VIII.

But I from missals, quaintly bound, With either and with clavichord Will sing her songs of sovran sound: Belike her pity will afford Such faint return as suits a saint So sweetly done in verse and paint.

――――:o:――――

THE LEAF.

Those who have read Rossetti’s lines, commencing

“Torn from your parent bough, Poor leaf, all withered now, Where go you?”

will remember that he gives them as translated from Leopardi. It is, however, rather curious that Rossetti does not seem to have noticed that Leopardi headed his little poem “Imitazione” thus distinctly disclaiming the authorship.

The following is Leopardi’s version:――

IMITAZIONE.

Lungi dal proprio ramo, Povera foglia frale Dove vai tu? Dal faggio Là dov’ io nacqui, mi divise il vento. Esso, tornando, a volo Dal bosco alla campagna, Dalla valle mi porta alla montagna Seco perpetuamente; Vo pellegrino, e tutto l’altro ignoro. Vo dove ogni altra cosa Dove naturalmente Va la foglia di rosa E la foglia d’alloro.

Leopardi translated these lines from a collection of fables by A. V. Arnault, Paris, 1826, where they are styled:――

DE LA TIGE DÉTACHÉE.

Pauvre feuille desséchée, Ou vas-tu? Je n’en sais rien. L’orage a brisé le chêne Qui seul etait mon soutien. De son inconstante haleine Le zéphir ou l’acquilon Depuis ce jour me promène De la montagne à la plaine, De la forêt au vallon, Je vais où le vent me mène, Hélas! sans trop m’effrayer; Je vais où va toute chose, Où va la feuille de rose, Où va la feuille de laurier.

These lines had been previously translated into English, before Rossetti, by Macaulay, as follows:――

Thou poor leaf, so sear and frail, Sport of every wanton gale, Whence and whither dost thou fly Through this bleak autumnal sky? On a noble oak I grew, Green and broad and fair to view; But the monarch of the shade By the tempest low was laid. From that time I wandered o’er Wood and valley, hill and moor; Wheresoe’er the wind is blowing, Nothing caring, nothing knowing. Thither go I whither goes Glory’s laurel, Beauty’s rose.

Before leaving Rossetti mention must be made of a singular series of illustrated parodies which appeared in _Punch_, March 3, 10, 17, 24 and 31, 1866. The illustrations, by Du Maurier, seem to have been intended partly to ridicule Burne Jones’s style, and partly that of Rossetti; as to the poem, it is of the ultra weird and sensational ballad form, with a slight dash of the “Lady of Shalott” thrown in, and the inevitable refrain, popularly supposed to be inseparable from Pre-raffaelite art.

A LEGEND OF CAMELOT.

Tall _Braunighrindas_ left her bed At cock-crow with an aching head, _O Miserie!_

“I yearn to suffer and to do,” She cried, “ere sunset, something new! _O Miserie!_

“To do and suffer, ere I die, I care not what. I know not why. _O Miserie!_

“Some quest I crave to undertake, Or burden bear, or trouble make.” _O Miserie!_

She shook her hair about her form In waves of colour bright and warm. _O Miserie!_

It rolled and writhed and reached the floor; A silver wedding-ring she wore. _O Miserie!_

She left her tower, and wandered down Into the High street of the town. _O Miserie!_

Her pale feet glimmered, in and out, Like tombstones as she went about. _O Miserie!_

From right to left, and left to right; And blue veins streakt her insteps white; _O Miserie!_

And folks did ask her in the street “How fared it with her long pale feet?” _O Miserie!_

And blinkt, as though ’twere hard to bear The red-heat of her blazing hair! _O Miserie!_

Sir Galahad and Sir Launcelot Came hand in hand down Camelot; _O Miserie!_

Sir Gauwaine followed close behind; A weight hung heavy on his mind. _O Miserie!_

“Who knows this damsel, burning bright,” Quoth Launcelot “like a northern light?” _O Miserie!_

Quoth Sir Gauwaine: “I know her not!” “Who quoth you _did_?” Quoth Launcelot. _O Miserie!_

Then quoth the pure Sir Galahad; “She seems, methinks, but lightly clad!” _O Miserie!_

“Ah me!” sighed Launcelot where he stood, “I cannot fathom it!” … (Who could?) _O Miserie!_

* * * * *

――――:o:――――

The following beautiful sonnet written by Miss Christina Rossetti, sister of D. G. Rossetti, appears in “_Goblin Market and other Poems_,” published by Macmillan & Co., 1879:

REMEMBER.

Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for awhile And afterwards remember, do not grieve; For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

This appears to be almost the only poem by Miss Rossetti which has tempted the mocking-bird to sing.

REMEMBER.

Remember it, although you’re far away―― Too far away more fivers yet to land, When you no more can proffer notes of hand, Nor I half yearn to change my yea to nay. Remember, when no more in airy way, You tell me of repayment sagely planned: Only remember it, you understand! It’s rather late to counsel you to pay; Yet if you should remember for awhile, And then forget it wholly, I should grieve; For, though your light procrastinations leave Small remnants of the hope that once I had, Than that you should forget your debt and smile, I’d rather you’d remember and be sad.

_Judy._ April 18, 1888.

――――

DING DONG.

_By Rosina Christelli._

Ding Dong, Ding Dong, There goes the gong, Dick, come along, ’Tis time for dinner. Wash your face, Take your place, Where’s your grace You little sinner?

“Like an apple?” “Yes, I should. Nice, nice, nicey! Good, good, good!”

“Manners, Miss, Please behave. Those you ask Shan’t have.”

“Those who don’t, Don’t want. I’ll eat it, You shan’t.”

Baby cry, Wipe his eye. Baby good, Give him food. Baby sleepy, Go to bed. Baby naughty, Smack his head!

Poor little thrush, Found dead in a bush! When did he die? He is rather high. Bury him deep, He won’t keep. Bury him well, Or he’ll smell.

What have horns? Cows and moons. What have crests? Cocks and spoons. What are nice? Ducks and peas. What are nasty? Bites of fleas. What are fast? Tides and times. What are slow? Nursery Rhymes.

From _The Light Green_. Cambridge, W. Metcalf and Sons, 1872.

[Illustration]

WILLIAM MORRIS.

The author of “The Earthly Paradise” is much more than a mere poet, he is a thorough man of business, who works as an art designer, and lectures on the social improvement of the people. His poetry was thus amusingly criticised in _London_, 1877:――

RONDEL.

Behold the works of W. Morris, Epics, and here and there wall-papery, Mild, mooney, melancholy vapoury. A sort of Chaucer _minus_ Horace.

Spun out like those of William Loris, Who wrote of amourous red-tapery, Behold the works of W. Morris, Epics, and here and there wall-papery!

Long ladies, knights, and earles and choris- ters in the most appropriate drapery, Samite and silk and spotless napery, Sunflowers and apple-blossoms and orris, Behold the works of W. Morris!

――――

There are not many good parodies of Mr. Morris, the following is one of the best, though where it first appeared, or by whom it was written, cannot be stated:――

In the cushioned Abbey pew There is space for Me and You. Twine the blossoms in my hair; Never mind if people stare―― Never mind, for none knowèth If one flirteth after death!

Hark――the organ shakes the pew! Would it were for Me and You! Yea, I would indeed it were! Are they staring? Let them stare! Never mind, for none knowèth If one laugheth after death!

We will slumber in the pew―― I am weary, so are you, And the cushions in repair! Let the British public stare! Never mind, for none knowèth If one sleepeth after death!

――――

ALL SIDES OF THE RIVER.

_The Maidens._

We, with distaste, across the water wan, The broadcloth of our modern lovers scan; We each prefer a mediæval man.

_The Youths._

We would not reach you, if we could dry-shod; Not one of us would change, for even, his odd; The Girl we like not of the Period.

_The Mothers._

O daughters! make your markets while you can, For bloom soon groweth like the water wan; The early bird picks up the marrying man.

_The Maidens._

Perhaps, O lovers, if we did our hair _A la_ Medea, and if our garments were Draped classically, we should seem more fair.

_The Youths._

By doing this ye would not us befool; Medea! the idea makes our blood run cool, Besides of classics we’d enough at school.

_The Boys._

Come, I say, now, the girls can darn, and hem, And cook a chop, and clean a meerschaum-stem; Our sisters take, we are so tired of them.

_The Maidens._

Perhaps if ruffs around our necks were tied, Or you with idiotic stare we eyed All angles, with our heads upon one side, In short, the middle age style――

_The Widows._

Suitors! stay, We are less far from middle age than they.

_The Youths._

Maidens, we then to you would make our way.

_The Maidens_,

Cross ye the water wan, then,――

_Mr. Swinburne._

I demur To “water wan,” it comes too often, sir; Write next, as I should, rhyming, “wan water,”

_The Maidens._

Lovers, we pray you, gaining our consents, Let us, too, have _our_ mediæval bents, Give us, for cricket-matches, tournaments.

_The Widowers._

We are stout, nor will uncomfortably truss Our arms and legs, like fowls; no jousts for us, In armour we should look ridiculous.

_The Fathers._

Of money, tournaments would cost a heap: Humour your sweethearts, sons, with something cheap But look to settlements before you leap.

_The Youths._

O maidens! we in verse will call you queens, And publicly extol your minds and miens, Sending our poems to the magazines.

_The Maidens._

Sith of Life’s arches bloom hath shortest span, We will give up our mediæval man, And meet you half way in the water wan.

_The Editors._

Alas! the maidens have removed their ban, We, vex’d with verses vile, e’en when they scan, Shall very soon be as the water wan.

ANONYMOUS.

_Once a Week._ February 20, 1869.

――――

THE MONTHLY PARODIES.

AN APOLOGY. _After William Morris’s “Earthly Paradise.”_

Of Love or War this is no hour to sing, But I may ease the burden of your fears (Lest you think death to mirth is happening), And quote from wit of past and present years, Till o’er these pages you forget your tears, And smile again, as presently you say Some idle jingle――or forgotten lay.

But when a-weary of the hunt for mirth Thro’ comic journals, with a doleful sigh, You feel unkindly unto all the earth, And grudge the pennies that they cost to buy These “weakly comics,” lingering like to die, Remember, then, a little while, I pray, The clever singers of a former day.

The pomp and power and grand majestic air That marches thro’ their poems’ stately tread, These idle verses may catch unaware, And by burlesque call back remembered Some rhymes “that living not can ne’er be dead,” Though what is meant by that I cannot say―― But Mr. Morris wrote it one fine day.

Here grouped are strains of parody in rhyme, Now classified and placed in order straight, Let it suffice it for the present time That some be old, while some are born but late, A careful choice, from all the crowd that wait, Of those that in forgotten serials stay, Or are, in passing journals, tossed away.

Folks say a wizard to a common King, One April-tide such wondrous jest did show That in a mirror men beheld each thing, Like, yet unlike, and saw the pale nose glow, While rosy face looked white as fallen snow, Each visage altered in such comic way That those who came to court, remain’d to play.

So with these many Parodies it is, If you will read aright and carefully, Not scathing satire, nor malicious hiss For lack of beauty in the themes to see; Nor jeerings coarse, at what men prize, as we But jest to make some little changeling play Its pranks in classic robes, all crowned with bay.

GLEESON WHITE.

[Illustration]

OSCAR WILDE.

It would be useless to attempt to give any parodies on the poems of Mr. Oscar Wilde without prefacing them with some account, however brief, of his career. In a few of the skits the allusions are already out of date, and in a short time the reasons will be quite forgotten that led to the silly ridicule and misrepresentations of which Mr. Oscar Wilde, as the Apostle of Æstheticism, was formerly the object.

Mr. Oscar O’Flahertie Wills Wilde was born in Dublin on October 15, 1856. His father, Sir William R. Wilde, was an eminent surgeon, and a man of literary tastes and great archæological learning.

In 1851 Sir William (then Mr.) Wilde married a granddaughter of Archdeacon Elgee, of Wexford, a lady well known in literary circles in Dublin as having written many poems which were published in the _Nation_ newspaper at the time of the political excitement in 1848. They appeared over the _nom de plume_ “Speranza,” and were afterwards published in a collected form, entitled “Poems by Speranza.”

