish, in the days of his prime, He had been rather kinder to one He hath left to the malice of Time-- A woman--so weak and undone!
ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ.,
THE GREAT LESSEE!
“_Rover._ Do you know, you villain, that I am this moment the greatest man living?”--WILD OATS.
Oh! Great Lessee! Great Manager! Great Man! Oh, Lord High Elliston! Immortal Pan Of all the pipes that play in Drury Lane! Macready’s master! Westminster’s high _Dane_ (As Galway Martin, in the House’s walls, Hamlet and Doctor Ireland justly calls) Friend to the sweet and ever-smiling Spring! Magician of the lamp and prompter’s ring! Drury’s Aladdin! Whipper-in of actors! Kicker of rebel preface-malefactors! Glass-blowers’ corrector! King of the cheque-taker! At once Great Leamington and Winston-Maker! Dramatic Bolter of plain Bunns and cakes! In silken _hose_ the most reform’d of _Rakes_! Oh, Lord High Elliston! lend me an ear! (Poole is away, and Williams shall keep clear) While I, in little slips of prose, not verse, Thy splendid course, as pattern-work, rehearse!
Bright was thy youth--thy manhood brighter still-- The greatest Romeo upon Holburn Hill-- Lightest comedian of the pleasant day, When Jordan threw her sunshine o’er a play! But these, though happy, were but subject-times, And no man cares for bottom-steps, that climbs-- Far from my wish it is to stifle down The hours that saw thee snatch the Surrey crown! Though now thy hand a mightier sceptre wields, Fair was thy reign in sweet St. George’s Fields. Dibdin was _Premier_--and a Golden _Age_ For a short time enrich’d the subject stage. Thou hadst, than other Kings, more peace-and-plenty; Ours but one Bench could boast, but thou hadst twenty; But the times changed--and Booth-acting no more Drew Rulers’ shillings to the gallery door. Thou didst, with bag and baggage, wander thence, Repentant, like thy neighbour Magdalens!
Next, the Olympic Games were tried, each feat Practised the most bewitching in Wych Street. Charles had his royal ribaldry restored, And in a downright neighbourhood drank and whored; Rochester there in dirty ways again Revell’d--and lived once more in Drury Lane: But thou, R. W., kept thy moral ways, Pit-lecturing ’twixt the farces and the plays, A lamplight Irving to the butcher-boys That soil’d the benches and that made a noise:-- “YOU,--in the back!--can scarcely hear a line! Down from those benches--butchers--they are MINE!”
Lastly--and thou wert built for it by nature!-- Crown’d was thy head in Drury Lane Th_eä_tre! Gentle George Robins saw that it was good, And renters cluck’d around thee in a brood. King thou wert made of Drury and of Kean! Of many a lady and of many a Queen! With Poole and Larpent was thy reign begun-- But now thou turnest from the Dead and Dun, Hook’s in thine eye, to write thy plays, no doubt, And Colman lives to cut the damnlets out!
Oh, worthy of the house! the King’s commission! Isn’t thy condition “a most bless’d condition?” Thou reignest over Winston, Kean, and all The very lofty and the very small-- Showest the plumbless Bunn the way to kick-- Keepest a Williams for thy veriest stick-- Seest a Vestris in her sweetest moments, Without the danger of newspaper comments-- Tellest Macready, as none dared before, Thine open mind from the half-open door!-- (Alas! I fear he has left Melpomene’s crown, To be a Boniface in Buxton town!)-- Thou holdst the watch, as half-price people know, And callest to them, to a moment,--“Go!” Teachest the sapient Sapio how to sing-- Hangest a cat most oddly by the wing--” Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot--and kiss’d The pearly whiteness of a Stephen’s wrist-- Kissing and pitying--tender and humane! “By heaven she loves me! Oh, it is too plain!” A sigh like this thy trembling passion slips, Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips!
Go on, Lessee! Go on, and prosper well! Fear not, though forty glass-blowers should rebel-- Show them how thou hast long befriended them, And teach Dubois _their_ treason to condemn! Go on! addressing pits in prose--and worse! Be long, be slow, be anything but terse-- Kiss to the gallery the hand that’s gloved-- Make Bunn the Great, and Winston the Beloved, Go on--and but in this reverse the thing, Walk backward with wax lights before the King-- Go on! Spring ever in thine eye! Go on! Hope’s favourite child! ethereal Elliston!
SHOOTING PAINS.
“The charge is prepared.”--MACHEATH.
If I shoot any more I’ll be shot, For ill-luck seems determined to star me, I have march’d the whole day With a gun--for no pay-- Zounds, I’d better have been in the army!
What matters Sir Christopher’s leave? To his manor I’m sorry I came yet! With confidence fraught, My two pointers I brought, But we are not a point towards game yet!
And that gamekeeper too, with advice! Of my course he has been a nice chalker, Not far, were his words, I could go without birds: If my legs could cry out, they’d cry “Walker!”
Not Hawker could find out a flaw,-- My appointments are modern and Mantony, And I’ve brought my own man, To mark down all he can, But I can’t find a mark for my Antony!
The partridges,--where can they lie? I have promised a leash to Miss Jervas, As the least I could do; But without even two To brace me,--I’m getting quite nervous!
To the pheasants--how well they’re preserved! My sport’s not a jot more beholden, As the birds are so shy, For my friends I must buy;-- And so send “silver pheasants and golden.”
I have tried ev’ry form for a hare, Every patch, every furze that could shroud her, With toil unrelax’d, Till my patience is tax’d, But I cannot be taxed for hare-powder.
I’ve been roaming for hours in three flats In the hope of a snipe for a snap at; But still vainly I court The percussioning sport, I find nothing for “setting my cap at!”
A woodcock,--this month is the time,-- Right and left I’ve made ready my lock for, With well-loaded double, But spite of my trouble, Neither barrel can I find a cock for!
A rabbit I should not despise, But they lurk in their burrows so lowly; This day’s the eleventh, It is not the seventh, But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.
For a mallard I’ve waded the marsh, And haunted each pool, and each lake--oh! Mine is not the luck, To obtain thee, O Duck, Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!
For a field-fare I’ve fared far a-field, Large or small I am never to sack bird, Not a thrush is so kind As to fly, and I find I may whistle myself for a blackbird!
I am angry, I’m hungry, I’m dry, Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded, And so weary an elf, I am sick of myself, And with Number One seem overloaded.
As well one might beat round St. Paul’s, And look out for a cock or a hen there; I have search’d round and round All the Baronet’s ground, But Sir Christopher hasn’t a wren there!
Joyce may talk of his excellent caps, But for nightcaps they set me desiring, And it’s really too bad, Not a shot I have had With Hall’s Powder, renown’d for “quick firing.”
