Part I
I built myself a lordly picture-place Wherein to play a Leo's part. I said, "Let others cricket, row, or race, I will go in for Art!"
Full of great rooms and small my Palace stood, With porphyry columns faced, Hung round with pictures such as I thought good, Being a man of taste.
The pictures--for the most part they were such As more behold than buy-- The quaint, the queer, the mystic over-much, The dismal, and the dry.
One seemed all black and grey--a tract of mud, One gas-jet glimmering there alone; Above, all fog; below, all inky flood; For subject--it had none.
One showed blue chaos flecked with falling gold. Like Danaë's tower in dark; A painter's splash-board might more meaning hold Than this æsthetic lark.
And one, a phantom form with limbs most lank, Adumbrated in ink and soot; The Genius of Smudge, with spectral shank And unsubstantial boot.
Nor these alone, but many a canvas bare, Fit for each vacuous mood of mind, The gray and gravelike, vague and void, were there Most dismally designed.
* * * * *
Or two wan lovers in a curious fix, Wreathed in one scarf by some queer charm, Upon the margin of a caverned Styx Stood shivering arm-in-arm.
Or by a garden-prop, posed all askew 'Neath apples bronze, with brazen hair, A chalk-limb'd Eve and snake of porcelain blue Exchanged a stony stare.
* * * * *
Nor these alone, but all such legends fair As the vagarious Wagner mind Would pick from Mythus' shadowy realm, were there, With ample space assigned.
To women weird and wondrous, long of jaw, And lank of limb, and greenish as with mould, And full-red lips and shocks of fulvous hair, And raiments strange of fold.
No raven so delighteth in its song, Of sad and sullen monotone, As I to watch those ladies lean and long, And angular of bone.
And to myself I said, "All these are mine. Let the dull world take Nature's part, 'Tis one to me; I hold no thing divine Save this Brown-Jonesian Art,
"Wherein no ROBINSON shall dare to plant His Philistinish hoof, Who feels no mystic mediæval want, But paints in truth's behoof!
"O Mediæval Mystery, be it mine To clasp thee, faint and fain; Sniffing serene at low souls that decline, On sense and meanings plain."
Then my eyes filled, my talk waxed large and dim Of BOTTICELLI'S deathless fame: "Quaint immaturity to reach with him," I cried, "is Art's true aim.
"To plunge, self-blinded, in the mystic past, That makes the present small: If eyes artistic be not backward cast, Why have we eyes at all?"
Punch, July 7, 1877.
Part II
YET oft the riddle of Art's real drift Flashed through me as I sat and gazed. But not the less some season I made shift To keep my wits undazed.
And so I mused and mooned; for three long weeks I stood it: on the fourth I fell. All trace of natural colour fled my cheeks, And I felt--far from well.
* * * * *
Hollow-cheeked, hectic, rufus-headed dames, With opiate eyes, and foreheads all As wan as corpses', but with wings like flames, Glared on me from each wall.
Those fixed orbs haunted me; I grew to hate Those square and skinny jaws, those high-cheek bones. Nocturnes in soot and symphonies in slate Moved me to sighs and groans.
Queer convolutions of dim drapery Inwrapt me like a Nessus-snare. I seemed enmeshed in tangles hot and dry Of copper-coloured hair.
I loathed the pallid Venuses and Eves, Nymph-nudity, and Sorceress and Thrall; The Wings prismatic, the metallic Leaves-- I loathed them one and all.
I howled aloud, "I would no more behold A witch, an angel, or a saint. Aught mediæval-mystic, classic-cold, Or cinque-cento quaint.
"It may be that my taste has come to grief, But if the spectral, dismal, dry, Do constitute 'High Art,' 'tis my belief High Art is all my eye."
So when four weeks were wholly finishéd, I from my gallery turned away. "Give me green leaves and flesh and blood," I said, "Fresh air and light of day. I pine for Nature, sickened to my heart Of the affected, strained, and queer. What was to me Ambrosia of Art Hath grown as drugged small-beer.
