V.

Thou, for whose fear the figurative crow I eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin! Thee will I show up――yea, up will I shew Thy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin. Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray! Thou dost _not_ “keep a first-class house,” I say! It does not with the advertisements agree. Thou lodgest a Briton with a puggaree, And thou hast harboured Jacobses and Cohns, Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee! Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

_Envoy._

Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye: She hath stolen my trousers, that I may not flee Privily by the window. Hence these groans, There is no fleeing in a _robe de nuit_. Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

H. C. BUNNER.

――――:o:――――

Poets of the Æsthetic School

About ten years ago London Society was divided into two hostile Camps, one known as the _Æsthetes_, the other as the _Philistines_. Neither title was correct, nor very expressive, but each conveyed a certain meaning which even now could not be briefly expressed in more simple language.

The _Æsthetes_ were originally a small body of artists and poets, belonging to what was called the Pre-Raphaelite school, who strove to educate the English people up to a certain standard in art and culture.

All the men who founded this school subsequently became eminent in their professions, but they were, for many years, subjected to the ridicule and criticisms of the Philistines.

Yet it is probable that most of this opposition was directed less against the men of genius who actually created Pre-Raphaelitism, than against those too ardent devotees of the new fashion, who carried all its dictates to the extreme, and frequently turned the true and the beautiful into the absurd and grotesque by their exaggerations in dress, language, and deportment.

On the other hand many of the opponents of Æstheticism were those who having seen Du Maurier’s caricatures in _Punch_, and witnessed Burnand’s vamped up old comedy _The Colonel_, or Gilbert & Sullivan’s _Patience_, thought themselves fully qualified to jeer at the “consummate” the “utter” and the “too-too,” without having either read a poem by Swinburne, or Morris, or having seen a painting by Burne-Jones or Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

This opposition did some good in its day, for although _Æstheticism_ eventually triumphed, only the beautiful that it created has survived, the lank and melancholy maidens, and the “Grosvenor-Gallery” young men, have departed, but the revival――the _Renaissance_ in fact――of British Art in Painting, poetry, dress, decoration, and even in house furniture, is an accomplished fact. Much has been written, and remains to be written, on this fascinating topic, but this collection cannot be made the medium for Lectures on Art.

At the risk of appearing egotistical the following little work can be mentioned as conveying useful information on a subject which is certainly worthy of some little study:――

“_The Æsthetic Movement in England_,” by Walter Hamilton. Third edition――London. Reeves and Turner, 1882.

Without further preface a selection of parodies will be given on the works of Rossetti, who was not only a founder of the school, but also one of its most eminent exponents.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

BORN May 12, 1828. | DIED April 9, 1882.

There was a particular metre much affected by this great artist and poet, of which perhaps the best example to be found is in his weird “Sister Helen,” which has been frequently parodied. It commences thus:――

“Why did you melt your waxen man, Sister Helen? To-day is the third since you began.” “The time was long, yet the time ran, Little brother.” (_O Mother, Mary Mother, Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!_)

“But if you have done your work aright, Sister Helen, You’ll let me play, for you said I might.” “Be very still in your play to-night, Little brother.” (_O Mother, Mary Mother, Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!_)

“Oh, the waxen knave was plump to-day, Sister Helen; How like dead folk he has dropped away!” “Nay now, of the dead what can you say, Little brother?” (_O Mother, Mary Mother, What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?_)

* * * * *

“Ah! what white thing at the door has cross’d, Sister Helen? Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?” “A soul that’s lost as mine is lost, Little brother!” (_O Mother, Mary Mother, Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!_)

This, and other poems by Rossetti, such as _Eden Bower_, and _Troy Town_, only revived a very old fashion――the ballad with a refrain or burden.

But when once it _was_ revived so many indifferent poets attempted to utter their little insipidities in the ballad style, that the parodists soon caught the infection. One gentleman furbished up a tremendous ballad which resembled nothing so much as the cry of a costermonger, for its burden, oft repeated, was――

“Apple, and orange, and nectarine,”

whilst one of the evening papers published the following satire on Rossetti’s style:――

AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI.