If this is what people call sport, Oh! of sporting I can’t have a high sense, And there still remains one More mischance on my gun-- “Fined for shooting without any license.”
THE DUEL.
A SERIOUS BALLAD.
“Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay.”
In Brentford town, of old renown, There lived a Mister Bray, Who fell in love with Lucy Bell, And so did Mr. Clay.
To see her ride from Hammersmith, By all it was allow’d, Such fair outsides are seldom seen, Such Angels on a Cloud.
Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay, “You choose to rival me, And court Miss Bell, but there your court No thoroughfare shall be.
“Unless you now give up your suit, You may repent your love; I who have shot a pigeon match, Can shoot a turtle dove.
“So pray before you woo her more, Consider what you do; If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,-- I’ll pop it into you.”
Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray, “Your threats I quite explode; One who has been a volunteer Knows how to prime and load.
“And so I say to you unless Your passion quiet keeps, I who have shot and hit bulls’ eyes, May chance to hit a sheep’s.”
Now gold is oft for silver changed, And that for copper red; But these two went away to give Each other change for lead.
But first they sought a friend a-piece, This pleasant thought to give-- When they were dead, they thus should have Two seconds still to live.
To measure out the ground not long The seconds then forbore, And having taken one rash step They took a dozen more.
They next prepared each pistol-pan Against the deadly strife, By putting in the prime of death Against the prime of life.
Now all was ready for the foes, But when they took their stands, Fear made them tremble so they found They both were shaking hands.
Said Mr. C. to Mr. B., “Here one of us may fall, And like St. Paul’s Cathedral now, Be doom’d to have a ball.
“I do confess I did attach Misconduct to your name; If I withdraw the charge, will then Your ramrod do the same?”
Said Mr. B., “I do agree-- But think of Honour’s Courts! If we go off without a shot, There will be strange reports.
“But look, the morning now is bright, Though cloudy it begun; Why can’t we aim above, as if We had call’d out the sun?”
So up into the harmless air, Their bullets they did send; And may all other duels have That upshot in the end!
DOG-GREL VERSES, BY A POOR BLIND.
“Hark! hark! the dogs do bark, The beggars are coming...”--OLD BALLAD.
Oh what shall I do for a dog? Of sight I have not got a particle, Globe, Standard, or Sun, Times, Chronicle--none Can give _me_ a good leading article.
A Mastiff once led me about, But people appeared so to fear him-- I might have got pence Without his defence, But Charity would not come near him.
A Blood-hound was not much amiss, But instinct at last got the upper; And tracking Bill Soames, And thieves to their homes, I never could get home to supper.
A Fox-hound once served me as guide, A good one at hill and at valley; But day after day He led me astray, To follow a milk-woman’s tally.
A turnspit once did me good turns At going and crossing, and stopping; Till one day his breed Went off at full speed, To spit at a great fire in Wapping.
A Pointer once pointed my way, But did not turn out quite so pleasant, Each hour I’d a stop At a Poulterer’s shop To point at a very high pheasant.
A Pug did not suit me at all, The feature unluckily rose up; And folks took offence When offering pence, Because of his turning his nose up.
A Butcher once gave me a dog, That turn’d out the worst one of any; A Bull dog’s own pup, I got a toss up, Before he had brought me a penny.
My next was a Westminster Dog, From Aistrop the regular cadger; But, sightless, I saw He never would draw A blind man so well as a badger.
A greyhound I got by a swop, But, Lord! we soon came to divorces: He treated my strip Of cord like a slip, And left me to go my own courses.
A poodle once tow’d me along, But always we came to one harbour, To keep his curls smart, And shave his hind part, He constantly call’d on a barber.
My next was a Newfoundland brute, As big as a calf fit for slaughter; But my old cataract So truly he back’d I always fell into the water.
I once had a sheep-dog for guide, His worth did not value a button; I found it no go, A Smithfield Ducrow, To stand on four saddles of mutton.
My next was an Esquimaux dog, A dog that my bones ache to talk on, For picking his ways On cold frosty days He pick’d out the slides for a walk on.
Bijou was a lady-like dog, But vex’d me at night not a little, When tea-time was come She would not go home, Her tail had once trail’d a tin kettle.
I once had a sort of a Shock, And kiss’d a street post like a brother, And lost every tooth In learning this truth-- One blind cannot well lead another.
A terrier was far from a trump, He had one defect, and a thorough, I never could stir, ‘Od rabbit the cur! Without going into the Borough.
My next was Dalmatian, the dog! And led me in danger, oh crikey! By chasing horse heels, Between carriage wheels, Till I came upon boards that were spiky.
The next that I had was from Cross, And once was a favourite spaniel With Nero,[15] now dead, And so I was led Right up to his den like a Daniel.
A mongrel I tried, and he did, As far as the profit and lossing, Except that the kind Endangers the blind, The breed is so fond of a crossing.
A setter was quite to my taste, In alleys or streets broad or narrow, Till one day I met A very dead set, At a very dead horse in a barrow.
I once had a dog that went mad, And sorry I was that I got him; I came to a run, And a man with a gun Pepper’d _me_ when he ought to have shot him.
My profits have gone to the dogs, My trade has been such a deceiver, I fear that my aim Is a mere losing game, Unless I can find a Retriever.
“UP THE RHINE.”
Why, Tourist, why With Passports have to do? Pr’ythee stay at home and pass The Port and Sherry too.
Why, Tourist, why Embark for Rotterdam? Pr’ythee stay at home and take Thy Hollands in a dram.
Why, Tourist, why To foreign climes repair? Pr’ythee take thy German Flute, And breathe a German air.
Why, Tourist, why The Seven Mountains view? Any one at home can tint A hill with Prussian Blue.
Why, Tourist, why To old Colonia’s walls? Sure, to see a _Wrenish_ Dome, One needn’t leave St. Paul’s.
THE COMET.
AN ASTRONOMICAL ANECDOTE.
“I cannot fill up a blank better than with a short history of this self-same _Star_ling.”--STERNE’S SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY.
Amongst professors of astronomy, Adepts in the celestial economy, The name of H******l’s very often cited; And justly so, for he is hand and glove With ev’ry bright intelligence above; Indeed, it was his custom so to stop, That once upon a time he got be-knighted In his observatory thus coquetting With Venus--or with Juno gone astray, All sublunary matters quite forgetting In his flirtations with the winking stars,
## Acting the spy--it might be upon Mars--
A new André; Or, like a Tom of Coventry, sly peeping, At Dian sleeping: Or ogling thro’ his glass Some heavenly lass Tripping with pails along the Milky Way; Or Looking at that Wain of Charles the Martyr’s:-- Thus he was sitting, watchman of the sky, When lo! a something with a tail of flame Made him exclaim, “_My_ stars!”--he always puts that stress on _my_-- “_My_ stars and garters!”