Mr. Oscar Wilde early developed talents such as might have been expected in the son of highly gifted parents. Having spent about a year at Portora Royal School, Enniskillen, Mr. Wilde studied for a year at Trinity College, Dublin, where he obtained a classical scholarship at the early age of sixteen, and in 1874, won the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek, the topic selected for that year being the Greek Comic Poets. Thence he went to Magdalen College, Oxford, where he obtained a first scholarship.

He soon began to show his taste for art and china, and before he had been at Oxford very long, his rooms were the show of the college, and of the university too. He was fortunate enough to obtain the best situated rooms in the college, on what is called the kitchen staircase, having a lovely view over the river Cherwell and the beautiful Magdalen walks, and Magdalen bridge. His rooms were three in number, and the walls were entirely panelled. The two sitting rooms were connected by an arch, where folding doors had at one time stood. His blue china was supposed by connoisseurs to be very valuable and fine, and there was plenty of it. He was hospitable, and on Sunday nights after “Common Room,” his rooms were generally the scene of conviviality, where undergraduates of all descriptions and tastes were to be met, drinking punch, or a B. and S. with their cigars. It was at one of these entertainments that he made his well-known remark, “Oh, that I could live up to my blue china!”

Besides minor scholarships, he took the Newdigate, a prize for English verse, in 1878, and a first in _Literis Humanioribus_, after which he took his degree.

During this period he produced a number of poems, these were published, some in _The Month_, others in the _Catholic Monitor_, and the _Irish Monthly_. A number of his short poems also appeared in _Kottabos_, a small magazine written by members of Trinity College, Dublin.

The first number of Mr. Edmund Yates’s _Time_, April 1879, contained a short poem by Oscar Wilde, entitled “The Conqueror of Time,” and to the July number he contributed “The New Helen.” Some of the foregoing poems, with others not previously published, appeared in a volume, entitled “Poems” by Oscar Wilde, published in 1881 by David Bogue, which speedily ran through several editions.

When referring to this volume in “The Æsthetic Movement in England” mention was made of Mr. Wilde’s exquisite little poem

REQUIESCAT.

Tread lightly, she is near, Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daises grow.

All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair, Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew.

Coffin board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone, SHE is at rest.

Peace, peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life’s buried here, Heap earth upon it.

concerning which Mr. G. A. Sala wrote to the Editor (on August 17, 1882.) “I note your book for a proximate ‘Echo.’ I have not read Oscar Wilde’s poems, but in the very sweet stanzas (‘Requiescat’) which you quote, I mark a singular passage:――

“All her bright golden air, Tarnished with rust.”

Golden hair (_experto crede_) does _not_ tarnish in the tomb. Read the last paragraph in Zola’s _Nana_, which physiologically, is astoundingly accurate.”

Faithfully always, _George Augustus Sala_.

The passage relating to the death of _Nana_ runs thus:―― “Et, sur ce masque horrible et grotesque du néant, les cheveux, les beaux cheveux gardant leur flambée de soleil, coulaient en un ruissellement d’or, Vénus se décomposait.”

It is also necessary to refer, here to Mr. Wilde’s career in the two other capacities he has assumed of _Art Lecturer_, and _Dress Reformer_.

The interest in the Æsthetic School had sometime since spread to the United States, and when the opera of _Patience_ was produced it occurred to Mr. Wilde that a visit to the States to give some lectures, explanatory of _real Æstheticism_ as it exists amongst us, might interest and possibly instruct and elevate our transatlantic cousins.

In some of his early utterances he was unguarded; he admitted, for instance, that he was not strongly impressed with the mighty ocean, and great was the flow of wit from this small cause:――

“There’s _Oscar Wilde_, that gifted chylde, Fair Poesie’s anointed, Has, like a brick, the Atlantic Crossed, to be disappointed. Poor Oscar Wilde, æsthetic chylde; The Atlantic ought to know it! A fault so grave to misbehave, And disappoint a poet!”

He went to Omaha, where, under the auspices of the Social Art Club, he delivered a lecture on “Decorative Art,” in the course of which he described his impressions of many American houses as being “illy designed, decorated shabbily, and in bad taste, and filled with furniture that was not honestly made, and was out of character.” This statement gave rise to the following verses:――

“What a shame and what a pity, In the streets of London City _Mr. Wilde_ is seen no more. Far from Piccadilly banished, He to Omaha has vanished, Horrid place, which _swells_ ignore.

On his back a coat he beareth, Such as Sir John Bennett weareth, Made of velvet――strange array! Legs _Apollo_ might have sighed for, Or great _Hercules_ have died for, His knee breeches now display.

Waving sunflower and lily, He calls all the houses “illy” Decorated and designed. For of taste they’ve not a tittle; They may chew and they may whittle; But they are all born colour blind!”

From the States he went to Canada, and thence to Nova Scotia, the Halifax _Morning Herald_ of October 10, 1882, gave an amusing account of an interview held with him by their own “Interviewer.” “The apostle had no lily, nor yet a sunflower. He wore a velvet jacket which seemed to be a good jacket. He had an ordinary necktie and wore a linen collar about number eighteen on a neck half a dozen sizes smaller. His legs were in trousers, and his boots were apparently the product of New York art, judging by their pointed toes. His hair is the colour of straw, slightly leonine, and when not looked after, goes climbing all over his features. Mr. Wilde was communicative and genial; he said he found Canada pleasant, but in answer to a question as to whether European or American women were the more beautiful, he dexterously evaded his querist.”

The remainder of the conversation was devoted to poetry; he expressed his opinion that Poe was the greatest American poet, and that Walt Whitman, if not a poet, is a man who sounds a strong note, perhaps neither prose nor poetry, but something of his own that is grand, original and unique.

On this topic _The Century_, for November, 1882, contained an exquisitely humorous poem written by Helen Gray Cone, describing an imaginary interview between Oscar Wilde and the great poetical Egotist――Walt Whitman. The style and diction of both are admirably hit off. The parody of Whitman reads, indeed, like an excerpt from his works.

Unfortunately, as the poem is very long, only an extract can be given:――

NARCISSUS IN CAMDEN.

(“_In the course of his lecture, Mr. Wilde remarked that the most impressive room he had yet entered in America was the one in Camden Town, where he met Walt Whitman. It contained plenty of fresh air and sunlight. On the table was a simple cruse of water._”)

_Paumanokides. Narcissus._

_Paumanokides_:

Who may this be? This young man clad unusually with loose locks, languorous, glidingly toward me advancing, Toward the ceiling of my chamber his orbic and expressive eyeballs uprolling, As I have seen the green-necked wild fowl, the mallard, in the thunderings of the storm, By the weedy shore of Paumanok my fish-shaped island, Sit down, young man! I do not know you, but I love you with burning intensity, I am he that loves the young men, whosoever and wheresoever they are or may be hereafter, or may have been any time in the past, Loves the eye-glassed literat, loves also and probably more the vendor of clams, raucous-throated, monotonous chanting, Loves the elevated Railroad employée of Manahatta, My city; I suppress the rest of the list of the persons I love, solely because I love you, Sit down, _élève_, I receive you!

_Narcissus._

O clarion, from whose brazen throat Strange sounds across the seas are blown, Where England, girt as with a moat, A strong sea-lion sits alone!

A pilgrim from that white-cliffed shore, What joy, large flower of Western land! To seek thy democratic door, With eager hand to clasp thy hand!

_Paumanokides._

Right you are! Take then the electric pressure of these fingers, O my Comrade!

* * * * *

Dear son, I have learned the secret of the Universe, I learned it from my original _bonne_, the white-capped ocean, The secret of the Universe is not Beauty, dear son, Nor is it Art, the perpetuator of Beauty, The secret of the Universe is to admire one’s self. Camerado, you hear me!

_Narcissus._

Ah, I too loitering on an eve of June Where one wan narciss leaned above a pool, While overhead Queen Dian rose too soon, And through the Tyrian clematis the cool Night avis came wandering wearily, I too, Beholding that pale flower, beheld Life’s key at last, and knew

That love of one’s fair self were but indeed Just worship of pure Beauty; and I gave One sweet sad sigh, then bade my fond eyes feed Upon the mirrored treasure of the wave, Like that lithe beauteous boy in Tempe’s vale, Whom hapless Echo loved――thou knowest the Heliconian tale!

And while heaven’s harmony in lake and gold Changed to a faint nocturne in silvern gray, Like rising sea-mists from my spirit rolled The grievous vapors of this Age of Clay, Beholding Beauty’s re-arisen Shrine, And the white glory of this precious loveliness of mine!

* * * * *

Haply in the far, the orient future, In the dawn we herald like the birds, Men shall read the legend of our meeting, Linger o’er the music of our words; Haply coming poets shall compare me Then to Milton in his lovely youth, Sitting in the cell of Galileo, Learning at his elder’s lips the truth. Haply they shall liken these dear moments, Safely held in History’s amber clear, Unto Dante’s converse bland with Virgil, On the margin of that gloomy mere!

_Paumanokides._

Do not be deceived, dear son; Amid the chorusses of the morn of progress, roaring, hilarious, those names will be heard no longer. Galileo was admirable once, Milton was admirable, Dante the _I_-talian was a cute man in his way, But he was not the maker of poems, the answerer! I, Paumanokides, am the maker of poems, the answerer, And I calculate to chant as long as the earth revolves, To an interminable audience of haughty, effusive, copious, gritty, and chipper Americanos!

_Narcissus._

What more is left to say or do? Our minds have met; our hands must part. I go to plant in pastures new The love of Beauty and of Art, I’ll shortly start. One town is rather small for two Like me and you!

_Paumanokides._

So long!

――――

_Punch_ also had a very funny burlesque description of

“OSCAR INTERVIEWED.

“_New York, Jan._, 1882.

“Determined to anticipate the rabble of penny-a-liners ready to pounce upon any distinguished foreigner who approaches our shores, and eager to assist a sensitive Poet in avoiding the impertinent curiosity and ill-bred insolence of the Professional Reporter, I took the fastest pilot-boat on the station, and boarded the splendid Cunard steamer, _The Boshnia_, in the shucking of a pea-nut.

“HIS ÆSTHETIC APPEARANCE.

“He stood, with his large hand passed through his long hair, against a high chimney-piece――which had been painted pea-green, with panels of peacock blue pottery let in at uneven intervals――one elbow on the high ledge, the other hand on his hip. He was dressed in a long, snuff-coloured, single-breasted coat, which reached to his heels, and was relieved with a seal-skin collar and cuffs rather the worse for wear. Frayed linen, and an orange silk handkerchief gave a note to the generally artistic colouring of the _ensemble_, while one small daisy drooped despondently in his button-hole.

“HIS GLORIOUS PAST.

“Precisely――I took the Newdigate. Oh! no doubt, every year some man gets the Newdigate; but not every year does Newdigate get an Oscar. Since then――barely three years, but centuries to such as I am――I have stood upon the steps of London Palaces――in South Kensington――and preached Æsthetic art. I have taught the wan beauty to wear nameless robes, have guided her limp limbs into sightless knots and curving festoons, while we sang of the sweet sad sin of Swinburne, or the lone delight of soft communion with Burne-Jones. Swinburne had made a name, and Burne-Jones had copied illuminations e’er the first silky down had fringed my upper lip, but the Trinity of Inner Brotherhood was not complete till I came forward, like the Asphodel from the wilds of Arcady, to join in sweet antiphonal counterchanges with the Elder Seers. We are a Beautiful Family――we are, we are, we are!”

“Yes; I expect my Lecture will be a success. So does Dollar Carte――I mean D’Oyly Carte. Too-Toothless Senility may jeer, and poor positive Propriety may shake her rusty curls; but I am here, to pipe of Passion’s venturous Poesy, and reap the scorching harvest of Self-Love! I am not quite sure what I mean. The true Poet never is. In fact, true Poetry is nothing if it is intelligible.

“HIS KOSMIC SOUL.