"Yet pull not down my galleries rich and rare: When Art abjures the crude and dim, I yet may house the High Ideal there. Purged from preposterous Whim!"
Punch, July 14, 1877.
* * * * *
The following poem appeared in The Times for May 9, 1859, and although not included in the collected works of the Poet Laureate, it has been generally ascribed to his pen. In its warlike promptings, and cheap national bunkum, it resembles the other so-called patriotic songs of this author, of whom nobody ever heard that he took up a rifle for his country, or assisted the Volunteer movement in any way whatever:--
THE WAR.
There is a sound of thunder afar, Storm in the South that darkens the day, Storm of battle and thunder of war, Well, if it do not roll our way. Form! form! Riflemen, form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!
Be not deaf to the sound that warns! Be not gull'd by a despot's plea! Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns? How should a despot set men free? Form! form! Riflemen, form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!
Let your Reforms for a moment go, Look to your butts, and take good aims. Better a rotten borough or so, Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames! Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!
Form, be ready to do or die! Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's! True, that we have a faithful ally,[9] But only the devil knows what he means. Form! form! Riflemen, form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!
T.
* * * * *
INTO THEM GOWN.[10]
A Wicked Parody on
RIFLEMEN FORM.
There was a sound of "Town" from afar, Town in the High that threaten'd a mill, Storm of town, and thunder of gown, And town have got with them "Brummagem Bill." Gown! Gown! into the Town, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them, Gown.
Be not afraid of the peelers' staves, Be not gulled by a proctor's plea, Velvetty arms are for flunkies, my braves, Why should a proctor stop our spree? Gown! Gown! into the Town, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them, Gown.
Leave your wines for a moment or so. Double your fists for the State and the Church, Better the purple claret should flow, Than "La Belle Science" be left in the lurch. Gown! Gown! into the Town, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them Gown.
Sweep! march ahead, look about, take care, Deal black eyes and the bloody nose; True that we have an excellent mayor, Butt him again, and down he goes. Gown! Gown! into the Town, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them, Gown.
College Rhymes, 1861.
* * * * *
The Poet Laureate has been subjected to much ridicule for the change which has of late years been apparent in the tone of his writings, and his poem, "Lady Clara Vere de Vere," has especially been seized on as the vehicle for many malicious parodies directed against the fulsome adulation of Royalty, contained in his later poems.
It must be remembered that "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" was written more than fifty years ago, when Alfred Tennyson was young, unknown, and unpensioned. Like many of his early poems, it contains uncomplimentary allusions to our hereditary aristocracy, into whose ranks he has only recently procured admission.
The heartless coquette, Lady Clara, is "the daughter of a hundred Earls," and in her name the poet actually selected one of the oldest in the English nobility on which to vent his indignation. The Vere (or De Vere) family is of great antiquity, once holding the ancient Earldom of Oxford, and as far back as 1387 one of these Earls of Oxford was created Duke of Ireland, and Marquis of Dublin. It is certain the De Veres were noble in the time of William I., and their pedigree has even been traced to a much earlier period. "De Vere" still survives as one of the family names of the Duke of St. Albans. The first Duke of St. Albans (illegitimate son of Charles II. and Nell Gwynn, the orange girl), married Diana de Vere, eldest daughter and heiress of Aubrey de Vere, the 20th and last Earl of Oxford.
CAPTAIN FALCON OF THE GUARDS.
I.
Captain Falcon of the Guards, How nice you thought to do me brown; You thought that I'd accept a bill For discount, when you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: The black-leg of a hundred "hells," Your friendship's not to be desired.
II.
Captain Falcon of the Guards, I know you thought to get my name; Your cunning was no match for mine, Too wide-awake to play your game. Nor would I write for your delight A name the Jews ne'er saw before-- My simple name across a bill Is worth a hundred pounds or more.
III.
Captain Falcon of the Guards, Some softer pupil you must find, For were you Colonel of your troop, I'd shun you still, and all your kind. You thought to've seen me jolly green; A plump refusal's my reply: The army agents in Craig Court Are not more up to you than I.