“A comet, sure as I’m alive! A noble one as I should wish to view; It can’t be Halley’s though, _that_ is not due Till eighteen thirty-five. Magnificent!--how fine his fiery trail! Zounds! ’tis a pity, though he comes unsought-- Unask’d--unreckon’d,--in no human thought-- He ought--he ought--he ought To have been caught With scientific salt upon his tail!”
“I look’d no more for it, I do declare, Than the Great Bear! As sure as Tycho Brahe is dead, It really enter’d in my head No more than Berenice’s Hair!” Thus musing, Heaven’s Grand Inquisitor Sat gazing on the uninvited visitor Till John, the serving-man, came to the upper Regions, with “Please your Honour, come to supper.”
“Supper! good John, to-night I shall not sup Except on that phenomenon--look up!” “Not sup!” cried John, thinking with consternation That supping on a _star_ must be _star_vation, Or ev’n to batten On Ignes Fatui would never fatten. His visage seem’d to say, “that very odd is,” But still his master the same tune ran on, “I can’t come down,--go to the parlour, John, And say I’m supping with the heavenly bodies.”
“The heavenly bodies!” echoed John, “Ahem!” His mind still full of famishing alarms, “‘Zooks, if your Honour sups with _them_, In helping, somebody must make long arms!” He thought his master’s stomach was in danger, But still in the same tone replied the Knight, “Go down, John, go, I have no appetite, Say I’m engaged with a celestial stranger.”-- Quoth John, not much au fait in such affairs, “Wouldn’t the stranger take a bit down stairs?”
“No,” said the master, smiling and no wonder, At such a blunder, “The stranger is not quite the thing you think, He wants no meat or drink, And one may doubt quite reasonably whether He has a mouth, Seeing his head and tail are join’d together, Behold him,--there he is, John, in the South.”
John look’d up with his portentous eyes, Each rolling like a marble in its socket. At last the fiery tad-pole spies, And, full of Vauxhall reminiscences, cries, “A rare good rocket!”
“A what! A rocket, John! Far from it! What you behold, John, is a comet, One of those most eccentric things That in all ages Have puzzled sages And frighten’d kings; With fear of change that flaming meteor, John, Perplexes sovereigns, throughout its range”-- “Do he?” cried John; “Well, let him flare on, _I_ haven’t got no sovereigns to change!”
MORE HULLAH-BALOO.
“Loud as from numbers without number.”--MILTON.
“You may do it extempore, for it’s nothing but roaring.”--QUINCE.
Amongst the great inventions of this age, Which every other century surpasses, Is one,--just now the rage,-- Called “Singing for all Classes -- That is, for all the British millions, And billions, And quadrillions, Not to name _Quintilians_, That now, alas! have no more ear than asses, To learn to warble like the birds in June, In time and tune, Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses!
In fact, a sort of plan, Including gentleman as well as yokel, Public or private man, To call out a Militia,--only Vocal Instead of Local, And not designed for military follies, But keeping still within the civil border, To form with mouths in open order, And sing in volleys.
Whether this grand harmonic scheme Will ever get beyond a dream, And tend to British happiness and glory, Maybe no, and maybe yes, Is more than I pretend to guess-- However, here’s my story.
In one of those small, quiet streets, Where business retreats, To shun the daily bustle and the noise The shoppy Strand enjoys, But Law, Joint-Companies, and Life Assurance Find past endurance-- In one of those back streets, to Peace so dear, The other day, a ragged wight Began to sing with all his might, “_I have a silent sorrow here!_”
The place was lonely; not a creature stirred Except some little dingy bird; Or vagrant cur that sniffed along, Indifferent to the Son of Song; No truant errand-boy, or Doctor’s lad, No idle filch or lounging cad, No Pots encumbered with diurnal beer, No printer’s devil with an author’s proof, Or housemaid on an errand far aloof, Lingered the tattered Melodist to hear-- Who yet, confound him! bawled as loud As if he had to charm a London crowd, Singing beside the public way, Accompanied--instead of violin, Flute, or piano, chiming in-- By rumbling cab, and omnibus, and dray, A van with iron bars to play _staccato_, Or engine _obligato_-- In short, without one instrument vehicular (Not even a truck, to be particular), There stood the rogue and roared, Unasked and unencored, Enough to split the organs called auricular!
Heard in that quiet place, Devoted to a still and studious race, The noise was quite appalling! To seek a fitting simile and spin it, Appropriate to his calling, His voice had all Lablache’s _body_ in it; But oh! the scientific tone it lacked, And was, in fact, Only a forty-boatswain-power of bawling!
’Twas said, indeed, for want of vocal _nous_, The stage had banished him when he attempted it, For tho’ his voice completely filled the house, It also emptied it. However, there he stood Vociferous--a ragged don! And with his iron pipes laid on A row to all the neighbourhood.
In vain were sashes closed And doors against the persevering Stentor, Though brick, and glass, and solid oak opposed, Th’ intruding voice would enter, Heedless of ceremonial or decorum, Den, office, parlour, study, and sanctorum; Where clients and attorneys, rogues, and fools, Ladies, and masters who attended schools, Clerks, agents, all provided with their tools, Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools, With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before ’em-- How it did bore ’em!
Louder, and louder still, The fellow sang with horrible goodwill, Curses both loud and deep his sole gratuities, From scribes bewildered making many a flaw In deeds of law They had to draw; With dreadful incongruities In posting ledgers, making up accounts To large amounts, Or casting up annuities-- Stunned by that voice, so loud and hoarse, Against whose overwhelming force No in-voice stood a chance, of course!
The Actuary pshawed and pished, And knit his calculating brows, and wished The singer “a bad life”--a mental murther! The Clerk, resentful of a blot and blunder Wished the musician further, Poles distant--and no wonder! For Law and Harmony tend far asunder-- The Lady could not keep her temper calm, Because the sinner did not sing a psalm-- The Fiddler in the very same position As Hogarth’s chafed musician (Such prints require but cursory reminders) Came and made faces at the wretch beneath, And wishing for his foe between his teeth, (Like all impatient elves That spite themselves) Ground his own grinders.
But still with unrelenting note, Though not a copper came of it, in verity, The horrid fellow with the ragged coat, And iron throat, Heedless of present honour and prosperity, Sang like a Poet singing for posterity, In penniless reliance-- And, sure, the most immortal Man of Rhyme Never set Time More thoroughly at defiance!
From room to room, from floor to floor, From Number One to Twenty-four The Nuisance bellowed, till all patience lost, Down came Miss Frost, Expostulating at her open door-- “Peace, monster, peace! Where _is_ the New Police! I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray, Don’t stand there bawling, fellow, don’t! You really send my serious thoughts astray, Do--there’s a dear good man--do go away.” Says he, “I won’t!”