“Why do you wear your hair like a man, Sister Helen? This week is the third since you began.” “I’m writing a ballad; be still if you can, Little brother, (_O Mother Carey, mother! What chickens are these between sea and heaven?_”)

“But why does your figure appear so lean, Sister Helen? And why do you dress in sage sage, green?” “Children should never be heard, if seen, Little brother! (_O Mother Carey, mother! What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!_”

“But why is your face so yellowy white, Sister Helen? And why are your skirts so funnily tight?” “Be quiet you torment, or how can I write, Little brother? (_O Mother Carey, mother! How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven._”)

“And who’s Mother Carey, and what is her train, Sister Helen? And why do you call her again and again?” “You troublesome boy, why that’s the refrain, Little brother! _O Mother Carey, mother! What work is toward in the startled heaven?_”)

“And what’s a refrain? What a curious word, Sister Helen; Is the ballad you’re writing about a sea-bird?” “Not at all! why should it be? Don’t be absurd, Little brother. (_O Mother Carey, mother! Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven._)”

(_A big brother speaketh_:)

“The refrain you’ve studied a meaning had, Sister Helen! It gave strange force to a weird ballàd. But refrains have become a ridiculous ‘fad,’ Little brother. And _Mother Carey, mother_, Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.”

* * * * *

For the remainder of this exquisite parody, readers are referred to Mr. H. D. Traill’s _Recaptured Rhymes_ (London, W, Blackwood & Sons, 1882), in which work it was republished.

――――

EVE. (_An Imitation._)

“Dasz ich genossen des Wissens Frucht, Das kannst du nicht mehr aendern.”――[H. Heine.]

The serpent tempted thee to shame, Mother Eve. God’s direst vengeance on thee came, Mother Eve. And never may we hope to win That golden garden close hedged in From toil and tempest, strife and sin, Mother Eve.

Before thy wondering, wakened eyes, Mother Eve. Clashed shut the gates of Paradise, Mother Eve. Thy wandering feet, thy hands were torn, By briar, wayside weed and thorn, Thy babes in anguish great were born, Mother Eve.

And yet God’s vengeance knew no stay, Mother Eve. Thy first-born did his brother slay, Mother Eve. Died not thy heart for woe and dread, When Abel in thine arms lay dead, And Cain red-handed turned and fled, Mother Eve?

Methinks I hear thee murmur “Nay,” Mother Eve. “Evil and bitter was my day,” Mother Eve. “Evil and full of pain, but still I am Thy judge――work all Thy will―― I judge Thee knowing good from ill.” Mother Eve.

“I stretched mine hand unto Thy tree――” Mother Eve. “Not as the sightless beasts are we――” Mother Eve. “The curse has fallen――let it bide―― I and my children open-eyed Know Thee, and judge, whate’er betide,” Mother Eve.

MABEL PEACOCK.

_Detroit Free Press_, December 5, 1885.

――――

THE POETS AT TEA. _Rossetti, who took six cups of it._

The lilies lie in my lady’s bower, (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady’s head droops like a flower.

She took the porcelain in her hand, (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), She poured; I drank at her command; Drank deep, and now-you understand! (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost).

* * * * *

_The Cambridge Fortnightly._ February, 1888.

――――

A TWILIGHT FANTASY.

A woman stood at a garden gate (_Sing hey, for the distant spreading sail_!) Sing hey, for the dog that hurried by With a kettle tied to his tail.

My goodman skurried adown the road. (_Sing hey, for the joyous drinking bout_!) And after the ochre cur he sped With many a gruesome shout.

“Now why this haste, good neighbour?” she cried; “Why after the dog of the umber tint?” But, waking the echoes with yells, he sped Through the twilight’s gleam and glint.

A smug-face lad looked over the fence (_Sing hey, where the birdlings sing and chirp_,) “Why laughest, good mother!” “I laugh,” said she, “To see yon _ecru_ purp.”

A smile then smilèd the smug-faced lad. (_Sing lack-a-day, for the sunset red_,) “Then laugh no more, good gossip, because The kettle is your’n,” he said.

_The Shooting Times._ February 11, 1887.

――――

THE LAUNDRESS AND THE LAIDY.

All on a sofa fair Ada lay, (_O, for a brandy and soda, she sighed_), It was four in the afternoon, and gay Was the outside world, but Ada must stay In her room, and thus she cried,

“Could I but join the happy throng.” (_And O, for a brandy and soda she sighed_), “That under my windows pass along To Short’s, or to Finch’s, I’d soon be gone, Or to the Inventions glide.”

She took down an “afternoon tea-book” to read, (_O, for a brandy and soda she sighed_), But it interested her little indeed, Such books are tame if you haven’t “teaed.” And no one sat by her side.

She went to the window and gazed at the sky, (_O, for a brandy and soda she sighed_), Then she saw her particular mash pass by, To attract his attention did she try, But in vain, tho’ hard she tried.