“Oh, yes! I speak most languages; in the sweet honey-tinted brogue my own land lends me. _La bella Donna della mia Mente_ exists, but she is not the Jersey Lily, though I have grovelled at her feet; she is not the Juno Countess, though I have twisted my limbs all over her sofas; she is not the Polish Actress, though I have sighed and wept over all the boxes of the Court Theatre; she is not the diaphanous Sarah, though I have crawled after her footsteps through the heavy fields of scentless Asphodel; she is not the golden haired Ellen, more fair than any woman Veronesé looked upon, though I have left my _Impressions_ on many and many a seat in the Lyceum Temple, where she is High Priestess; nor is she one of the little Nameless Naiads I have met in Lotus-haunts, who, with longing eyes, watch the sweet bubble of the frenzied grape. No, Sir, my real Love is my own Kosmic Soul, enthroned in its flawless essence; and when America can grasp the supreme whole I sing in too-too utterance for vulgar lips, then soul and body will blend in mystic symphonies; then, crowned with bellamours and wanton flower-de-luce, I shall be hailed Lord of a new Empery, and as I stain my lips in the bleeding wounds of the Pomegranate, and wreathe my o’ergrown limbs with the burnished disk of the Sunflower, Apollo will turn pale and lashing the restive horses of the Sun, the tamer chariot of a forgotten god will make way for the glorious zenith of the one Oscar Wilde.”

Since his return from America Mr. Oscar Wilde has settled in London, and is known in society as a genial and witty gentleman, and a

## particularly graceful after-dinner speaker. He is the Editor of _The

Woman’s World_, a very high class magazine, published by Cassell and Co., in which he has ample opportunities of advocating his favourite _cult_, the worship of the beautiful in Nature and in Art.

――――

SAINTE MARGÉRIE. _An Imitation._

Slim feet than lilies tenderer,―― _Margérie!_ That scarce upbore the body of her, Naked upon the stones they were;―― _C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

White as a shroud the silken gown,―― _Margérie!_ That flowed from shoulder to ankle down, With clear blue shadows along it thrown; _C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

On back and bosom withouten braid,―― _Margérie!_ In crisped glory of darkling red, Round creamy temples her hair was shed;―― _C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

Eyes like a dim sea, viewed from far,―― _Margérie!_ Lips that no earthly love shall mar, More sweet than lips of mortals are;―― _C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

The chamber walls are cracked and bare;―― _Margérie!_ Without the gossips stood astare At men her bed away that bare;―― _C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

Five pennies lay her hand within,―― _Margérie!_ So she her fair soul’s weal might win, Little she recked of dule or teen;―― _C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

Dank straw from dunghill gathered, _Margérie!_ Where fragrant swine have made their bed, Thereon her body shall be laid;―― _C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

Three pennies to the poor in dole,―― _Margérie!_ One to the clerk her knell shall toll, And one to masses for her soul;―― _C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

From _Poems and Parodies_. By Two Undergrads. Oxford. B. H. Blackwell, 1880.

(This little paper-covered pamphlet was originally published at the price of one shilling; it was withdrawn from circulation, and is consequently very scarce.)

――――

SITTING UP ALL NIGHT WITH A LILY.

Oh, fulsome the joy of the fading light! _Oh, fainting of lilies with broken stem!_ When you feel too utterly almost quite, _The sunflowers love, yet love not them_! Oh, weird is the feeling of thoughtsome doubt When candles, and lamps, and gas are out, And burglarious Philistines prowl about, _Chill is the air at four a.m._!

Oh, mystic the eyelids all drowsy grown! _Oh, fainting of lilies with broken stem!_ Oh, twitching of limbs that are scarce your own, _The sunflowers love, yet love not them_! Oh, baleful blessing, the wistful wist Of matters that have not, nor can exist! Oh, say, have you noticed the gladsome list? _Chill is the air at four a.m.!_

You think of your bed with remorseful tears, _Oh, fainting of lilies with broken stem_! While sounds of the silence attack your ears, _The sunflowers love, yet love not them_! Oh, mythic deeds by the sightless seen! Oh, lovely past of the has not been! Oh, what in the world do I chance to mean? _Chill is the air at four a.m.!_

_Fun’s Academy Skits_. 1882.

――――

AN UTTER PASSION UTTERED UTTERLY.

Meseem’d that Love, with swifter feet than fire, Brought me my Lady crown’d with amorous burs, And drapen in tear-collar’d minivers, Sloped saltire wise in token of desire; My heart she soak’d in tears, and on a pyre Laid, for Love’s sake, in folds of fragrant perse, The while her face, more fair than sunflowers, She gave mine eyes for pasture most entire. Sicklike she seem’d, as with wan-carven smiles Some deal she moved anear, and thereunto Thrice paler wox, and weaker than blown sand Upon the passioning ocean’s beached miles; And as her motion’s music nearer drew My starved lips play’d the vampyre with her hand.

JOHN TODHUNTER.

_Kottabos._ Dublin, William McGee. 1882.

――――

AN ÆSTHETE’S RHAPSODY.

Consummate Dish! full many an ancient crack Is seamed across thy venerable back; And even through to thine æsthetic face Cracks run to lend a more enchanting grace! What matter though the epicure now loses The juice which through thy gaping fissures oozes? Thrice happy Table-cloth, thou knowest not The too-_too_ beauty of yon greasy spot, To think that with a little vulgar butter, This High Art Dish can make thee look so utter.

_Harper’s Bazaar._

――――

In 1881 and 1882 _Punch_ teemed with parodies on Oscar Wilde, one of the best appeared May 28, 1881:――

MORE IMPRESSIONS.

(_By Oscuro Wildegoose._) _La Fuite des Oies._

To outer senses they are geese, Dull drowsing by a weedy pool; But try the impression trick, Cool! Cool! Snow-slumbering sentinels of Peace!

Deep silence on the shadowy flood Save rare sharp stridence (_that means “quack”_). Low amber light in Ariel track Athwart the dun (_that means the mud_).

And suddenly subsides the sun, Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom (_That means the white geese waddling home_), And darkness reigns! (_See how it’s done?_)

The titles of some others are;――

April 9, 1881. _A Maudle-in Ballad to his Lily._ June 23, 1881. _Maunderings at Marlow._ October 1, 1881. _The Æsthete to the Rose._ November 26, 1881. _The Downfall of the Dado._ January 14, 1882. _Murder made Easy._ March 31, 1883. _Sage Green, by a Fading-out Æsthete._

this latter contained the following verses:――

My love is as fair as a lily flower. (_The Peacock Hue has a sacred sheen!_) Oh, bright are the blooms in her maiden bower. (_Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!_)

Her face is as wan as the water white. (_The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!_) Her eyes are as stars on a moonlit night. (_Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!_)

The China plate it is pure on the wall. (_The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!_) Alack! she heedeth it never at all. (_Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!_)

* * * * *

――――

THE PUBLIC HOUSE. (_With apologies to Oscar Wilde’s “The Harlot’s House.”_)

We wandered home with weary feet, We lumbered down the lamp-lit street, And stopped beneath a public-house.

Outside, in just the usual way, We heard the grand old cornet play A carol to the _wild_ carouse.

Like smell of spirits came the blast Of heated air that streetward passed, As “Out yer go” were shoved “the blind.”

We watched the reeling roysterers spin From scene of revelry within, Like those who’d left their legs behind.

Like idiots they, of foolish face, With grinning, ghastly-pale grimace, They looked so very, very ill!

They took each other by the arm, As if in that there were a charm, In short they had had quite their fill.

Sometimes a man who out was set Went through the swearing alphabet. Or p’r’aps he’d homeward start and sing.

Then turning round to go, I said, “It’s after hours, I’ll home to bed, I will not wait the outward rush!”

Just then the Bobby heard the din, And after knocking, entered in, Law passed into the House of Sin.

Then suddenly the cornet stopped, The thrumming harp’s drear music dropped, The house it seemed its sails to furl.

And down the long and noisy street The staggering legs of “whisky neat” Crawled headlong in a whirl.

TRAMWAY TAME.

_The Sporting Times._ June 13, 1885.

――――

A “ROSE” BALL.

A Rose, or Maidens’ Ball took place, in July 1885, at Hyde Park House, which was lent for the occasion by Mrs. Naylor-Leyland. It was a complete success, in spite of the absence of Royalty. As a social gathering, it was the smartest dance of the season, while, from a girl’s point of view, there has been no ball in London to equal it for many a day. Each fair donor paid five pounds, for which she was allowed to ask five men, and in almost every case the favoured five put in an appearance; so instead of the dancing-rooms being filled with girls anxiously looking for partners, the tables were turned, and the black coats had to take their turn at playing wallflowers――an amusement, to judge from some of their remarks, that they did not all appreciate. Each maiden carried a bouquet of roses, and almost all the floral decorations were confined to various varieties of the same flower.

Five-and-seventy maidens, free, Bent on dancing, one and all, Did some weeks ago decree They, themselves, would give a ball. Each, they said, would ask five men Who at waltzing were _au fait_. Settled was their project then, They had even fixed the day! Ah, miserie!

For these dancing maidens found That a certain potent Prince, When he heard their details, frowned, His displeasure to evince. “This,” said he, “must not be so!” “That,” he quoth, “should not be thus!” Till the maidens’ tears did flow, As they murmured “Woe to us! Ah, miserie!”

These same maidens, though, were wise, And soon ceased to weep or wince; Nor would they their plans revise, E’en to please a potent Prince, But resolved to merry be, Even though he would not come, Much enjoyed their dance, whilst he Had to moan in accents glum―― “Ah, miserie!”

_Truth._ July 16, 1885.

――――

AN UN-ÆSTHETIC LOVE SONG.

A barrel of beer and a glass of gin hot Are goodly gifts for me; For my own true love a half-gallon pot Filled to the brim with tea.

For thee a bloater from Yarmouth town (Fresh, O fresh, is a fish of the sea!); For me some beef, and, to wash it down, A pint of porter (ah me! ah me!).

Sherbet and zoedone for thee (Teetotal drinks have taking names!); A cup of claret and pink for me (O! men are stronger than dames!)

From _Ballades of a Country Bookworm_, by Thomas Hutchinson. London, Stanesby & Co. 1888.

――――

QUITE THE CHEESE. _By a Wilde Æsthete._

There once was a maiden who loved a cheese _Sing, hey! potatoes and paint!_ She could eat a pound and a half with ease! _O the odorous air was faint!_

What was the cheese that she loved the best? _Sing, hey! red pepper and rags!_ You will find it out if you read the rest; _Oh, the horror of frowning crags!_

Came lovers to woo her from ev’ry land―― _Sing, hey! fried bacon and files!_ They asked for her heart, but they meant her hand, _O the joy of the Happy Isles._

A haughty old Don from Oporto came; _Sing, hey! new carrots and nails!_ The Duke GORGONZOLA his famous name _O the lusciously-scented gales!_

LORD STILTON belonged to a mighty line! _Sing, hey! salt herrings and stones!_ He was “Blue” as china――his taste divine! _O the sweetness of dulcet tones._

Came stout DOUBLE GLO’STER――a man and wife _Sing, hey! post pillars and pies!_ And the son was SINGLE, and fair as fate; _O the purple of sunset skies!_

DE CAMEMBERT came from his sunny France _Sing, hey! pork cutlets and pearls!_ He would talk sweet nothings, and sing and dance _O the sighs of the soft sweet girls._

Came GRUYERE so pale! a most hole-y-man! _Sing, hey! red sandstone and rice!_ But the world saw through him as worldlings can _O the breezes from Isles of Spice._

But the maiden fair loved no cheese but one _Sing, hey! acrostics and ale!_ Save for single Glo’ster she love had none! _O the roses on fair cheeks pale!_

He was fair and single――and so was she! _Sing hey! tomatoes and tar!_ And so _now_ you know which it is to be! _O the aid of a lucky star!_

They toasted the couple the livelong night _Sing hey! cast-iron and carp!_ And engaged a poet this song to write. _O the breathing Æolian harp!_

So he wrote this ballad at vast expense! _Sing, hey! pump-handles and peas!_ And, though _you_ may think it devoid of sense, O _he_ fancies it QUITE THE CHEESE!

H. C. WARING.

[Illustration]

ARTHUR W. E. O’SHAUGHNESSY.

Was born in 1844, and at the age of twenty obtained a position in the Natural History Department of the British Museum. In 1873 he married Miss Eleanor Marston, who assisted her husband in some of his early works, especially in a volume entitled “Toyland,” published in 1875.

But Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and her two children all died in 1879, and the unfortunate young poet did not long survive them, he dying in London early in 1881.

His early books――“An Epic of Women” (1870); and “Lays of France” (1872), were successful, but “Music and Moonlight” (1874), was coldly received.

BLUE MOONSHINE. _By O’pshawnessy._

Mingled aye with fragrant yearnings, Throbbing in the mellow glow, Glint the silvery spirit burnings, Pearly blandishments of woe.

Ay! for ever and for ever, Whilst the love-lorn censers sweep, Whilst the jasper winds dissever, Amber-like, the crystal deep;

Shall the soul’s delirious slumber, Sea-green vengeance of a kiss, Teach despairing crags to number Blue infinities of bliss.

FRANCIS G. STOKES.

This parody originally appeared in _The Shotover Papers_, Oxford, May 1874.

――――

“FRANGIPANNI.” _By O’Sh******sy._

Untwine those ringlets! Ev’ry dainty clasp That shines like twisted sunlight in my eye Is but the coiling of the jewelled asp That smiles to see men die.

Oh, cobra-curlèd! Fierce-fanged fair one! Draw Night’s curtain o’er the landscape of thy hair! I yield! I kneel! I own, I bless thy law That dooms me to despair.

I mark the crimson ruby of thy lips, I feel the witching weirdness of thy breath! I droop! I sink into my soul’s eclipse,―― I fall in love with death!

And yet, vouchsafe a moment! I would gaze Once more into those sweetly-murderous eyes, Soft glimmering athwart the pearly haze That smites to dusk the skies!

Hast thou no pity? Must I darkly tread The unknown paths that lead me wide from thee? Hast though no garland for this aching head That soon so low must be?

No sound? No sigh? No smile? Is _all_ forgot? Then spin my shroud out of that golden skein Thou call’st thy tresses! _I_ shall stay thee not―― My struggles were but vain!

But shall I see thee far beyond the sun, When the new dawn lights empyrean scenes? What matters now? I know the poem’s done, And wonder what the dickens it all means!

_Judy._ July 21, 1880.

[Illustration]

Here is another parody of Mr. C. S. Calverley’s style:――

ON THE RIVER.

It is sweet to sip the breezes In September; and it pleases Folks like me, whose work decreases When its hot, To depart from one’s landlady, Very shortly after pay-day, And to settle in some shady Kind of spot.

In September I am lazy, And my thoughts are rather mazy, So I love the aspect hazy Of some glade, When the autumn moon uprises O’er the hill, and me surprises, Talking trash that full of sighs is, To that maid.

She has eyes that seem to twinkle, Like the pin-impaled winkle, When the fish-wife dares to sprinkle It with spice; And her chestnut-tinted tresses, That provoke a man’s caresses, Haunt her swain till he confesses She _is_ nice.

Sometimes, when the day has faded, And the moonbeams have invaded Every nook that is unshaded From their gleam, Chloe, who is very knowing In the noble art of rowing, Vaguely drops a hint of going Down the stream.

’Neath the branches of a willow, With the drifted sedge for pillow, Cradled on the silver billow Lies a boat,

Which I speedily untether, And we drift away together, Like two beetles on a feather That’s afloat.

Couched in shadow that so still is, Dreamy, large-eyed waterlilies Stare astonished at us sillies Up above: Doubtless, with a timid flutter Of propriety, they mutter Sentiments I dare not utter, About love.

Wretched things! with no affections, And with very bad complexions; We can suffer your objections And your snubs; By your taunts we won’t be maddened, And shall be surprised and gladdened, If our true love be not saddened By worse rubs.

ANONYMOUS.

[Illustration]

“GEORGY.” (_After J. Ashby-Sterry._)

I know you, little winsome sweet, You heroine of childish orgy; What dance would ever be complete Without our rosy, romping Georgy?

Straight as a dart, of which the sting Lurks in a pair of pearl-gray eyes; Slight, but the roundest lissome thing As o’er the well-chalked floor she flies.

Nor can I say there is concealed At ev’ry airy pirouette The frill (not often so revealed!) Of such a dainty pantalette!

Her little boots with silver heels Ring on the boards as round she whirls―― I wonder if the darling feels She cuts out all the other girls?

There is a saucy cock of chin, A semblance of a conscious power To stake (with ev’ry chance to win!) The bud against the fallen flower.

Who knows these little maidens’ dreams? Unsullied,――but with mischief fraught: How like a woman Georgy seems, Yet by what subtle instinct taught?

The question’s vague!――some day, perhaps, She’ll find the answer, for the rogue is A match, at twelve, for most young chaps, And right away beyond us fogies.

For _me_,――I sit and watch her twirls, Then wend me home and smoke my pipe, That whispers “These delightful girls, Thank goodness are in _Sterry-o-type_!”

R. REECE.

_Judy._ June 30, 1880.

It should be mentioned, in connection with Mr. J. Ashby-Sterry, that _The Muse in Manacles_, quoted on page 64, was from his pen.

FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.

It should have been mentioned, in connection with the poems of this gentleman, that illustrated articles concerning his life and works appeared in _Once a Week_, September 7, 1872, and _The Century_, February, 1883. Both contained portraits, the one in _The Century_ having been drawn by Mr. George Du Maurier. Mr. Locker’s poem “St. James’s Street,” (see page 56) originally appeared in _The Times_, in 1867.

[Illustration]

BALLADES, RONDEAUS, AND VILLANELLES.

Since the last part was published several parodies on these exotics have been sent in by various correspondents, and it would be ungracious not to include them, indeed, the collection would be incomplete without them. The first humorous Ballade, aptly enough, is from the pen of Mr. Gleeson White, whose book on _Ballades and Rondeaus_ has already been alluded to:――

BALLADE OF A BALLADE MONGER.

You start ahead in splendid style, No stint of rhymes appear in view, With many a happy thought the while―― You dash away as though you knew Enough to fill the thirty-two. Those lines, that need such careful filling, Yet you are lucky if you do―― For ballade-mongering is killing.

Now on your face may dawn a smile, To think that rhymes both neat and new, To end your stanzas will beguile Your pen――till “envoy” you must brew; But half the poem yet is due. And though she ready be and willing, To your shy muse you yet must sue―― For ballade-mongering is killing.

Here’s stanza three, and now they rile, Those end words that of every hue And form, all seem so poor and vile, You, weary of the hackneyed crew This one suggests the other’s cue. As fresh as――twelve pence for a shilling, No, never change can you renew, For ballade-mongering is killing.

_Envoy._

Rhymesters! The Envoy you will rue, Since it should be supreme and thrilling; It’s ended, tamely it is true, For ballade-mongering is killing.

GLEESON WHITE.

_Judy._ October 5, 1887.

――――

The following well known _Ballade_ originally appeared in Mr. Andrew Lang’s _Ballades in Blue China_, the first (1880) edition of which is so much prized by collectors.

BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN.

He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, But his list of forbidden degrees An extensive morality shows; Geological evidence goes To prove he had never a pan, But he shaved with a shell when he chose, ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

He worshipp’d the rain and the breeze, He worshipped the river that flows, And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees, And bogies, and serpents, and crows; He buried his dead with their toes Tucked up, an original plan, Till their knees came right under their nose, ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

His communal wives, at his ease, He would curb with occasional blows; Or his State had a queen, like the bees (As another philosopher trows): When he spoke it was never in prose: But he sang in a strain that would scan, For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

(_Three verses omitted._)

_Envoy._

Max, proudly your Aryans pose, But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, For, as every Darwinian knows, ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

ANDREW LANG.

A BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE WOMAN. _An American Parody._

She lived in a primitive way, She lived in a hut made of trees, With never a moving in May, Unless when invaded by bees, Her husband had never night keys, Lodge nights were not then to deceive; Nor was he addicted to sprees―― What a life led our relative, Eve!

He hadn’t for bonnets to pay, Which accounts for his efforts to please; Nor did he growl round every day, O’er his trousers that bagged at the knees, Unheard of were fashion’s decrees Her dolmans she knew how to weave From grape-leaves with greatest of ease, What a life led our relative, Eve!

Her stew-pans she wrought out of clay Her knives were the shells of the seas, And she dined on a spicy _entrée_ Of grapes and some ape-fricassees. To sleep with the toes to the breeze Was considered the cheese, I believe, Which was healthy, no one but agrees―― What a life lead our relative, Eve.

_Envoy._

Cast off fashions gay panoplies, “Sassiety” maiden, retrieve; Learn, while apeing our “first familees,” What a life led our relative, Eve!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

_The Universal Review_, for December, 1888, contained a peculiar article by Mr. H. D. Traill, entitled “The Doom of the Muses,” in which he satirically describes the present position of the Fine Arts. Dealing with Poetry, he thus alludes to the present craze for the _Ballade_:――

This is the age of glorified jingle, Honour is only to rhyming pranks; Deftliest who their assonants mingle, They shall walk first in Poesy’s ranks: They shall recline upon Helicon’s banks, Fountain of bards who have conquered Time; (Others must do with inferior tanks) This is the era of run-mad rhyme.

Cold though their verse as the sea-shore shingle, Common and cheap as the nails in the planks, Empty as frothiest blather of Fingal, Pointless as ends of the cats of the Manx, Still the mere fact that their lines are not “blanks” Helps them the Mount of Parnassus to climb, Strengthens their unwinged Pegase’s shanks: This is the era of run-mad rhyme.

Who shall reign over us sole and single? He who his rhyme-web’s intricate hanks Wears like a collar of bells that tingle, Not like the links of a chain that clanks: He who his burden of quips and cranks Bears with the step of a light-foot mime, Figure erect and unwavering flanks,―― This is the era of run-mad rhyme.

Muse, I presume you object to “spanks,” Word――I admit it――beneath the sublime. Pray then excuse me the Envoi. Thanks! This is the era of run-mad rhyme.

――――

AUSTIN DOBSON.――ANDREW LANG.

Ah me! how many Fate makes mourn Unhonoured in our midst to dwell, Tho’ Epics write they, and――in scorn, Shun Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle; Blank verse they scan――at times, as well, In jolts and jingles harsh rhymes clang, But fail to reach the pinnacle Of Austin Dobson――Andrew Lang,

Dear brothers these, whose names adorn Their roll, who spread Poesy’s spell, Their sweetest strains heartward are borne In Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle; Yet did no rival e’er excel Their efforts in the realms o’ sang;―― The Laureate’s self bears not the bell From Austin Dobson――Andrew Lang.

Their’s not the heaviness men spurn, Light as the breeze in fairy dell The flights of fancy that they turn To Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle; From them we never flee pell mell, Ne’er close their volumes with a bang; O! naught our happiness can quell With Austin Dobson――Andrew Lang.

_Envoy._

How soothed our souls――what words can tell? With Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle, How robbed of many a bitter pang By Austin Dobson――Andrew Lang.

From _Ballades of a Country Bookworm_. By Thomas Hutchinson. London, Stanesby & Co. 1888.

――――

Some years ago Mr. Austin Dobson wrote a few comical _Triolets_, which appeared in “Hood’s Comic Annual.” These have not been included in recent English editions of his poems――which is to be regretted.

――――:o:――――

RONDEL.

You bet! you hear _me_. I tell _you_ I, Whistler, Sir, has fetched this town Onto a copper, _a_ renown, _He_ scratches in, Sir; yes a few!

Your critics they may hop the flue, Your painting critturs, Sir, may frown, I, Whistler, Sir! has fetched the town, You bet you hear me, I tell you.

His bowie, Sir! is bright _and_ new, He licks ’em up, he licks ’em down I guess, he gives ’em _Fits in Brown_, Yes, Sir! and plays _Old Hell in Blue_! You bet! you hear me! I tell you!

RONDEL.

We have a most erotic bard, His style and title Swinburne Charles, Passion his frame contorts and gnarls, The gods and women grip him hard.

Observe him bearded like a pard, Furious and fair as northern jarls; We have a most erotic bard, His style and title Swinburne Charles.

He has a dungheap in his yard, Mixed with the most offensive marls, No wonder Mrs. Grundy snarls, Faustine, Dolores, Chastelard, We have a most erotic bard.