The spinster pulled her door to with a slam, That sounded like a wooden d--n, For so some moral people, strictly loth To swear in words, however up, Will crash a curse in setting down a cup, Or through a doorpost vent a banging oath-- In fact, this sort of physical transgression Is really no more difficult to trace Than in a given face _A very bad expression_.
However, in she went, Leaving the subject of her discontent To Mr. Jones’s Clerk at Number Ten; Who, throwing up the sash, With accents rash, Thus hailed the most vociferous of men: “Come, come, I say, old feller, stop your chant! I cannot write a sentence--no one can’t! So just pack up your trumps, And stir your stumps--” Says he, “I shan’t!”
Down went the sash As if devoted to “eternal smash,” (Another illustration Of acted imprecation), While close at hand, uncomfortably near, The independent voice, so loud and strong, And clanging like a gong, Roared out again the everlasting song, “I have a silent sorrow here!”
The thing was hard to stand! The Music-master could not stand it-- But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand As savage as a bandit, Made up directly to the tattered man, And thus in broken sentences began-- But playing first a prelude of grimace, Twisting his features to the strangest shapes, So that to guess his subject from his face, He meant to give a lecture upon apes--
“Com--com--I say! You go away! Into two parts my head you split-- My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit, When I do play-- You have no bis’ness in a place so still! Can you not come another day?” Says he--“I will.”
“No--no--you scream and bawl! You must not come at all! You have no rights, by rights, to beg-- You have not one off-leg-- You ought to work--you have not some complaint-- You are not cripple in your back or bones-- Your voice is strong enough to break some stones”-- Says he--“It ain’t!”
“I say you ought to labour! You are in a young case, You have not sixty years upon your face, To come and beg your neighbour, And discompose his music with a noise More worse than twenty boys-- Look what a street it is for quiet! No cart to make a riot, No coach, no horses, no postilion, If you will sing, I say, it is not just, To sing so loud.”--Says he, “I MUST! I’M SINGING FOR THE MILLION!”
THERE’S NO ROMANCE IN THAT.
O days of old, O days of Knights, Of tourneys and of tilts, When love was balk’d and valour stalk’d On high heroic stilts-- Where are ye gone?--adventures cease, The world gets tame and flat,-- We’ve nothing now but New Police-- There’s no Romance in that!
I wish I ne’er had learn’d to read, Or Radcliffe how to write! That Scott had been a boor on Tweed, And Lewis cloister’d quite! Would I had never drunk so deep Of dear Miss Porter’s vat; I only turn to life, and weep-- There’s no Romance in that!
No Bandits lurk--no turban’d Turk To Tunis bears me off-- I hear no noises in the night Except my mother’s cough,-- No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house, No shape,--but owl or bat, Come flitting after moth or mouse,-- There’s no Romance in that!
I have not any grief profound, Or secrets to confess, My story would not fetch a pound For A. K. Newman’s press; Instead of looking thin and pale, I’m growing red and fat, As if I lived on beef and ale-- There’s no Romance in that!
It’s very hard, by land or sea Some strange event I court, But nothing ever comes to me That’s worth a pen’s report: It really made my temper chafe, Each coast that I was at, I vow’d, and rail’d, and came home safe,-- There’s no Romance in that!
The only time I had a chance At Brighton one fine day, My chestnut mare began to prance, Took fright, and ran away; Alas! no Captain of the Tenth To stop my steed came pat; A Butcher caught the rein at length,-- There’s no Romance in that!
Love--even love--goes smoothly on A railway sort of track-- No flinty sire, no jealous Don! No hearts upon the rack; No Polydore, no Theodore-- His ugly name is Mat, Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more-- There’s no Romance in that!
He is not dark, he is not tall, His forehead’s rather low, He is not pensive--not at all, But smiles his teeth to show; He comes from Wales and yet in size Is really but a sprat; With sandy hair and greyish eyes-- There’s no Romance in that!
He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks, Or long sword hanging down; He dresses much like other folks, And commonly in brown; His collar he will not discard, Or give up his cravat, Lord Byron-like--he’s not a Bard-- There’s no Romance in that!
He’s rather bald, his sight is weak, He’s deaf in either drum; Without a lisp he cannot speak, But then--he’s worth a plum. He talks of stocks and three per cents. By way of private chat, Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rents,-- There’s no Romance in that!
I sing--no matter what I sing, Di Tanti--or Crudel, Tom Bowling, or God save the King, Di piacer--All’s Well; He knows no more about a voice For singing than a gnat-- And as to Music “has no choice,” There’s no Romance in that!
Of light guitar I cannot boast, He never serenades; He writes, and sends it by the post, He doesn’t bribe the maids: No stealth, no hempen ladder--no! He comes with loud rat-tat, That startles half of Bedford Row-- There’s no Romance in that!
He comes at nine in time to choose His coffee--just two cups, And talks with Pa about the news, Repeats debates, and sups. John helps him with his coat aright, And Jenkins hands his hat; My lover bows, and says good-night-- There’s no Romance in that!
I’ve long had Pa’s and Ma’s consent, My aunt she quite approves, My Brother wishes joy from Kent, None try to thwart our loves; On Tuesday reverend Mr. Mace Will make me Mrs. Pratt, Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place-- There’s no Romance in that!
THE PAINTER PUZZLED.
“Draw, Sir!”--_Old Play._
Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh, To figure in the catalogue And woo the public eye.
Something I must invent and paint; But, oh! my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives The answer Who and What?
Oh, for some happy hit! to throw The gazer in a trance; But _posé là_--there I am posed, As people say in France.
In vain I sit and strive to think, I find my head, alack! Painfully empty, still, just like A bottle “on the rack.”
In vain I task my barren brain Some new idea to catch, And tease my hair--ideas are shy Of “coming to the scratch.”
In vain I stare upon the air, No mental visions dawn; A blank my canvas still remains, And worse--a blank undrawn:
An “aching void” that mars my rest With one eternal hint, For, like the little goblin page, It still keeps crying “Tint!”
But what to tint? ay, there’s the rub, That plagues me all the while, As, Selkirk-like, I sit without A subject for my _i’le_.
“Invention’s seventh heaven” the bard Has written--but my case Persuades me that the creature dwells In quite another place.
Sniffing the lamp, the ancients thought, Demosthenes _must_ toil; But works of art are works indeed, And always “smell of oil.”
Yet painting pictures some folks think, Is merely play and fun; That what is on an easel set Must easily be done.
But, zounds! if they could sit in this Uneasy easy-chair, They’d very soon be glad enough To cut the camel’s hair.
Oh! who can tell the pang it is To sit as I this day-- With all my canvas spread, and yet Without an inch of way.
Till, mad at last to find I am Amongst such empty skullers, I feel that I could strike myself, But no--I’ll “strike my colours.”