IV.
Captain Falcon of the Guards, You put strange memories in my head; Not thrice the bill had been renewed When I beheld young Pigeon fled. Your crack turn-outs, your drinking bouts, A fine acquaintance you may be; But there was that across the bill, That he had hardly cared to see.
V.
Captain Falcon of the Guards, When first he met the gov'nor's view, He had the passions of his kind-- He spake some certain truths of you. Indeed, I heard one bitter word About a certain game at cards, Which, should it e'er get noised abroad, Would cook your goose at the Horse Guards.
VI.
Captain Falcon of the Guards, There stands a bailiff in your hall; Tradesmen are knocking at your door: Pigeon no longer pays for all. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his run of luck, And, last, you fairly stripped him clean, And sought some other bird to pluck.
VII.
Trust me, Falcon of the Guards, That bill to pay he never meant; The grand old Judge who tried the cause Smiled at your claim for money lent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me These promised pounds are not bank-notes; Gold sovereigns are more than words, And copper pence than paper groats.
VIII.
I know you, Falcon of the Guards; You're linked with many a scoundrel crew, Whose nights are spent in playing deep-- Would that your play was honest too! Be rogue, you must; spurned with mistrust, Cash is no longer raised with ease; Your credit, has it sunk so low, You needs must play such pranks as these?
IX.
Captain Falcon of the Guards, If tin be needful at your hand, Are there no money lenders left, Nor any Jews within the land? Oh! take the bill-discounters in, Or try the legal shark to do; Pray write a promissory-note-- And let the foolish Pigeons go.
The Puppet Show, July 8, 1848.
* * * * *
THE RUSSIAN CZAR.
Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar! On me you shall not play the fool; You thought to make a tool of me Before you occupied Stamboul. You drew your plan en gentleman, But I was not to be deceived; A Russian Czar's a Russian Czar-- You are not one to be believed.
* * * * *
Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar! Some softer envoy you must gloze, For were you Emperor of the world, I would not stoop to tricks like those. You set a cunning trap for me, But I was cunning in reply; The monjeike at your palace gate Was not more down to you than I.
* * * * *
But trust me, ruthless Russian Czar! Though heaven above be brightly blue, 'Tis writ upon your palace walls-- Dark is the doom prepared for you! Howe'er it be, it seems to me The truly great are truly good; God watches o'er those minarets When Christian faith sheds Turkish blood.
I know you, haughty Russian Czar! You sigh to leave your frozen towers; Short-sighted are your bloated eyes, Which strain to feast on Moslem bowers. You move by stealth through boundless wealth; Your very nobles are o'erawed; You do so little good at home, You needs must play such pranks abroad.
Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar! If power be heavy on your hands, Are there no wretches in your realm, Nor any slaves upon your lands? Oh teach your monjeiks how to read, Emancipate your serfs; but no-- First pray to have a human heart, And let the turban'd Moslem go.
Diogenes, April, 1854.
(This parody contained nine verses in all.)
* * * * *
LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE;
OR, RUSTIC ADMIRATION.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere, The country sun has made you brown, And now they tell me that you start To-morrow afternoon for town; Ah! how I sighed when I descried Your lovely form beside the stream The other day when on my way I passed with Farmer Jackson's team!
Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I wish that you would change your name For such a humble one as mine: But no--you'd think it quite a shame; So I must be content to take My choice of humbler maiden's charms-- Must marry someone who can bake, And has a sturdy pair of arms.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some "Lord Dundreary" you must find; Our rustic bread and cheese and beer Would hardly suit your taste refined. If I should write you of my love, And wait outside for a reply, The lion on your old stone gates, Would talk of verdure in his eye.
* * * * *
Lady Clara Vere de Vere, They say--and really p'rhaps they're right-- That I had better give you up, And marry pretty Sally White; You are a swell--she loves me well, And then her cooking is so good-- Jam tarts are more than coronets, And elder wine than Norman blood!
SPHINX, CHRIST'S COLL., CAMBRIDGE.