From _London_. 1877.

――――

THAT DEAR OLD TUNE. (_A Rondeau written in a rage._)

That dear old tune I loved of yore! Indeed I love it still; But never save by this one Bore (Who lives upon my basement floor) Have heard it played so ill.

Alas, what penance for my sins. I seek my desk, and soon Once more the tootling Fiend begins That dear old tune!

All vainly I expostulate; He tries it morn and noon, I vow in sheer distress of hate To learn the ‘loud bassoon’ ‘I rage――I burn’――I execrate; That dear old tune!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

_Saturday Journal._ 1874.

IN RE RONDEAU.

In corsets laced, in high-heeled shoes, Too fine a woodland way to choose, With mincing step and studied strut, Is this an English Goddess? Tut―― Some masker from the Parley-Voos!

O, Poet! thou of sinewy thews, Wilt thou free ways and walks refuse, To mince instead through paths close shut, In corsets laced?

I cannot――for I’ve old-time views―― Follow the poet who pursues The Rondeau, with its rabbit scut, Or Triumphs in a Triolet, but―― There may be those who like the muse, In corsets laced.

ROUNDEL.

The Cat that sings at dead of night I pelt with bricks, and boots and things, Oh, for the luck to kill outright The Cat that sings!

It is as when at evening rings Melodeon-music, only slight- ly worse it tears your bosom-strings.

And if at last you chance to smite Him over,――as to life he springs, He simply screeches with delight―― The Cat that sings.

_The University News Sheet._ St. Andrew’s. March 3, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE VILLANELLE.

(For the original Villanelle, by Jean Passerat, see page 66.)

Jean Passerat, I like thee well―― Thou sang’st a song beyond compare―― But I’ve not lost a tourterelle:

Nor can I write a villanelle―― Thou did’st――and for that Jewel rare, Jean Passerat, I like thee well.

Now many a twittering hirondelle The plumes of thy lost dove would wear―― But I’ve not lost a tourterelle.

Could not, indeed, true turtle tell―― If real or mock I could not swear: Jean Passerat, I like thee well.

True heart that would go “après elle――” And sure thy sentiment I’d share―― But I’ve not lost a tourterelle.

And am content on earth to dwell―― There are some men they cannot spare: Jean Passerat, I like thee well, But I’ve not lost a tourterelle!

CHARLES HENRY WEBB.

――――

VILLANELLE.

“How to compose a Villanelle, which is said to require an elaborate amount of care in production, which those who read only would hardly suspect existed.”

It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it, As easy as reciting A. B. C. You need not be an atom of a poet.

If you’ve a grain of wit and want to show it, Writing a _Villanelle_――take this from me―― It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it.

You start a pair of “rimes” and then you “go it” With rapid running pen and fancy free, You need not be an atom of a poet.

Take any thought, write round it or below it, Above or near it, as it liketh thee; It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it.

Pursue your task, till, like a shrub, you grow it, Up to the standard size it ought to be; You need not be an atom of a poet.

Clear it of weeds, and water it, and hoe it, Then watch it blossom with triumphant glee, It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it, You need not be an atom of a poet.

WALTER W. SKEAT.

_The Academy._ May 19, 1888.

――――:o:――――

THE WAIL OF THE “PERSONALLY CONDUCTED.”

Integral were we, in our old existence; Separate beings, individually; Now are our entities blended, fused, and foundered―― We are one Person.

We are not mortals, we are not celestials, We are not birds, the upper ether clearing, We are a retrogression toward the Monad: We are Cook’s Tourists.

All ways we follow him who holds the Guide Book; All things we look at, with bedazzled optics; Sad are our hearts, because the vulgar rabble Call us the Cookies.

Happy the man who, by his cheerful fireside, Says to the partner of his joys and sorrows: “Anna Maria, let us go to-morrow Out for an airing.”

Him to Manhattan, or the beach of Brighton, Gaily he hieth, or if, fate accurséd, Lives he in Boston, still he may betake him Down to Nantasket.

Happy the mortal, free and independent, Master of the main spring of his own volition, Look on us with the eye of sweet compassion, We are Cook’s Tourists.

H. C. BUNNER.

_Scribner’s Monthly._ November, 1879.

――――:o:――――

AN OLD SONG BY NEW SINGERS.

_In the Original._

Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go.

――――

_As Austin Dobson Writes It._

Triolet.

A little lamb had Mary, sweet, With a fleece that shamed the driven snow. Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet (For a little lamb had Mary, sweet) And it tagged her ’round with a pensive bleat, And wherever she went it wanted to go―― A little lamb had Mary, sweet, With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.

――――

_As Mr. Browning Has It._

You knew her?――Mary the small, How of a summer――or, no, was it fall? The latter, I think――a lamb she received? You’d never have thought it――never believed, But the girl owned a lamb last fall.

Its wool was subtly, silky white, Color of lucent obliteration of night―― Like the shimmering snow or――our Clothild’s arm!―― You’ve seen her arm――her right, I mean―― The other she scalded a-washing, I ween―― How white it is and soft and warm?

Ah, there was soul’s heart-love, deep, true and tender, Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender, There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting, That passionate lambkin――her soul’s heart delighting―― Ay, every place that Mary sought in That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.

――――

_As Longfellow Might have Done It._

Fair the daughter known as Mary, Fair and full of fun and laughter, Owned a lamb, a little he-goat, Owned him all herself and solely. White the lamb’s wool as the Gotchi―― The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm. Hither Mary went and thither, But went with her to all places, Sure as brook to run to river, Her pet lambkin following with her.

――――

_How Andrew Lang Sings It._

Rondeau.

A wonderful lass was Marie, petite. And she looked full fair and passing sweet―― And, oh! she owned――but cannot you guess What pet _can_ a maiden so love and caress As a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleat And mud upon his dainty feet, And a gentle veally odour of meat? And a fleece to finger and kiss and press―― White as snow?

Wherever she wandered――in lane or street As she sauntered on, there at her feet She would find that lambkin――bless The dear!――treading on her dainty dress, Her dainty dress, fresh and neat―― White as snow.

――――

_Mr. Algernon C. Swinburne’s Idea._

Villanelle.

Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair, Maiden and lamb were a sight to see, For her pet was white as she was fair.

And its lovely fleece was beyond compare, And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie, Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair.

Its warped wool was an inwove snare To tangle her fingers in, where they could be (For her pet was white as she was fair)

Lost from sight, both so snow-white were, And the lambkin adored the maiden wee―― Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair.

Th’ impassioned incarnation of rare, Of limpid-eyed, luscious lipped, loved beauty―― And her pet was white as she was fair.

Wherever she wandered, hither and there, Wildly that lamblet sought with her to be―― With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair, And a pet as white as its mistress was fair.

A. C. WILKIE.

[Illustration]

Martin Farquhar Tupper.

This gentleman was born in London in 1810, and educated, first at the Charterhouse school, and afterwards at Christ Church, Oxford, where he graduated B.A., M.A., and D.C.L. The author of many works, both in prose and verse, Mr. Tupper has been hardly dealt with by the critics, and the parodists.

They appear to have ignored such of his writings as have any merit, in order to hunt most mercilessly to death his _Proverbial Philosophy_, which, though it has run through many editions, is inferior to much else that he has written.

The reasons for this perversity on their part cannot here be considered, only the Parodies as they exist can be dealt with.

――――

The following lines, which were written many years ago by “Cuthbert Bede” in his _Shilling Book of Beauty_, neatly sum up _Proverbial Philosophy_:――

Thoughts may abide in the brain, yet how few have the wit to extract them; Many may know of Proverbs, yet could not for worlds have devised them. All are not gifted the same: there are brains that are stupid and addled; There are those that are clear as the stream,――the pellucid water that floweth Under the bridges, that bind the Surrey shore unto London.

Philosophy cannot be taught, unless you can meet with a teacher: I am the teacher of this the nineteenth century of being. Philosophy I can expound in a way hitherto undream’d of; Witness my book of Proverbial Platitudes, and its Editions; Book beloved by women――women of intellect feeble; Book that is lauded by old maids, and Evangelical parsons; Book that by school-girls is worshipped, and ranked with _The Pilgrim’s Progress_; That is read by bachelor curates, to maidens at Dorcas meetings; Designing curates, who choose the chapters on “Love” and “Marriage,” And read the soft nothings therein, with smirks and murderous gusto. I have written of Proverbs, turned everything to a Proverb, Even my name as an author, proverbial is it with many, Who, in braying derision, call me “Sweet Singer of Beadledom,” Let those laugh who win! my Proverbs have eighteen editions! Eighteen editions bring fame, and――what is better――_money_.

Another old parody may be quoted from the second volume of _Punch_, (1842).

PUNCH’S PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

_Introductory._

Come along, old fellow; follow me as a friend, from the midnight streets; Leave awhile the cold and muddy Strand to loiter in the tavern of the Coal Hole. Come into this quiet box, with hot water in a batter’d pewter jug, Over whose beer-stain’d table are strewn many particles of crust; Here, upon this wooden peg, hang up thy hat and Chesterfield, Order a pint of stout, or a go of grog, and rest for half-an-hour.

Behold! I would stop a short time in this buzzing crowd of visitors, Though wrapp’d up in a mackintosh, yet are the seams and pockets pervious; But into the foam of this goodly glass I dip my beak, And receive its contents as nectar, yet the tap is Barclay’s. Under its cheerful influence I shall, before long, get loquacious, And mingle the fashion of my speech with froth-built snatches of philosophy!

_Of Gifts._

I had a seeming friend:――I gave him a licking――he was gone! I had an open enemy:――I stood a pint――and won him! Common friends require presents; monkeys more kicks than halfpence; But the scorn of anyone melteth at a barrel of Quin’s oysters. A foe may get spiteful, and incline to call thee a humbug, But send him a turbot, and he saith,――“He’s a good fellow, after all!” Policemen will not oft refuse a drain, if absent the inspector, And policemen’s friendship should be courted in the event of rows. The larker, held by the collar, may be released by half-a-crown, And thy own bed is better than the stone sofas of a station house, Or, being James Edwards, compelled to call thyself John Brown. There is not one crusher who is proof against the waistcoat pocket, And the same font of happiness hath even power over reporters.

I saw a beggar in St. Giles’s, and another beggar punch’d his head, For the first had collected more coppers at his crossing than the other His broom fell into the mud, and he swore an oath. Anon a baked potato-man came up, with a high-pressure can, And gave him of his store; the first beggar was grateful. He, poor stricken cadger, picked up his broom with a curse, And, turning to the potato man, asked what he would take to drink. And so the sprat had been set, and the herring had been caught!

A parody of a somewhat more spiteful character appeared in _Punch_, August 23, 1856, but the circumstances to which it alluded are now forgotten, so that the parody lacks interest: a few verses only need be quoted:――

THE QUEEN OF OUDE. (NOT)

_By Martin Farquhar Tupper, Esq._

THE QUEEN OF OUDE, Which is so proud, She never will get boozy, Has crossed the seas, And, if you please, Will serve out LORD DALHOUSIE.

_The Queen of Oude_, She cries so loud For justice, like a Q. C. And claims her right, And wants to fight The MARQUIS OF DALHOUSIE.

* * * * *

The QUEEN OF OUDE Shall save her gowd, And this she’d do, _me duce_, She’d give a lunch, To me, and _Punch_, And ask my LORD DALHOUSIE.

The QUEEN OF OUDE, Which is so proud. Would find her lot _adouci_, To hear the wit That we’d emit. Me, _Punch_, and LORD DALHOUSIE.

――――

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

_By Farthing Tarquhar Mupper, Esq._

Beer, that hath entered my head, and peopled its inner chambers, The addling outcome of barrels, the dream-inspiring malt and the hop-juice, Amber-tinged wine of the Briton, with the headache and biliousness after, Heaven-brewed draught of immortals, oh! sweeter than ever was nectar, Such extend I unto thee, thou docile child of a pot-house: Commend thy mouth to the tankard, and grudge not to drink of the liquor, Nor scorn its yellow flood for the sake of the Bacchus of Cruikshank. Lo! now, I stand not forth, laying hold on spear and on buckler; I come, as the cask of pale ale, to comfort thee, and to succour: With soft and mellowest taste to charm the lips which are eager; With the balmy breath of fellowship to touch thy heart sympathetic. Let us drink together as friends, in the happy smoke of tobacco, Nor judgment take her seat until we are happy as lordlings, That the fumes of good strong beer may override all argument, And charity not be a stranger at the board that is spread for brothers.