A TRUE STORY.
Of all our pains, since man was curst, I mean of body, not the mental, To name the worst, among the worst, The dental sure is transcendental; Some bit of masticating bone, That ought to help to clear a shelf, But let its proper work alone, And only seems to gnaw itself; In fact, of any grave attack On victual there is little danger, ’Tis so like coming to the _rack_, As well as going to the manger.
Old Hunks--it seemed a fit retort Of justice on his grinding ways-- Possessed a grinder of the sort, That troubled all his latter days. The best of friends fall out, and so His teeth had done some years ago, Save some old stumps with ragged root, And they took turn about to shoot; If he drank any chilly liquor, They made it quite a point to throb; But if he warmed it on the hob, Why then they only twitched the quicker.
One tooth--I wonder such a tooth Had never killed him in his youth-- One tooth he had with many fangs, That shot at once as many pangs, It had an universal sting; One touch of that ecstatic stump Could jerk his limbs, and make him jump, Just like a puppet on a string; And what was worse than all, it had A way of making others bad. There is, as many know, a knack, With certain farming undertakers, And this same tooth pursued their track, By adding _achers_ still to _achers_!
One way there is, that has been judged A certain cure, but Hunks was loth To pay the fee, and quite begrudged To lose his tooth and money both; In fact, a dentist and the wheel Of Fortune are a kindred cast, For after all is drawn, you feel It’s paying for a blank at last; So Hunks went on from week to week, And kept his torment in his cheek. Oh! how it sometimes set him rocking, With that perpetual gnaw--gnaw--gnaw, His moans and groans were truly shocking And loud,--altho’ he held his jaw. Many a tug he gave his gum, And tooth, but still it would not come; Tho’ tied by string to some firm thing, He could not draw it, do his best, By draw’rs, although he tried a chest.
At last, but after much debating, He joined a score of mouths in waiting, Like his, to have their troubles out. Sad sight it was to look about At twenty faces making faces, With many a rampant trick and antic, For all were very horrid cases, And made their owners nearly frantic. A little wicket now and then Took one of these unhappy men, And out again the victim rushed, While eyes and mouth together gushed; At last arrived our hero’s turn, Who plunged his hands in both his pockets, And down he sat, prepared to learn How teeth are charmed to quit their sockets.
Those who have felt such operations, Alone can guess the sort of ache, When his old tooth began to break The thread of old associations; It touched a string in every part, It had so many tender ties; One chord seemed wrenching at his heart, And two were tugging at his eyes; “Bone of his bone,” he felt of course, As husbands do in such divorce; At last the fangs gave way a little Hunks gave his head a backward jerk, And to! the cause of all this work, Went--where it used to send his victual!
The monstrous pain of this proceeding Had not so numbed his miser wit, But in this slip he saw a hit To save, at least, his purse from bleeding; So when the dentist sought his fees, Quoth Hunks, “Let’s finish, if you please.” “How, finish! why it’s out!”--“Oh! no-- I’m none of your before-hand tippers, ’Tis you are out, to argue so; My tooth is in my head no doubt, But as you say you pulled it out, Of course it’s there--between your nippers.” “Zounds! sir, d’ye think I’d sell the truth To get a fee? no, wretch, I scorn it.” But Hunks still asked to see the tooth, And swore by gum! he had not drawn it.
His end obtained, he took his leave, A secret chuckle in his sleeve; The joke was worthy to produce one, To think, by favour of his wit, How well a dentist had been bit By one old stump, and that a loose one! The thing was worth a laugh, but mirth Is still the frailest thing on earth: Alas! how often when a joke Seems in our sleeve, and safe enough, There comes some unexpected stroke, And hangs a weeper on the cuff!
Hunks had not whistled half a mile, When, planted right against the stile, There stood his foeman, Mike Maloney, A vagrant reaper, Irish-born, That helped to reap our miser’s corn, But had not helped to reap his money, A fact that Hunks remembered quickly; His whistle all at once was quelled, And when he saw how Michael held His sickle, he felt rather sickly.
Nine souls in ten, with half his fright, Would soon have paid the bill at sight, But misers (let observers watch it) Will never part with their delight Till well demanded by a hatchet-- They live hard--and they die to match it. Thus Hunks, prepared for Mike’s attacking, Resolved not yet to pay the debt, But let him take it out in hacking; However, Mike began to stickle In word before he used the sickle; But mercy was not long attendant: From words at last he took to blows, And aimed a cut at Hunks’s nose; That made it what some folks are not-- A Member very independent.
Heaven knows how far this cruel trick Might still have led, but for a tramper That came in danger’s very nick, To put Maloney to the scamper. But still compassion met a damper; There lay the severed nose, alas! Beside the daisies on the grass, “Wee, crimson-tipt” as well as they, According to the poet’s lay: And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter! Away ran Hodge to get assistance, With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after, But somewhat at unusual distance. In many a little country place It is a very common case To have but one residing doctor, Whose practice rather seems to be No practice, but a rule of three, Physician--surgeon--drug-decocter; Thus Hunks was forced to go once more Where he had ta’en his tooth before. His mere name made the learnëd man hot-- “What! Hunks again within my door! I’ll pull his nose;” quoth Hunks, “you cannot.”
The doctor looked and saw the case Plain as the nose _not_ on his face. “O! hum--ha--yes--I understand.” But then arose a long demur, For not a finger would he stir Till he was paid his fee in hand; That matter settled, there they were, With Hunks well strapped upon his chair.
The opening of a surgeon’s job-- His tools, a chestful or a drawful-- Are always something very awful, And give the heart the strangest throb; But never patient in his funks Looked half so like a ghost as Hunks, Or surgeon half so like a devil Prepared for some infernal revel: His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling, Just like a bolus in a box: His fury seemed above controlling, He bellowed like a hunted ox: “Now, swindling wretch, I’ll show thee how We treat such cheating knaves as thou; Oh! sweet is this revenge to sup; I have thee by the nose--it’s now My turn--and I will turn it up.”
Guess how the miser liked the scurvy And cruel way of venting passion; The snubbing folks in this new fashion Seemed quite to turn him topsy turvy; He uttered prayers, and groans, and curses, For things had often gone amiss And wrong with him before, but this Would be the worst of all _reverses_! In fancy he beheld his snout Turned upward like a pitcher’s spout; There was another grievance yet, And fancy did not fail to show it, That he must throw a summerset, Or stand upon his head to blow it.