Her chloral bottle she took in her hand, (_O, for a brandy and soda she sighed_), “To sleep till the evening will be grand;” And she slept through the strains of a German band, Which was playing in all its pride.

“Why didn’t she go for a stroll?” you say, But, reader, I beg you pause; Her friends on a visit were all away, And her laundress forgot to send home that day Her petticoats, stockings, and pockethandkerchiefs.

_The Sporting Times._ June 20, 1885.

The same paper, for May 23, 1885, contained another very funny parody of Rossetti; but unfortunately it was too suggestive to bear republication here.

It was reserved, however, for that prince of Parodists, Charles S. Calverley, to make the ballad with a refrain supremely ridiculous:――

The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees.

The piper he piped on the hill-top high, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) Till the cow said “I die,” and the goose ask’d “Why?” And the dog said nothing, but search’d for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farm-yard; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) His last brew of ale was a trifle hard―― The connexion of which with the plot one sees.

The farmer’s daughter hath frank blue eyes; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer’s daughter hath ripe red lips; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer’s daughter hath soft brown hair; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And I met with a ballad, I can’t say where, Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

In the second part of this pathetic composition the poet thus describes the melancholy sequel:――

She sat with her hands ’neath her burning cheeks, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; Then she follow’d him out o’er the misty leas.

Her sheep follow’d her, as their tails did them, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And this song is consider’d a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it’s what you please.

When Mr. Calverley composed this burlesque Ballad (which is to be found in full in his _Fly Leaves_, published by G. Bell & Sons), it is probable that he was thinking of one by Mr. Morris, entitled “Two Red Roses across the Moon” commencing “There was a lady liv’d in a hall,” and ending with the refrain which forms the title.

Having once shown how it could be done, other comic writers followed suit, and the burlesque ballads in this style are almost too numerous to be quoted.

YOU, I, AND THE POST.

YOU,――_the British Public_; _I_,――_W. E. G._ _The Post_――_G. P. O._

A statesman sits at Hawarden gate, (_Paper and pens and a bottle of ink_.) A stalwart man with a shapely pate, And brains to spare, as you rightly think.

The live-long day he’s been hacking down trees, (_Paper and pens and two bottles of ink_.) Toughish work, yet he does it with ease, Nor e’en doth, as Milton would phrase it, “swink.”

Who is’t approacheth? ha! ha! The post! (_Paper and pens and a pint of ink._) Of letters and post-cards bearing a host―― Beneath the load he seems ready to sink.

The Statesman opens and reads them all, (_Paper and pens and a quart of ink_.) Quoth he, “I’ll answer them great and small, This very night ere I sleep a wink.”

In he strides to his big bureau, (_Paper and pens and a gallon of ink_.) And answers fourscore letters or so―― (Fourscore’s the minimum number, I think);

Some answered by note, and some by card, (_Paper and pens and a barrel of ink_.) But when the question’s uncommonly hard, The point of the query he’ll deftly shrink.

Oh, the postman puffs, and the postman swears, (_Paper and pens and a sheet of stamps_.) At the load of letters and cards he bears To Hawarden gate in his daily tramps.

Oh, you who of letters and answers are fond, (_Paper and pens and a grey goose quill_.) Write to Hawarden, there beyond―― And an answer you’ll get from the People’s Will!

HUBERT JOHN DE BURGH.

(This talented young author died in 1877, at the early age of thirty-two. The above parody originally appeared in _Yorick_, to accompany a cartoon by Harry Furniss.)

――――

As recently as October 20, 1888, _Punch_ had a similar parody entitled

AGRICULTURE’S LATEST RÔLE. (_A Bucolic Ballad, with a Borrowed Refrain, Dedicated to the British Dairy Farmers’ Association_,)

“Where are you going to, my pretty Maid?” (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_) “I’m going a-milking, Sir;” she said; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_) “For times are bad, and the farm don’t pay. ’Tis Pasture _v._ Arable so men say. If still I’d be prosperous _this_ is the way. (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)

“I’m tired of corn-growing that brings little cash, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_) The old business of Ceres seems going to smash. (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_) Free Trade and the Yankee have finished her clean. From furrow and sheaf there seems little to glean, From ploughed land to pasture I’m changing the scene. (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)

“I hope you’ll allow I look fetching like this, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_) A Dairymaid’s dress suits me sweetly, I wis. (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_) Just twig my short petticoats, look at my pail! The bards are all ready a Milkmaid to hail! I mean making prettiness pay,――shall I fail? (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)