ANONYMOUS.

In _Banter_ (a comic paper edited by Mr. G. A. Sala) for November 11, 1867, there was a parody of Tupper, entitled _Proverbial Philosophy of Sausages_, but it was not very amusing; and in the same paper, for November 18, there was a burlesque description of a dinner given to Mr. Tupper, and of an after-dinner speech he delivered in which he explained the dodges and devices he had practised in order to puff his works, and increase the sale of _Proverbial Philosophy_.

――――

THE FALL OF TUPPER.

We are too often painfully reminded that the best of us are but very frail. A very painful case of moral declension has occurred lately. Martin Farquhar Tupper, the great moral philosopher at whose feet all England has sat so long and learnt so much, that great and good man who had discovered a new species of poetry which was neither rhyme nor reason, but all beautiful pure sentiment, has come down to writing rhyme! Happily he has not yet reached the next stage――he has not fallen so low yet as to incur the suspicion of writing reason. But this abandonment of his principles has been, we fear, the result of bad company, for――our heart breaks almost while we pen the words,――but it is too plain, we cannot shut our eyes to the cruel truth――Martin Farquhar Tupper has fallen into the power of Algernon Charles Swinburne!! He, the purest of philosophers, the chosen minstrel of the Evangelical Church, has been studying the words of the erotic Pagan bard, the laureate of Venus and Faustina!

We are enabled, by a wonderful effort of clairvoyance, to publish a poem which the modest songster of _The Rock_ has held back, the charming domestic interest and true Protestant flavour of which must commend it to all admirers of Martin Farquhar Tupper:――

GOING TO THE WASH. (_Lines written on Monday morning._)

BY M. F. T.

I really must look to my washing this week, I must watch how my shirts are got up; For I feel that in matters like this I’m too meek, And I don’t keep my pluck enough up; I ought to be brave, and to speak my mind out, For of sheep, sure the male is a Tup, And I am a Tupper, so quite to the rout I must put Mrs. Sarah Hiccup.

Let me see; five fine shirts as ever was seen, Five collars (not paper) to match, With four pairs of socks, some blue and some green, Will make up a beautiful batch; Then of handkerchiefs seven seem semblant to see, And two or three neckties so white! Every clear starcher’s soul will be strangled with glee, When on my sacred things they set sight.

Stop, I’ve nearly forgotten two jerseys (quite thin), And two flannel shirts too I vow! In this weather its right to wear flannel next skin, At least I do truly so trow; One nightshirt, if modesty lets me to add, In my list I must also include, I would mention my nightcap, but soberly sad, Society sneers that it’s rude.

Mrs. Sarah Hiccup now I hope will take care, And return all the things that I send; But trumpets of treachery tickle the air Till I know not where Treason will end! What if Ritualist robbers should recklessly join My shirts, to make copes with, to seize; Or the pattering Papist my parcel purloin His priests so prehensile to please?

_The Tomahawk._ August 22, 1868.

――――

The following excellent parody has been ascribed to Mr. Andrew Lang:――

MR. TUPPER IN THE CLOUDS.

I, the proverbial philosopher, sing of “electrical storage,” As discovered by Thompson (Sir William), a philosopher whose name is also proverbial. Pride is a horrible sin, and I am no sinner; So I do not hesitate to extend my hand in greeting to Sir William, Trusting that he will not overmuch presume on my affability. Hitherto I have been sorely flouted not only by eagles, But also by that ridiculous creature the gnat――in Latin ’tis called _culex pipiens_. Laughter was good for the gods of Homer; but we are not gods nor Homeric, And laughter too audibly laughed betrays the void mind of the laugher. Therefore, instead of cachinnating, I smile with supernal sarcasm To think that a gnat should dare to flout the stringer of proverbial pearls On silken threads of verse, strengthened and made indestructible By wax from philosophy’s beehive warmed in the sun of experience; But oh! Raptorial Bird! oh, vilest of all the _culicides_! Emblems both of the critics, carnivorous and sharp-stinging reviewers, I will be even with you now. I’ll fly, but not on waxen wings like silly Icarus―― Not in a balloon, or in anything on the levitation principle: That was all very well for Mr. Green and M. de Montgolfier, But I say that levitation is all my eye and my elbow. (Proverb that verges on slang, but its uses hath slang, like adversity). No levitation for me; but force like that of a cannon-ball. Not that I mean to be shot out of a twelve-pounder like Zazel at the Aquarium, But to be propelled by tame gunpowder. “How shall I tame it?” Have you never heard of Carter the Lion King, or of Myn Heer Van Amburg? Did not they tame furious mammalia? And did they tell you how they did it? So shall I not tell you how I intend to tame this “villanous saltpetre.” But I’ll do it, or have it done for me by “our mechanicians,” They shall invent a machine to be loaded with domesticated gunpowder (I patenting the discovery, of course, as the author of the suggestion), That shall enable me to reign in the blue empyrean and complete the subdual of the planet Which is and has been for ever so long my heritage. Wo, then, wo to the gnats! wo to the Jewish-nosed eagle! I put the least first and the greatest last, partly to snub the King of the Falconidæ, And partly because it better suits my rhythm―― I will not say my _metre_ because I condemn all trammels, Pouring out my soul in lines of unequal lengths occasionally relieved by hexameters. Wo, wo, wo! to the eagle! Now you see I reverse things again, Vice-versa-ing my apostrophe――’tis a common trick of versemen and orators―― Soon the eagle of song will soar ever so much higher than the eagle who can’t sing; And he won’t like that――the other eagle I mean, of course: So he’ll let himself fall into the sea like a thunderbolt. (That last idea is not mine, but a Mr. Tennyson’s; have you heard of him?) While as for the gnats――they are the critics, as I hinted just now, you know. Sting for sting, my hearties, then! buzz for buzz! bite for bite! And, as of course I am ever so much bigger than you are, I’ll shrike you as the humming-bird shrikes the honey-bee――that I will.

_St. James’s Gazette._ June 27, 1881.

[Illustration]

WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

By DAVID MALLET. Born, 1700. Died, 1765.

’Twas at the silent solemn hour, When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret’s grimly ghost, And stood at William’s feet.

Her face was like an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud; And clay-cold was her lily hand That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm, Consumed her early prime; The rose grew pale, and left her cheek―― She died before her time.

Awake! she cried, thy true love calls, Come from her midnight grave: Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refused to save.

This is the dark and dreary hour When injured ghosts complain; When yawning graves give up their dead, To haunt the faithless swain.

Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath! And give me back my maiden-vow, And give me back my troth.

Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep? Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep?

How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break.

Why did you say my lip was sweet, And made the scarlet pale? And why did I, young witless maid! Believe the flattering tale?

That face, alas! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red: Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled.

The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear.

But hark! the cock has warned me hence; A long and last adieu! Come see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you.

The lark sung loud; the morning smiled With beams of rosy red; Pale William quaked in every limb, And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place Where Margaret’s body lay; And stretched him on the green-grass turf That wrapped her breathless clay.

And thrice he called on Margaret’s name, And thrice he wept full sore; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, And word spake never more!

A Latin version of this ballad was written by Mr. Vincent Bourne, entitled _Thyrsis et Chloe_. It can readily be found in his works, but the following anonymous French translation is not so well known:――

“L’OMBRE DE MARGUERITE.”

Dans la nuit, à l’heure effrayante Où l’airain frémit douze fois, Des spectres la famille errante Sort des tombeaux à cette voix. Edmond, que le remords agite, Cherchait le sommeil, qui le fuit: L’ombre pâle de Marguerite Vient s’asseoir au pied de son lit.

Regarde, Edmond, c’est moi, dit-elle, Moi qui t’aimais, que tu trompas, Moi dont la tendresse fidèle Vit encore apprès le trépas. J’en ai cru ta fausse promesse, Je t’ai fait maître de mon sort; Hélas! pour prix de ma tendresse Fallait-il me donner la mort?

Jadis de la rose naissante J’avais l’éclat et la fraîcheur: Pourquoi sur sa tige brillante Ton souffle a-t-il séché la fleur? Mes yeux brillaient de tant de charmes, Ingrat, alors que tu m’aimais; Pourquoi donc les noyer de larmes, Pourquoi les fermer à jamais.

Hier dans un palais superbe, Aujourd’hui dans un noir cercueil; Mon asile est caché sous l’herbe, Et ma parure est un linceul. De quel forfait suis-je victime? J’aimai, j’ai cru l’être mon tour; Qui me punit d’un pareil crime? L’objet même de mon amour.

De ton inconstance cruelle Le jour fut à tous deux fatal; Quand ton cœur devint infidèle, Edmond, il se connaissait mal: Tu m’abandonnes, je succombe; Mais enchaîné par le destin, Le remords vient d’ouvrir ma tombe; Tu dois y descendre demain.

J’entends le coq; sa voix encore Pour nous est un signal d’effroi; Je ne dois plus revoir l’aurore, Et c’est la dernière pour toi! Adieu. Celle qui te fut chère Te plaint, te pardonne, et t’attend... L’ombre à ces mots perce la terre, Et disparaît en gémissant.

Edmond immobile, en silence, A vu ce prodige effrayant: De son lit soudain il s’élance, Défiguré, pâle et tremblant. Il court, il cherche Marguerite; Sa voix s’échappe en cris aigus; Sur sa tombe il se précipite; On le relève: il n’était plus!

――――

DR. JOHNSON’S GHOST.[4]

’Twas at the solemn hour of night, When men and spirits meet, That Johnson, huge majestic sprite, Repaired to Boswell’s feet.

His face was like the full-orb’d moon Wrapt in a threatening cloud, That bodes the tempest bursting soon, And winds that bluster loud.

Terrific was his angry look, His pendent eyebrows frown’d; Thrice in his hand he waved a book, Then dashed it to the ground.

“Behold,” he cry’d “perfidious man! This object of my rage: Bethink thee of the sordid plan That form’d this venal page.

“Was it to make this base record That you my friendship sought; Thus to retain each vagrant word, Each undigested thought?

“Dar’st thou pretend that, meaning praise, Thou seek’st to raise my name; When all thy babbling pen betrays But gives me churlish fame?

“Do readers in these annals trace The man that’s wise and good? No!――rather one of savage race, Illib’ral, fierce, and rude:

“A traveller, whose discontent No kindness can appease; Who finds for spleen perpetual vent In all he hears and sees:

“One whose ingratitude displays The most ungracious guest; Who hospitality repays With bitter, biting jest.

“Ah! would, as o’er the hills we sped, And climb’d the sterile rocks, Some vengeful stone had struck thee dead, Or steeple, spar’d by Knox!

“Thy adulation now I see, And all its schemes unfold: Thy av’rice, Boswell, cherish’d me, To turn me into gold.

“So keepers guard the beasts they show, And for their wants provide; Attend their steps where’er they go, And travel by their side.

“O! were it not that, deep and low, Beyond thy reach I’m laid, Rapacious Boswell had e’er now Johnson a mummy made.”

He ceased, and stalk’d from Boswell’s sight With fierce indignant mien, Scornful as Ajax, sullen sprite, By Sage Ulysses seen.

Dead paleness Boswell’s cheek o’erspread, His limbs with horror shook; With trembling haste he left his bed, And burnt his fatal book.

And thrice he called on Johnson’s name, Forgiveness to implore! Then thrice repeated――“Injured fame!” And word――wrote never more.

――――

The following ballad, which was once very popular among the lower orders, is said to be founded on “William and Margaret”:――

GILES SCROGGIN’S GHOST.

Giles Scroggin courted Molly Brown, The fairest wench in all our town, Fol de riddle lol, de riddle lido. He bought her a ring with a posy true, If you loves me, as I loves you, No knife can cut our loves in two. Fol de riddle, etc.

But scissors cuts, as well as knives, And quite unsartain’s all our lives, Fol de riddle, etc. The day they were to have been wed, Fate’s scissors cut poor Giles’s thread, So they could not be mar――ri――ed. Fol de riddle, etc.