And was there then no argument To change the doctor’s vile intent, And move his pity?--yes, in truth, And that was--paying for the tooth. “Zounds! pay for such a stump! I’d rather--” But here the menace went no farther, For with his other ways of pinching, Hunks had a miser’s love of snuff, A recollection strong enough To cause a very serious flinching; In short he paid and had the feature Replaced as it was meant by nature; For tho’ by this ’twas cold to handle, (No corpse’s could have felt more horrid,) And white just like an end of candle, The doctor deemed and proved it too, That noses from the nose will do As well as noses from the forehead; So, fixed by dint of rag and lint, The part was bandaged up and muffled. The chair unfastened, Hunks arose, And shuffled out, for once unshuffled; And as he went, these words he snuffled-- “Well, this _is_ ‘paying thro’ the nose.’”
THE LOGICIANS.
AN ILLUSTRATION.
“Metaphysics were a large field in which to exercise the weapons logic had put into their hands--“--SCRIBLERUS.
See here two cavillers, Would-be unravellers Of abstruse theory and questions mystical In tête-à-tête, And deep debate, Wrangling according to form syllogistical.
Glowing and ruddy The light streams in upon their deep brown study, And settles on our bald logician’s skull: But still his meditative eye looks dull And muddy, For he is gazing inwardly, like Plato; But to the world without And things about, His eye is blind as that of a potato: In fact, logicians See but by syllogisms--taste and smell By propositions; And never let the common dray-horse senses Draw inferences. How wise his brow! how eloquent his nose! The feature of itself is a negation! How gravely double is his chin, that shows Double deliberation; His scornful lip forestalls the confutation! O this is he that wisely with a major And minor proves a greengage is no gauger!-- By help of ergo, That cheese of sage will make no mite the sager, And Taurus is no bull to toss up Virgo! O this is he that logically tore his Dog into dogmas--following Aristotle-- Cut up his cap into ten categories, And cork’d an abstract conjuror in a bottle! O this is he that disembodied matter, And proved that incorporeal corporations Put nothing in no platter, And for mock turtle only supp’d sensations! O this is he that palpably decided, With grave and mathematical precision How often atoms may be subdivided By long division; O this is he that show’d I is not I, And made a ghost of personal identity; Proved “Ipse” absent by an alibi, And frisking in some other person’s entity; He sounded all philosophies in truth, Whether old schemes or only supplemental;-- And had, by virtue of his wisdom-tooth, A dental knowledge of the transcendental!
The other is a shrewd severer wight, Sharp argument hath worn him nigh the bone: For why? he never let dispute alone, A logical knight-errant, That wrangled ever--morning, noon, and night, From night to morn; he had no wife apparent But Barbara Celárent! Woe unto him he caught in a dilemma, For on the point of his two fingers full He took the luckless wight, and gave with them a Most deadly toss, like any baited bull. Woe unto him that ever dared to breathe A sophism in his angry ear! for _that_ He took ferociously between his teeth, And shook it--like a terrier with a rat!-- In fact old Controversy ne’er begat One half so cruel And dangerous as he, in verbal duel! No one had ever so complete a fame As a debater; And for art logical his name was greater Than Dr. Watts’s name!--
Look how they sit together! Two bitter desperate antagonists, Licking each other with their tongues, like fists, Merely to settle whether This world of ours had ever a beginning-- Whether created, Vaguely undated, Or time had any finger in its spinning: When, lo!--for they are sitting at the basement-- A hand, like that upon Belshazzar’s wall, Lets fall A written paper through the open casement.
“O foolish wits! (thus runs the document) To twist your brains into a double knot On such a barren question! Be content That there is such a fair and pleasant spot For your enjoyment as this verdant earth. Go eat and drink, and give your hearts to mirth, For vainly ye contend; Before you can decide about its birth, The world will have an end!”
LITTLE O’P.--AN AFRICAN FACT.
It was July the First, and the great hill of Howth Was bearing by compass sow-west and by south, And the name of the ship was the Peggy of Cork, Well freighted with bacon and butter and pork. Now, this ship had a captain, Macmorris by name, And little O’Patrick was mate of the same; For Bristol they sailed, but by nautical scope, They contrived to be lost by the Cape of Good Hope. Of all the Cork boys that the vessel could boast, Only little O’P. made a swim to the coast; And when he revived from a sort of a trance, He saw a big Black with a very long lance. Says the savage, says he, in some Hottentot tongue, “Bash Kuku my gimmel bo gumborry bung!” Then blew a long shell, to the fright of our elf, And down came a hundred as black as himself. They brought with them _guattul_, and pieces of _klam_, The first was like beef, and the second like lamb; “Don’t I know,” said O’P., “what the wretches are at? They’re intending to eat me as soon as I’m fat!” In terror of coming to pan, spit, or pot, His rations of _jarbul_ he suffered to rot; He would not touch _purry_ or _doolberry-lik_, But kept himself _growing_ as thin as a stick. Though broiling the climate, and parching with drouth, He would not let _chobbery_ enter his mouth, But kicked down the _krug_ shell, tho’ sweetened with _natt_,-- “I an’t to be pisoned the likes of a rat!” At last the great _Joddry_ got quite in a rage, And cried, “O mi pitticum dambally nage! The _chobbery_ take, and put back on the shelf, Or give me the _krug_ shell, I’ll drink it myself! The _doolberry-lik_ is the best to be had, And the _purry_ (I chewed it myself) is not bad; The _jarbul_ is fresh, for I saw it cut out, And the _Bok_ that it came from is grazing about. My _jumbo_! but run off to Billery Nang, And tell her to put on her _jigger_ and _tang_, And go with the _Bloss_ to the man of the sea, And say that she comes as his _Wulwul_ from me.” Now Billery Nang was as Black as a sweep, With thick curly hair like the wool of a sheep, And the moment he spied her, said little O’P., “Sure the Divil is dead, and his Widow’s at me!” But when, in the blaze of her Hottentot charms, She came to accept him for life in her arms, And stretched her thick lips to a broad grin of love, A Raven preparing to bill like a Dove, With a soul full of dread he declined the grim bliss, Stopped her Molyneux arms, and eluded her kiss; At last, fairly foiled, she gave up the attack, And _Joddry_ began to look blacker than black; “By Mumbo! by Jumbo!--why here is a man, That won’t be made happy, do all that I can; He will not be married, lodged, clad, and well fed, Let the _Rham_ take his _shangwang_ and chop off his head!”
THE ASSISTANT DRAPERS’ PETITION.
Pity the sorrows of a class of men, Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity; No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen, But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality.
Oppress’d and discontented with our lot, Amongst the clamorous we take our station A host of Ribbon Men--yet is there not One piece of Irish in our agitation.
We do revere Her Majesty the Queen; We venerate our Glorious Constitution: We joy King William’s advent should have been, And only want a Counter Resolution.
Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure, ’Tis not Lord Melbourne’s counsel to the throne, Tis not this Bill, or that, gives us displeasure, The measures we dislike are all our own.
The Cash Law the “Great Western” loves to name, The tone our foreign policy pervading; The Corn Laws--none of these we care to blame, Our evils we refer to over-trading.