“You’ve been to the Dairy Show, Sir, have you not? (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_) Those churners competitive were a sweet lot. (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_) Miss HOLMES, and Miss KEEL, and Miss BARRON, who won, Seemed not a bit fagged when the business was done. I’m sure Butter-making _looks_ capital fun. (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)”

* * * * *

――――

A CHRISTMAS WAIL. (_Not by Dante Gabriel Rossetti._)

On Christmas day I dined with Brown. (_O the dinner was fine to see!_) I drove to his house, right merrily down To a western square of London town. (_And I moan and I cry woe’s me!_)

We dined off turkey and Christmas beef; (_O the dinner was fine to see!_) My anguish is sore and my comfort brief, And nought but blue pills can ease my grief, (_As I moan and I cry woe’s me!_)

We gorged plum-pudding and hot mince pies, (_O the dinner was fine to see!_) And other nameless atrocities, The weight of which on my――bosom lies. (_And I moan and I cry woe’s me!_)

We drank dry Clicquot and rare old port, (_O the dinner was fine to see!_) And I pledged my host for a right good sort In bumpers of both, for I never thought (_I should moan and I cry woe’s me!_)

* * * * *

But I woke next day with a fearful head, (_O that dinner so fine to see!_) And on my chest is a weight like lead, And I frequently wish that I were dead, (_And I moan and I cry woe’s me!_)

And as for Brown――why the truth to tell―― (_O that dinner so fine to see!_) I hate him now with the hate of hell, Though before I loved him passing well, (_And I moan and I cry woe’s me!_)

_Truth._ December 27, 1883.

――――

One of the most ridiculous features of the so-called Æsthetic movement was, that a number of brainless noodles set to work to write poetry in _serious_ imitation of Swinburne, Rossetti, and Oscar Wilde. The style was a mixture of mediæval Italian and middle English, and the one principle which guided the dolorous singers was, “We must not have any meaning, or, at any rate, the less the better.” “My lady” was addressed in all kinds of rhymes, “Love” was held responsible for legions of complicated woes, green eyes, golden eyes――even orbs “like a cat’s splendid circled eye” were quite in fashion. The recipe for this description of poetry was――Begin with an address to your lady; never mind if you have not one, for that is a mere detail. Represent her as bewitching you with the unutterably weary gaze of her eyes――or eyne――“eyne” is preferable; stick in an old word like “teen” or “drouth” or “wot” or “sooth” or “wearyhead” or “wanhope;” break out with “Lo!” and “Yea!” and “Nay!” and “Ah!” at brief intervals, and be sure to have a weird refrain. This humbug held its own for a while, but a few unsparing satirists dealt with this dreary small-fry of art, and the following, one of the most delightful modern jests was prompted by the school:――

MADONNA MIA.

I would I were a cigarette Between my lady’s lithe sad lips Where Death, like Love, divinely set, With exquisite sighs and sips, Feeds and is fed and is not fain, And Memory married with Regret, And Pleasure amorous of red Pain, In moon-wise musing wax and wane; That with the bitter sweetness of her breath I might somewhile remember and forget (For Life is Love, and Love is Death!) It was my hap――ah well-a-way―― To burn my little hour away!

I would I were a gold jewèl To fleck my lady’s soft lean throat, Where Love, like Death, lies throned to swell A strange and tremulous note Of yearning vague and void and vain, Delight on flame Desire to quell, And Pleasure fearful of red Pain, And dreams fall in to sear and stain; That in the barren blossom of her breath I might be glad we were not one, but twain (For Love is Life, and Life is Death!) And that without me, well-a-way, She could not choose but pass away.

This masterly balderdash has imposed on many people; and the most comic thing in the world is to see an earnest person endeavouring to discover hidden meanings in it.

――――

“_John Bull_” (a London newspaper) for November 8, 1879, contained a long article from which only the following brief notes can be quoted:――

IMMORTAL PICTURES.

Mr. Rossetti has painted a picture, and in an unguarded moment permitted the _Athenæum_ to describe it in the following language.――[_Extract given in full._]

_Apropos_ of the above fragment of art-criticism, a correspondent sends us the following analysis (clipped from a rival journal) of another remarkable picture:――

“It is better to speak the truth at once, and to say that we have in Mr. Symphony Priggins a master as great as the greatest; and in this picture the master-piece of a master; and in this episode of a picture the masterstroke of a master’s master-piece. The sublimity of Buonaroti, the poetic fervour of Raffaelle, the tremulous intensity of Sandro Botticelli, the correggiosity of Correggio have never raised these masters to higher heights than our own Priggins has attained in this transcendent rendering of the Dish running away with the Spoon.