Poor Molly laid her down to weep, And cried herself quite fast asleep, Fol de riddle, etc. When standing fast by her bed-post, A figure tall her sight engrossed, It cried, “I be Giles Scroggin’s ghost,” Fol de riddle, etc.

The ghost it said all solemnly, “Oh! Molly, you must go with I, Fol de riddle, etc. All to the grave your love to cool.” Says she, “Why, I’m not dead, you fool,” Says the ghost, says he, “Vy, that’s no rule.” Fol de riddle, etc.

The ghost then seized her all so grim, All for to go along with him, Fol de riddle, etc. “Come, come,” said he, “e’er morning beam.” “I von’t,” says she, and screamed a scream, Then she awoke, and found she’d dream’d a dream. Fol de riddle, de riddle lido.

A POLISHED VERSION.

Young Giles the fair Maria wooed; Flower of the village maidenhood; Heigho, alack, and well-a-day! His pledge this legend bore inlaid,―― Love, that two hearts hath mutual made, Defies the knife of keenest blade; Heigho! &c.

But keen, alas! as knives are shears And dubious all our fleeting years, Heigho! &c. The morn that should have made them one, Fate’s shears the bridegroom’s thread outspun, Sever’d; and bridal there was none, Heigho! &c.

Maria sought her couch to weep; Till grief, exhausted, sank in sleep: Heigho! &c. When stood, her lonely pillow nigh, A figure more than mortal high; And cried――“Behold, my love, ’tis I” Heigho! &c.

All solemnly the spirit said, “Away with me unto the dead,” Heigho! &c. “To cool thy passion in the tomb!” ――“What, ere my days of earthly doom?” “No matter!” cried the shape of gloom, Heigho! &c.

Grimly the phantom clutch’d the fair, To death’s dark realm his prize to bear, Heigho! &c. “Hence! hence!” he cried, “ere morning’s light;” “Begone!” she shriek’d, and with the fright Woke. ’Twas a vision of the night. Heigho! &c.

_Punch._ April 13, 1844.

[Illustration]

The Rev. George Crabbe.

Born December 24, 1754. Died Feb. 3, 1832.

Although the works of this author are now but little read, they were widely popular at the time when the brothers Smith produced _The Rejected Addresses_ in 1812, and naturally Mr. Crabbe’s poetry came in for imitation. Indeed this particular imitation was singled out by Lord Jeffrey as being the best piece in the collection. “It is,” said he, “an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author (Crabbe), and can hardly be said to be in any respect a caricature of that style or manner, except in the excessive profusion of puns and verbal jingles, which are never so thick sown in the original works as in this admirable imitation.”

Even Mr. Crabbe, himself, was amused, he wrote “There is a little ill-nature in their prefatory address; but in their versification they have done me admirably, yet it is easier to imitate style than to furnish matter.”

From this it will be gathered that the prose introduction is as much a parody as the poem, both of which were written by James Smith, who gives the following lines as a fair sample of Mr. Crabbe’s versification:――

“Six years had pass’d and forty ere the six, When time began to play his usual tricks; My locks, once comely in a virgin’s sight, Locks of pure brown, now felt th’ encroaching white; Gradual each day I liked my horses less, My dinner more――I learn’t to play at chess.”

and as to his jingling style he mentions that Crabbe thus describes a thrifty house-wife:――

“Heaven in her eye, and in her hand her keys.”

THE THEATRE.

_A Preface of Apologies._

If the following poem should be fortunate enough to be selected for the opening address, a few words of explanation may be deemed necessary, on my part, to avert invidious misrepresentation. The animadversion I have thought it right to make on the noise created by tuning the orchestra, will, I hope, give no lasting remorse to any of the gentlemen employed in the band. It is to be desired that they would keep their instruments ready tuned, and strike off at once. This would be an accommodation to many well-meaning persons who frequent the theatre, who, not being blest with the ear of St. Cecilia, mistake the tuning for the overture, and think the latter concluded before it is begun.

“――――――――one fiddle will Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still,”

was originally written “one hautboy will;” but, having providentially been informed, when this poem was on the point of being sent off, that there is but one hautboy in the band, I averted the storm of popular and managerial indignation from the head of its blower: as it now stands, “one fiddle” among many, the faulty individual will, I hope, escape detection. The story of the flying play-bill is calculated to expose a practice much too common, of pinning play-bills to the cushions insecurely, and frequently, I fear, not pinning them at all. If these lines save one play-bill only from the fate I have recorded, I shall not deem my labour ill-employed. The concluding episode of Patrick Jennings glances at the boorish fashion of wearing the hat in the one-shilling gallery. Had Jennings thrust his between his feet at the commencement of the play, he might have leaned forward with impunity, and the catastrophe I relate would not have occurred. The line of handkerchiefs formed to enable him to recover his loss is purposely so crossed in texture and materials as to mislead the reader in respect to the real owner of any one of them. For in the statistical view of life and manners which I occasionally present, my clerical profession has taught me how extremely improper it would be, by any allusion, however slight, to give any uneasiness, however trivial, to any individual, however foolish or wicked.

G. C.

THE THEATRE.

Interior of a Theatre described.――Pit gradually fills.――The Check-taker.――Pit full.――The Orchestra tuned.――One fiddle rather dilatory.――Is reproved――and repents.――Evolutions of a Play-bill.――Its final settlement on the Spikes.――The Gods taken to task――and why.――Motley Group of Play-goers.――Holywell Street, St. Pancras.――Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice――not in London――and why.――Episode of the Hat.

’Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, Touch’d by the lamplighter’s Promethian art, Start into light, and make the lighter start; To see red Phœbus through the gallery-pane Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane; While gradual parties fill our widen’d pit, And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.

At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, Distant or near, they settle where they please; But when the multitude contracts the span, And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

Now the full benches to late-comers doom No room for standing, miscall’d _standing room_.

Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks, And bawling “Pit full!” gives the check he takes; Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram, Contending crowders shout the frequent damn, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam.

See to their desks Apollo’s sons repair―― Swift rides the rosin o’er the horse’s hair! In unison their various tones to tune, Murmers the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon; In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Tang goes the harpsicord, too-too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French-horn, and twangs the tinkling harp; Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in, Attunes to order the chaotic din. Now all seems hush’d――but no, one fiddle will Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still. Foil’d in his crash, the leader of the clan Reproves with frowns the dilatory man: Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, Nods a new signal, and away they go.

Perchance, while pit and gallery cry, “Hats off!” And awed Consumption checks his chided cough, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love Drops, reft of pin, her play-bill from above: Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap; But, wiser far than he, combustion fears, And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers; Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl, It settles, curling, on a fiddler’s curl; Who from his powder’d pate the intruder strikes, And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues? Who’s that calls “Silence!” with such leathern lungs? He who, in quest of quiet, “Silence!” hoots, Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

What various swains our motley walls contain!―― Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane; Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court; From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane; The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark, The full-price master, and the half-price clerk; Boys who long linger at the gallery-door, With pence twice five――they want but twopence more; Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.

_Hard is the task who edits――thankless job._[5] A Sunday journal for the fractious mob: With bitter paragraph and caustic jest, He gives to turbulence the day of rest; Condemn’d, this week, rash rancour to instil, Or thrown aside, the next, for one who will: Alike undone or if he praise or rail (For this affects his safety, that his sale) He sinks at last, in luckless limbo set, If loud for libel, and if dumb for debt._

Critics we boast who ne’er their malice baulk, But talk their minds――we wish they’d mind their talk; Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live―― Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary, That for old clothes they’d even axe St. Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Where scowling Fortune seem’d to threaten woe.

John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; But when John Dwyer listed in the blues, Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs’s shoes. Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Up as a corn-cutter――a safe employ; In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred (At number twenty-seven, it is said), Facing the pump, and near the Granby’s Head: He would have bound him to some shop in town, But with a premium he could not come down. Pat was the urchin’s name――a red-hair’d youth, Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat: Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurn’d the one to settle in the two, How shall he act? Pay at the gallery door, Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four? Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, And gain his hat again at half-past eight? Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullins whispers, “Take my handkerchief.” “Thank you,” cries Pat, “but one won’t make a line.” “Take mine,” cried Wilson, and cried Stokes, “Take mine.” A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies. Like Iris’ bow, down darts the painted clue, Starr’d, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.

George Green below, with palpitating hand, Loops the last ’kerchief to the beaver’s band―― Upsoars the prize! The youth with joy unfeign’d, Regain’d the felt, and felt what he regain’d; While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touch’d the ransom’d hat.

――――:o:――――

The First Parody in “Rejected Addresses.”

The very first author selected for imitation by the Smiths was one whose writings have long since been forgotten, and whose name alone is preserved from oblivion by Byron’s lines:――

“Let hoarse Fitzgerald bawl His creaking couplets in a tavern-hall.”

Mr. W. T. Fitzgerald actually sent in a serious address to the Drury Lane Committee on August 31, 1812. It was published, among the other _Genuine Rejected Addresses_, in that year. It contained the following lines:――

“The troubled shade of Garrick, hovering near, Dropt on the burning pile a pitying tear.”

On which Smith remarks, “What a pity, that like Sterne’s Recording Angel, it did not succeed in blotting the fire out for ever! That failing, why not adopt Gulliver’s remedy?” Fitzgerald’s writings do not appear to have attained the dignity of a collected edition, but in the Library of the British Museum a number of his poems and prologues are preserved, from which the following is selected as a fair example of his style. It will also illustrate the humour of the parody.

BRITONS TO ARMS.

_Written by W. T. Fitzgerald, Esq., and recited by him at the meeting of the Literary Fund, July 14._

BRITONS, to arms! of apathy beware, And let your COUNTRY be your dearest care, Protect your Altars! guard your MONARCH’S Throne. The cause of George and Freedom is your own! What! shall that ENGLAND want her SONS support, Whose HEROES fought at CRESSY … AGINCOURT? And when Great MARLBOROUGH led the English Van, In FRANCE, o’er FRENCHMEN, triumphed to a man! By ALFRED’S great and ever honored name! By EDWARD’S Prowess, and by HENRY’S Fame! By all the gen’rous Blood for Freedom shed! And by the ashes of the Patriot Dead! By the Bright Glory Britons lately won, On Egypt’s plains beneath the burning sun.

BRITONS, to arms! defend your Country’s cause; Fight for your King, your Liberties and Laws! Be France defied, her slavish YOKE abhorr’d, And place your safety only on your Sword. The Gallic DESPOT, sworn your mortal FOE, Now aims his last, but his most deadly blow; With England’s plunder tempts his hungry slaves, And dares to brave you on your native waves, If _Briton’s_ rights be worth a _Briton’s_ care, To shield them from the sons of _Rapine_, swear! Then to _Invasion_ be defiance given, Your cause is just, approved by earth and heaven, Should adverse winds our gallant fleet restrain, To sweep his bawbling[6] vessels from the main, And fate permit him on our shores t’advance. The _Tyrant_ never shall return to _France_: Fortune herself shall be no more his friend, And here the history of his crimes shall end, His slaughtered legions shall manure our shore, And _England_ never know Invasion more.

Printed for James Askern, 32, Cornhill, for 1d. each, or 6s. per 100.

Noblemen, magistrates, and gentlemen would do well by ordering a few dozen of the above tracts of their different booksellers, and causing them to be stuck up in the respective villages where they reside, that the inhabitants may be convinced of the cruelty of the Corsican usurper.

――――

LOYAL EFFUSION.

BY W. T. F.

“Quicquid dicunt, laudo: id rursum si negant, Laudo id quoque,” TERENCE.

Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work! God bless the Regent and the Duke of York! Ye Muses! by whose aid I cried down Fox, Grant me in Drury Lane a private box, Where I may loll, cry Bravo! and profess The boundless powers of England’s glorious press; While Afric’s sons exclaim from shore to shore, “Quashee ma boo!”――the slave-trade is no more! In fair Arabia (happy once, now stony, Since ruined by that arch-apostate Bony), A Phœnix late was caught: the Arab host Long ponder’d――part would boil it, part would roast; But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies, Fledged, beak’d, and claw’d, alive they see him rise To heaven, and caw defiance in the skies. So Drury, first in roasting flames consumed, Then by old renters to hot water doom’d By Wyatt’s trowel patted, plump and sleek, Soars without wings, and caws without a beak. Gallia’s stern despot shall in vain advance From Paris, the metropolis of France; By this day month the monster shall not gain A foot of land in Portugal or Spain. See Wellington in Salamanca’s field Forces his favourite general to yield, Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted Marmont Expiring on the plain without his arm on; Madrid he enters at the cannon’s mouth, And then the villages still further south, Base Bonapartè, filled with deadly ire, Sets one by one our playhouses on fire. Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on The Opera House, then burnt down the Pantheon; Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames, Next at Millbank he cross’d the river Thames; Thy hatch, O Halfpenny![7] pass’d in a trice, Boil’d some black pitch, and burnt down Astley’s twice; Then buzzing on through ether with a vile hum, Turn’d to the left hand, fronting the Asylum, And burnt the Royal Circus in a hurry―― (’Twas call’d the Circus then, but now the Surrey). Who burnt (confound his soul!) the houses twain Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane? Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork (God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!) With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas, And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos? Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise? Who fills the butchers’ shops with large blue flies? Who thought in flames St James’s court to pinch? Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch?―― Why he, who, forging for this isle a yoke, Reminds me of a line I lately spoke, “The tree of freedom is the British oak.” Bless every man possess’d of aught to give; Long may Long Tylney Wellesley Long Pole live; God bless the Army, bless their coats of scarlet, God bless the Navy, bless the Princess Charlotte; God bless the guards, though worsted Gallia scoff, God bless their pig-tails, though they’re now cut off; And, oh! in Downing Street should Old Nick revel, England’s prime minister, then bless the devil!

――――:o:――――

GEORGE BARNWELL

In Bishop Percy’s _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_ is the Ballad having this title, which the Bishop states had been printed at least as early as the middle of the 17th century. Upon this Ballad, George Lillo, the dramatist, founded a tragedy, entitled “_The London Merchant_, or the History of George Barnwell,” which was first performed at Drury Lane Theatre, in 1731. Lillo departed from the ballad by making Barnwell die repentant, thereby spoiling his dramatic character, and the piece was faulty in other respects, yet it held the stage for many years, and Mrs. Siddons frequently performed the part of the fair but naughty _Millwood_, and Charles Kemble was considered the best _Barnwell_ ever seen on the boards.

At the time, therefore, that _Rejected Addresses_ were written, and for many years afterwards, _George Barnwell_ was a piece thoroughly familiar to London playgoers, consequently it was quite natural that the topic should be selected for a burlesque, and the following was written by James Smith:――

GEORGE BARNWELL.

George Barnwell stood at the shop-door, A customer hoping to find, sir; His apron was hanging before, But the tail of his coat was behind, sir. A lady, so painted and smart, Cried, Sir, I’ve exhausted my stock o’ late; I’ve got nothing left but a groat―― Could you give me four penn’orth of chocolate? Rum ti, &c.

Her face was rouged up to the eyes, Which made her look prouder and prouder; His hair stood on end with surprise, And hers with pomatum and powder. The business was soon understood; The lady, who wish’d to be more rich, Cries, Sweet sir, my name is Milwood, And I lodge at the Gunner’s in Shoreditch. Rum ti, &c.

Now nightly he stole out, good lack! And into her lodging would pop, sir! And often forgot to come back, Leaving Master to shut up the shop, sir. Her beauty his wits did bereave―― Determined to be quite the crack O, He lounged at the Adam and Eve, And call’d for his gin and tobacco. Rum ti, &c.

And now――for the truth must be told, Though none of a ’prentice should speak ill―― He stole from the till all the gold, And ate the lump sugar and treacle. In vain did his master exclaim, Dear George, don’t engage with that dragon; She’ll lead you to sorrow and shame, And leave you the devil a rag on, Your rum ti, &c.

In vain he entreats and implores, The weak and incurable ninny, So kicks him at last out of doors, And Georgy soon spends his last guinea. His uncle, whose generous purse Had often relieved him, as I know, Now finding him grow worse and worse, Refused to come down with the rhino. Rum ti, &c.

Cried Milwood, whose cruel heart’s core Was so flinty that nothing could shock it, If ye mean to come here any more, Pray come with more cash in your pocket: Make Nunky surrender his dibs, Rub his pate with a pair of lead towels, Or stick a knife into his ribs―― I’ll warrant he’ll then show some bowels. Rum ti, &c.

A pistol he got from his love―― ’Twas loaded with powder and bullet; He trudged off to Camberwell Grove, But wanted the courage to pull it. There’s Nunky as fat as a hog, While I am as lean as a lizard; Here’s at you, you stingy old dog! And he whips a long knife in his gizzard. Rum ti, &c.

All you who attend to my song, A terrible end of the farce shall see, If you join the inquisitive throng That follow’d poor George to the Marshalsea. If Milwood were here, dash my wigs, Quoth he, I would pummel and lam her well; Had I stuck to my prunes and figs, I ne’er had stuck Nunky at Camberwell. Rum ti, &c.

Their bodies were never cut down; For granny relates with amazement, A witch bore ’em over the town, And hung them on Thorowgood’s casement. The neighbours, I’ve heard the folks say, The miracle noisily brag on; And the shop is, to this very day, The sign of the George and the Dragon. Rum ti, &c.

In 1858 the late Mr. Shirley Brooks chose this burlesque as the basis of a parody he composed on the ecclesiastical procedure adopted by Samuel Wilberforce, then Bishop of Oxford. It contains nothing more offensive to religion than the somewhat familiar address to the Bishop as _Soapy Sam_, the origin of which _sobriquet_ is lost in doubt. It is said, that when asked its meaning by a lady, Bishop Wilberforce replied, “I believe they call me ‘Soapy Sam’ because I am so often in hot water, and always come out with clean hands.”

SAM.

_A Melancholy but Instructive Narrative, Founded on Facts, and on James Smith’s “George Barnewell”_

Sam Soapey stood at his Palace door, Promotion hoping to find, Sir; His Apron it hung down before, And the tail of his wig behind, Sir. A Lady, so painted and smart, Cried “Pardon my little transgression, But I know what is next to your heart, Now, what do you think of Confession?” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.

Her face was rouged up to the eyes, And red was her ladyship’s toggery, And folks who are thought to be wise, Recognised a professor of roguery. A bundle of Keys at her waist―― Says she, “I can help you, Sir, that I can, In the South I am very much graced, And I live at a place called the Vatican.” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.

Her language his wits did bereave, She proceeded to carney and gabble on, And at last (which you’d hardly believe) He smirked at the Lady of Babylon. Says he, “I should get in a scrape, Could my late and respectable Sire hark; He’d frown should a Wilberforce ape A sleek Ultramontanist hierarch.” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.

Says she, “Don’t be frightened at names, You’ve always to Rome had a tendency! Stand up for Confession; your game’s To struggle for priestly ascendency. Cut the priest a back-way to the house, And you’ve cut through the Isthmus of Darien: Fathers, husbands, are not worth a souse After that, my fine stout-legged Tractarian.” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.

* * * * *

This counsel he took from his love, And in Parliament’s very next Session He pleaded, with voice of a dove, For “the excellent rite called Confession.” But Premiers are wary, and _they_ can see Whom ’tis expedient to fish up; Lo! an archiepiscopal vacancy, And Sam is _not_ made an Archbishop. Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.

“If that Woman were here, dash my wigs.” Cried he, “I’d come Luther and Knox at her, I’d slate the old mother of prigs, And raise my episcopal _vox_ at her. I fancied I’d made such a rare book, And now I’m in just the wrong box for ’t; Had I struck to my Anglican Prayer-book, I should not have stuck Bishop of Oxford.” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.

MORAL.

(_Too obvious to need telling._)

――――

The burlesque of _George Barnwell_ is the last of the poetical extracts that need be quoted from _The Rejected Addresses_. Those already given in this collection consist of the imitations of W. T. Fitzgerald, William Wordsworth, Lord Byron, Thomas Moore, Robert Southey, Walter Scott, M. G. Lewis, S. T. Coleridge and George Crabbe. Those not given consist of a few prose imitations (William Cobbett and Dr. Johnson), and two or three parodies of second-rate and almost forgotten authors.

[Illustration]

MISSIONARY HYMN. (By Dr. REGINALD HEBER, 1783-1826,)

From Greenland’s icy mountains, From India’s coral strand, Where Afric’s sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river, From many a balmy plain, They call us to deliver Their land from error’s chain.

What though the spicy breezes Blow soft on Ceylon’s isle, Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile; In vain, with lavish kindness, The gifts of God are strewn, The Heathen in his blindness, Bows down to wood and stone.

* * * * *

SONG BY PRINCE GORTSCHAKOFF.

From Cashmere’s icy mountains, From Bombay’s coral strand, Where Cawnpore’s sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand; From many a Punjab river, From groves where fire-flies flame, To make us Russians shiver, The Indian regiments came.

In ships across the ocean, The dusky warrior steam’d. ’Twas Beaconsfield’s own notion, And this is what he dream’d: That at the apparition Of cut-throats such as these, My master would petition For mercy on his knees.

Yes, he was so benighted This Earl, who governs you, To think we should be frighted, At his assorted crew. Sensation, too, sensation! That also was his game; And o’er the British nation The Jingo spirit came.

Tell, his’try, tell the story, Whilst future ages jeer, Of how to gain fresh glory He brought these Indians here. And how, when once at Malta, They back again were sped; Whilst England paid for carriage A hundred pounds per head!

_Truth Christmas Number._ December 1879.

――――

TO ENGLISH WOMEN MISSIONARIES.

From Greenland’s icy mountains, From India’s coral strand, Comes no distinct appealing For England’s helping hand; The poor benighted savage Compelled unclothed to dwell, Without our cost-price Bibles Enjoys life very well.

What though the spicy breezes Are very nice and dry, And every prospects pleases A missionary eye? In vain with lavish kindness The Gospel tracts are strewn, The heathen in his blindness Does better left alone.

A happy, soulless creature, He lives his little day; Directly on conversion, It seems, ensues decay. Why seek the cheerful heathen To tell him he is vile? Ah, leave him gay and godless Upon his palmy isle.

* * * * *

From England’s greatest city, Through all her pomp and pride, One bitter cry rings ever, Unsilenced, undenied: From Stepney’s crowded alleys, From Bethnal Green’s close lanes, Men call us to deliver Souls from the Devil’s chains.

O women! sister women―― Do _you_ not hear the cry Of these who sin and suffer―― Are damned in life, and die: Of these whose lives are withered, Whose youth is trampled down, The victims and the scourges Of every Christian town?

By life that is――and is not―― By life that is to be, By baby lips yet speechless, By all life’s misery―― They call: their lives adjure you By all your lives hold dear―― What _foreign_ mission calls you? Your mission work is _here_!

E. NESBIT.

_The Weekly Dispatch._ July 10, 1887.

――――

A NEW WAR SONG.

From Chatham’s pleasant mountains, From Aldershot’s bare plain, Where the British flag floats proudly, And the lion shakes his mane. From barracks and from messroom Resounds the bugle’s notes, Calling to arms, to cross the seas And cut some heathen throats.

What tho’ from every pulpit We daily Christ proclaim And bend before the Prince of Peace, And worship in His name, In vain in adoration We bow before the throne, _These heathens are possessed of lands_ That we must make our own.

Blow, gently blow, ye breezes, Let the war smoke upward curl While bathed in blood and glory Stands forth our Premier Earl; But weep, oh! weep for England, And bow the head in shame, For sullied is her honour, And tarnished is her name.

J. C. A.

_The Bath Herald._ May, 1879.

[Illustration]

The Imperial Institute Ode.

After tremendous efforts to “puff” the so-called “Imperial Institute” scheme into public favour, and when the subscriptions were coming in but slowly, the ceremony of laying the foundation stone was gone through, with all the solemn mummery customary on such occasions. An Ode was necessary, and one was accordingly written by Mr. _Lewis_ Morris, and set to music by Sir Arthur Sullivan. The Ode contained the usual commonplaces, expressed in language more than usually dull and meaningless, as the following extracts will suffice to show:――