College Rhymes, 1868.
* * * * *
LADY CLARA IN THE SOUTH.
"Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You whom the Laureate makes attacks on, If your papa were not a peer, If you were not an Anglo-Saxon, In short, if 'twere not too absurd, To think of you where aught of trade is, I'd almost say, upon my word, I'm looking at you now in Cadiz."
Here follow five other verses descriptive of a Spanish coquette, concluding:--
"Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I don't believe femme souvent varie, Your sex are all the same, I fear, From Timbuctoo to Tipperary."
MAXWELL REILLY.
Kottabos, Dublin 1870.
* * * * *
Another parody of "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" appeared in Funny Folks, April 10, 1875, entitled "The Vicar's Surplice." It was addressed to a Rev. Mr. Mucklestone, who had declined to pay the charges of his laundress, a lady rejoicing in the euphonious name of Gubbins, who resided at Haseley, in Warwickshire. The subject is somewhat wanting in dignity for poetical treatment. The following is the first of six verses:--
"Reverend Mr. Mucklestone, Of me you shall not win renown; You thought to have your surplice washed For nothing, but it won't go down. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled, Each time your surplice had a 'rense,' I charged, and felt quite justified, The modest sum of eighteenpence."
* * * * *
A MAY DREAM OF THE FEMALE EXAMINATION.
If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, For to-morrow in the senate-house at nine I must appear: To-morrow for all womankind will be a glorious day, And I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.
There's many a blue, blue stocking, but none so blue as I; There's not a girl amongst them all with me can hope to vie: There's none so sharp as little Alice, not by a long, long way, And I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say,
I lie awake all night, mother, but in the morn I sleep, And dream of Virgil, Euclid, Dons, all jumbled in a heap, And the letters in the Euclid dance about like lambs at play: O, I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.
As I came by King's Chapel, whom do you think I saw, But Andrew Jones de Mandeville Fitzherbert Aspenshaw! He thought of that hard problem I gave him yesterday; For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.
He thought me such a bore, mother, for he couldn't get it right, To see him puzzle o'er it was such a funny sight; But not on such a dolt as that I'd throw myself away! For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o the list, they say.
They say he is fond-hearted, but that can never be: He can't get through his "Littlego," then what is he to me? There's many a Senior wrangler who'll woo me in the May, For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.
Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the gate, And, till they give the questions out, at the window she must wait; And when she's got them, back to you, mother, she'll haste away, And I m to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.
In the papers country parsons have been writing lots of trash: They say this scheme for us, mother, is sure to come to smash; And agèd Dons all shake their heads, and say it will not pay; But I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.
If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, I'd something more to say, mother, but my head is not quite clear; For I always have a headache when I put my books away; But I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list they say.
* * * * *
"I thought to have gone down before, but still up here I am, And still there's hanging o'er me that horrible Exam. They said I should be top, mother; but then I'd such bad luck, Though I went in for honours--I only got a pluck!"
X. Y. B., CHRIST'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
College Rhymes, 1865.
* * * * *
MRS. HENRY FAWCETT ON THE UNIVERSITY EDUCATION OF WOMEN, APRIL, 1884.
"That large numbers of women--numbers that every year are rapidly increasing--demand a University training is not a matter of controversy; it is a simple fact. This training is already offered to them by University College, London, and by Cambridge University. The hall-mark of the degree is offered to them by the University of London, and a certificate of having passed the Tripos Examinations (almost as valuable as a degree) is offered to them by the University of Cambridge. The last Census shows that there were in Great Britain and Ireland more than 120,000 women teachers. To many of these a University degree or certificate is of the highest professional importance. This is a question to many women, not of sentiment, but of bread. Those whose generosity has provided scholarships, exhibitions, and a loan fund for women at Cambridge could prove how invaluable to many a woman a University training is. Equipped with her University certificate she can at once obtain a situation, and command a much more adequate remuneration for her services. Cambridge has had twelve years' experience of the presence of women students resident in Newnham and Girton Colleges. They number now in the two Colleges about 150. Nearly all the professors' lectures are open to them; they attend some of the lectures given in College rooms. When the experiment was first started at Cambridge there is little doubt that the bulk of the residents thought the presence of women students objectionable and alarming. But the fears at first entertained were at Cambridge so entirely removed by experience that when, in 1881, the question had to be decided by the Senate of opening the Tripos examinations to the students of Girton and Newnham, only thirty members of the Senate were found to oppose it, while those who supported it were so numerous that it was impossible to record all the votes within the time and under the conditions prescribed. It was estimated that about 500 members of the Senate came up to Cambridge to vote in favour of the proposal. More than 300 actually voted.