“The artist, like some others of his craft, is, as is known, a poet of no mean pretensions; and he has set forth the inner meaning of his picture in the following lines, which form the motto on its frame:――”

_A Ballad of High Endeavour._

Ah night! blind germ of days to be, Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) What wail of smitten strings hear we? (Ah me; ah me! _Hey diddle dee_!)

Ravished by clouds our Lady Moon, Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) Sinks swooning in a lady-swoon (Ah me! ah me! _Dum diddle dee_!)

What profits it to rise i’ the dark? Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) If love but over-soar its mark (Ah me! ah me! _Hey diddle dee_!)

What boots to fall again forlorn? Ah me! ah me; (Sweet Venus, mother!) Scorned by the grinning hound of scorn, (Ah me! ah me! _Dum diddle dee_!)

Art thou not greater who art less? Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) Low love fulfilled of low success? (Ah me! ah me! _Hey diddle dee_!)

No one we imagine, would have been dull enough to have missed the allegory of Mr. Priggins’ great picture even without such exposition; but many, perhaps, will only feel it after this its setting forth in “perfect music matched with noble words.”

――――

SONG BY MR. JOSEPH HUBERT HILLYER.

Art is to me no intellectual fad; (_A goodly balance is fair to see_!) You don’t catch me o’er culture going mad. (_The rarest of letters are £ s. d.!_) As soon as I could paint I set my heart On making money (else what good is Art?); In painting show-bills ’twas I made my start. (_O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!_)

I found the public vulgar scenes liked best, (_A goodly balance is fair to see_!) And so I painted my great “Crowner’s Quest;” (_The rarest of letters are £ s. d._!) And when its sordid realism took, I gave them next my “Fair at Donnybrook.” And “Tourists up the Rhine with Mr. Cook.” (_O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!_)

These made my name, and then the Starch firm, Plums, (_A goodly balance is fair to see_!) To paint them posters gave me lordly sums; (_The rarest of letters are £ s. d._!) And there was not a hoarding but did bear (Above my name, writ large,) a dainty pair Of damsels, who starched collarettes did wear. (_O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!_)

Since then I’ve turned my art to fresh accounts, (_A goodly balance is fair to see_!) And rival razors puffed for large amounts. (_O, rarest of letters are £ s. d._!) I’ve painted, too, with realistic tricks, “The Penny Steamboat’s Progress” (set of six), From Old Swan Pier, till at Vauxhall she sticks! (_O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!_)

_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1882.

――――

LONDON TOWN. _A Lyric à la Mode._

Kent-born HELEN, England’s pride, (_O London Town_!) Had a waist a world too wide For the height of her heart’s desire. Vinegar she in vain had tried. (_O London Town! Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire_!)

HELEN knelt at Fashion’s shrine, (_O London Town_!) Saying, “A little boon is mine, A little boon, but my heart’s desire. Here me speak, and make me a sign! (_O London Town! Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!_)

“Look! my waist is in excess, (_O London Town_!) I would die to have it less. Shape it to my heart’s desire. Fit for fashionable dress. (_O London Town! Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!_)

“It is moulded like a Greek’s, (_O London Town_!) One of Nature’s spiteful freaks. Pinch it to my heart’s desire: I am full of pains and piques. (_O London Town! Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!_)

“See BELL FANE’S, how slim it is! (_O London Town_!) Eighteen inches at most, I wis! Poisons the cup of my heart’s desire. O that _I_ should suffer this! (_O London Town! Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!_)

“Yea, for straitness here I sue! (_O London Town!_) Antifat I find won’t do; Give me, give me, my heart’s desire, Three inches less, or at least full two.” (_O London Town! Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!_)

(_Eight verses omitted._)

_Punch._ April 24, 1880.

――――

The following rather more serious imitation of Rossetti is from “_The Diversions of the Echo Club_” by Bayard Taylor. Mr. Taylor remarks that Rossetti’s poetry is encumbered with the burden of colour, sensuous expression, and mediæval imagery and drapery; but he forgot to mention that Rossetti wrote as an artist, and that some of his finest poems were written to accompany, and to elucidate, certain of his own pictures.

CIMABUELLA.