By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn; We reverence the Church--but hang the cloth! We love her ministers--but curse the lawn! We have, alas! too much to do with both!
We love the sex:--to serve them is a bliss! We trust they find us civil, never surly; All that we hope of female friends is this, That their last linen may be wanted early.
Ah! who can tell the miseries of men That serve the very cheapest shops in town? Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten, Knock’d up by ladies beating of ’em down!
But has not Hamlet his opinion given-- O Hamlet had a heart for Drapers’ servants! “That custom is”--say custom after seven-- “More honour’d in the breach than the observance.”
O come then, gentle ladies, come in time, O’erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves; Torment us all until the seventh chime, But let us have the remnant to ourselves!
We wish of knowledge to lay in a stock, And not remain in ignorance incurable;-- To study Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden, Locke, And other fabrics that have proved so durable.
We long for thoughts of intellectual kind, And not to go bewilder’d to our beds; With stuff and fustian taking up the mind, And pins and needles running in our heads!
For oh! the brain gets very dull and dry, Selling from morn till night for cash or credit; Or with a vacant face and vacant eye, Watching cheap prints that Knight did never edit.
Till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme, We often think when we are dull and vapoury, The bliss of Paradise was so supreme, Because that Adam did not deal in drapery.
SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION.
“An indifference to tears, and blood, and human suffering, that could only belong to a _Boney-parte_.--_Life of Napoleon._
Time was, I always had a drop For any tale of sigh or sorrow; My handkerchief I used to sop Till often I was forced to borrow; I don’t know how it is, but now My eyelids seldom want a-drying; The doctor, p’rhaps, could tell me how-- I fear my heart is ossifying!
O’er Goethe how I used to weep, With turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet, When Werter put himself to sleep With pistols kiss’d and clean’d by Charlotte; Self-murder is an awful sin, No joke there is in bullets flying, But now at such a tale I grin-- I fear my heart is ossifying!
The Drama once could shake and thrill My nerves, and set my tears a-stealing, The Siddons then could turn at will Each plug upon the main of feeling; At Belvidera now I smile, And laugh while Mrs. Haller’s crying; ’Tis odd, so great a change of style-- I fear my heart is ossifying!
That heart was such--some years ago, To see a beggar quite would shock it, And in his hat I used to throw The quarter’s savings of my pocket: I never wish--as I did _then_!-- The means from my own purse supplying, To turn them all to gentlemen-- I fear my heart is ossifying!
We’ve had some serious things of late, Our sympathies to beg or borrow,
[Illustration: “DOG-BERRY.”]
[Illustration: THE LAST CUT.]
New melo-drames, of tragic fate, And acts, and songs, and tales of sorrow; Miss Zouch’s case, our eyes to melt, And sundry actors sad good-bye-ing, But Lord!--so little have I felt, I’m sure my heart is ossifying!
A CUSTOM-HOUSE BREEZE.
One day--no matter for the month or year, A Calais packet, just come over, And safely moor’d within the pier, Began to land her passengers at Dover; All glad to end a voyage long and rough. And during which, Through roll and pitch, The Ocean-King had _sick_ophants enough!
Away, as fast as they could walk or run, Eager for steady rooms and quiet meals, With bundles, bags, and boxes at their heels, Away the passengers all went but one, A female, who from some mysterious check, Still linger’d on the steamer’s deck, As if she did not care for land a tittle, For horizontal rooms, and cleanly victual-- Or nervously afraid to put Her foot Into an Isle described as “tight and little.”
In vain commissioner and touter, Porter and waiter throng’d about her; Boring, as such officials only bore-- In spite of rope and barrow, knot and truck, Of plank and ladder, there she stuck, She couldn’t, no, she wouldn’t go on shore.
“But, ma’am,” the steward interfered, “The wessel must be cleared. You mustn’t stay aboard, ma’am, no one don’t! It’s quite agin the orders so to do-- And all the passengers is gone but you.” Says she, “I cannot go ashore and won’t!” “You ought to!” “But I can’t!” “You must!” “I shan’t!”
At last, attracted by the racket, ’Twixt gown and jacket, The captain came himself, and cap in hand, Begg’d very civilly to understand Wherefore the lady could not leave the packet.
“Why then,” the lady whispered with a shiver, That made the accents quiver, “I’ve got some foreign silks about me pinn’d, In short, so many things, all contraband, To tell the truth I am afraid to land, In such a _searching_ wind!”
[Illustration]
_Duncan Grant & Co., Printers, Edinburgh._
* * * * *
THOMAS HOOD’S WORKS.
HOOD’S WORKS. Complete in 10 vols. All the Writings of the Author of the “Song of the Shirt” (“Hood’s Own” First and Second Series included). With all the original Cuts by Cruikshank, Leech, &c. A complete re-issue. In 10 vols., crown 8vo, cloth, 50s.; half calf, 70s.; half morocco, 70s.
COMPLETE EDITION OF HOOD’S POETICAL WORKS IN TWO VOLUMES.
1. HOOD’S SERIOUS POEMS. A New and Complete Edition, with full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 5s.
2. HOOD’S COMIC POEMS. A New and Complete Edition, with full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 5s.
⁂ _These two volumes contain the entire poems of the late THOMAS HOOD, which are now collected and issued complete for the first time._
HOOD’S OWN; or, Laughter from Year to Year. First and Second Series in one vol., complete with all the original Illustrations by Cruikshank, Leech, &c. In entirely new and handsome binding. Now ready, new edition. Royal 8vo, cloth gilt, 10s. 6d.
HOOD’S OWN; or, Laughter from Year to Year. First Series. A new edition. In one vol. 8vo, illustrated by 350 Woodcuts. Cloth plain 7s. 6d.; gilt edges, 8s. 6d.
HOOD’S OWN. Second Series. In one vol., 8vo., illustrated by numerous Woodcuts. Cloth plain, 7s. 6d.; gilt edges, 8s. 6d.
HOOD’S POEMS. Twentieth Edition. In one vol., fcap. 8vo, cloth plain, 5s.
HOOD’S POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOUR. Sixteenth Edition. In one vol., fcap. 8vo, cloth plain, 3s. 6d.
HOOD’S WHIMS AND ODDITIES. In Prose and Verse. With 87 original designs. A new edition. In one vol., fcap. 8vo, cloth plain, 3s. 6d.
HOOD’S WHIMS AND ODDITIES AND WIT AND HUMOUR. With 87 original designs. In one vol., fcap. 8vo, 6s.
* * * * *
LONDON: E. MOXON, SON, & CO., 1 AMEN CORNER, PATERNOSTER ROW, E. C.
* * * * *
_New Books and New Editions._
Moxon’s Popular Poets.
Edited by WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI.
Crown 8vo, with Eight Illustrations, in elegant cloth gilt, gilt edges, 3_s._ 6_d._; morocco antique, 7_s._ 6_d._; ivory enamel, 7_s._ 6_d._; morocco extra, 10_s._ 6_d._; elegant tree calf, 10_s._ 6_d._
The Press and the Public, alike in Great Britain and her Colonies and in the United States, unite in their testimony to the immense superiority of Messrs. Moxon’s “Popular Poets” over any other similar Collections published by any other House. Their possession of the Copyright Works of Coleridge, Hood, Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, and other great National Poets, places this Series above rivalry.
_New Volume now ready._
21. =HOOD’S POETICAL WORKS.= Illustrated by GUSTAVE DORÉ and ALFRED THOMPSON. Second Series.
1. BYRON. 2. LONGFELLOW. 3. WORDSWORTH. 4. SCOTT. 5. SHELLEY. 6. MOORE. 7. HOOD. 8. KEATS. 9. COLERIDGE. 10. BURNS. 11. TUPPER. 12. MILTON. 13. CAMPBELL. 14. POPE. 15. COWPER. 16. HUMOROUS. 17. AMERICAN. 18. MRS. HEMANS. 19. THOMSON. 20. MISCELLANEOUS. [_In the Press._
=MOXON’S LIBRARY POETS.= The complete and continuing success of “Moxon’s Poets,” in the popular Three-and-Sixpenny Series, has induced the House to publish a LIBRARY EDITION of “Moxon’s Poets,” price Five Shillings per volume. Handsomely printed on good paper, either half Roxburghe or cloth, gilt edges. The Entire Series of the Popular Poets is now included in this issue.
_CHARLES LAMB’S WORKS.--CENTENARY EDITION._
Completed in Six Volumes. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, £2 2_s._ complete.
THE LIFE, LETTERS, AND WRITINGS OF CHARLES LAMB.
Edited by PERCY FITZGERALD, M.A., F.S.A.
This is the first Complete Edition of “Lamb’s Life and Writings” that has been offered to the public. The Memoir by Talfourd, with the “Final Memorials,” has been combined, while all the curious and interesting information that has come to light since he wrote has been added in the form of Notes, thus supplying a complete view of Lamb’s career. The letters have been placed with the rest of the correspondence, where also will be found many hitherto unprinted and uncollected letters. The miscellaneous pieces comprise many new articles in prose and verse, while a full Index to the Life, Works, and Letters will be given at the end of the last volume.
“A very charming biography, as well as a subtle and candid criticism on dear old Elia.”--_Standard._
_E. Moxon, Son, & Co., Dorset Buildings, Salisbury Square._
* * * * *
_New Books and New Editions._
E. MOXON, SON, & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS.
_By Express Permission of Her Most Gracious Majesty._
Just Published, A GRAND WORK ON THE ROYAL RESIDENCE, WINDSOR CASTLE.
WINDSOR CASTLE, Picturesque and Descriptive.
The Text by the late B. B. WOODWARD, B.A., F.S.A., Her Majesty’s Librarian at Windsor. Containing Twenty-three Permanent Photographs, Interior and Exterior Views, by the Heliotype Process. Large Folio, half bound morocco, gilt edges, 105_s._
NOW READY, A COMPLETE COLLECTION OF
THE PROSE WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Edited by the Rev. ALEXANDER B. GROSART.
⁂ Dedicated by Express Permission to Her Majesty, and, along with the dedication, a _Hitherto Unpublished Poem_ by Wordsworth, addressed to the Queen on sending a gift copy of his Poems to the Royal Library, Windsor. Three Vols., cloth, demy 8vo, 42_s._
NOW READY, A NEW EDITION OF
=EASTERN LIFE, Past and Present.= By HARRIET MARTINEAU. With New Preface by the Author, and Page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, 7_s._ 6_d._
=TENNYSON-DORÉ SERIES OF ILLUSTRATED BOOKS.= With Engravings on Steel from Drawings by GUSTAVE DORÉ. In cloth gilt, gilt edges.
THE IDYLLS OF THE KING. Thirty-seven Engravings. In one magnificent folio volume, 73_s._ 6_d._
ELAINE. Nine Engravings. Folio, 21_s._
ENID. Nine Engravings. Folio, 21_s._
VIVIEN. Nine Engravings. Folio, 21_s._
GUINEVERE. Nine Engravings. Folio, 21_s._
⁂ VIVIEN and GUINEVERE bound in One Vol., 42_s._
THE HOOD-DORE.
=THOMAS HOOD.= Illustrated by GUSTAVE DORÉ. With Nine Engravings on Steel, from Original Drawings by GUSTAVE DORÉ, and many Woodcut Illustrations, folio, cloth gilt, gilt edges, 21_s._
Just ready, the New and Only Complete Edition, in Ten Vols., crown 8vo, cloth gilt, price 50_s._; half calf, 70_s._; half morocco, 70_s._
=The Complete Works of Thomas Hood=, in Ten Volumes, containing all the Writings of this Popular Author (“HOOD’S OWN,” First and Second Series, HOOD’S COMIC and SERIOUS POEMS included), with all the Original Illustrations by CRUIKSHANK, LEECH, &c.
⁂ This Edition contains also the Memorials of THOMAS HOOD, Edited by his SON and DAUGHTER.
=Thomas Hood.= Illustrated by BIRKET FOSTER. First Series. With Engravings, 21_s._
=Thomas Hood.= Again Illustrated by BIRKET FOSTER. Large 4to, cloth gilt, gilt edges, 21_s._
_E. Moxon, Son, & Co., Dorset Buildings, Salisbury Square._
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Tarantula.
[2] The name of a well-known lion at that time in the Zoological Gardens.
[3] A word caught from some American Trader in passing.
[4] See the story of Sidi Nonman, in the “Arabian Nights.”
[5] Captain Kater, the moon’s surveyor.
[6] The doctor’s composition for a _night-cap_.
[7] “Since this poem was written, Doctor Ireland and those in authority under him have reduced the fares. It is gratifying to the English people to know that while butcher’s meat is rising tombs are falling.”--_Note in Third Edition._
[8] The daughter of William Harvey, the artist.
[9] Solomon Eagle.
[10] The late favourite of the King’s Theatre, who left the pas seul of life, for a perpetual _Ball_. Is not that her effigy now commonly borne about by the Italian image vendors--an ethereal form holding a wreath with both hands above her head--and her husband, in emblem, beneath her foot?
[11] Geysers:--the boiling springs in Iceland.
[12] Query, _purly_?--Printer’s Devil.
[13] This word is omitted in the later edition.
[14] The Adelphi.
[15] The name of the lion in the Zoological Gardens.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Comic Poems of Thomas Hood, by Thomas Hood