* * * * *
The two Parodies, from which the following extracts are taken, appeared in The Porcupine, a Liverpool comic paper.
They refer to the Cart Horse procession held in Liverpool on May-day, and describe, with tolerable accuracy, the scenes of rough revelry and noisy merriment which this carnival gives rise to. These compositions are merely quoted as curiosities, possessing, as they do, every attribute which should be studiously avoided in a parody. They are slangy and vulgar, more especially in the omitted verses, without being either humorous or grotesque; they debase the memory of a really beautiful poem by the mere trick of repetition of a catch-phrase and some slight imitation of its metre. The subject chosen is low and commonplace, which might, perhaps, have been excused, had the description of its unpleasant details been enlivened by one spark of wit, or genuine originality. To the lovers of an original poem such Parodies must be offensive; whilst to those who delight in a really clever burlesque, such things as these can afford no gratification, and only tend to bring true Parody into disrepute.
THE DRAY QUEEN.
A Car-men on the May-day Carnival, after the Poet Lorry-ate.
YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear! To-morrow'll be the liveliest time of all the glad New Year; Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.
There'll be many a black, black eye, they say, and many a lively shine With Margaret and Mary, and Kate and Caroline; But none can lick this little Alice, in all the court, they say; So I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.
I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake If you do not call loud and give me, too, a jolly good shake; As I must buy some bonnet-flowers and sky-blue ribbons gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.
As I came up our alley, whom think ye I should see? But Robin leaning on Chisenhale Bridge, as screwed as he could be; He had been cleaning his harness, mother, and drinking all the day; But I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.
You know my Robin drives a dray, a heavy brewer's cart; To-morrow with his handsome team of horses he will start A-roaming up and down the streets, loafing about all day, And I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.
To-morrow I'll get out of pawn my bran-new winsey frock, For Robin he is sure to wear a reg'lar snow-white smock; His dray is cleaned and painted up, and now looks very gay, And I must be clean on the Dray, mother, I must be clean on the Dray.
The horses' tails all nicely combed, with ribbons will be decked, Upon the shining harness not a smirch you can detect, The very brutes they seem to feel it is the first of May, And I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.
Upon the barrels I'll sit perched, the barrels all so full Of smashing stuff they sell for beer, and give you the long pull. My Robin rarely touches beer--for 'Rum's my drink,' he'll say-- But I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.
Through Lime-street, Lord-street, we'll parade each leading thoroughfare, While the spectators rival teams and turn-outs will compare, On brewers' and on millers' carts the brazen bands will play, And I'll be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'll be Queen o' the Dray.
* * * * *
For hours and hours we'll roam about, until the team it tires, And Robin will imbibe more rum than he actually requires; At many a 'public' he will stop a-moistening of his clay, And I'll be the Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'll be the Queen o' the Dray.
* * * * *
So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear. If I don't seem to hear you, give me a smack upon the ear; To-morrow'll be of all the year, the maddest, merriest day, For I'm to be the Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.
* * * * *
THE DRAY QUEEN.
(A Sequel to last May-day's Carol, by Our Own Poet Lorry-ate, Author of "I'm A-float," &c.)
IF you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the carters' cheer; It is the last of the turn-outs that I may ever see, For Robin he lays me low with a kick--and thinks no more of me.
Last May we had a reg'lar spree, we had such a jolly day, And Robin, who drove a brewer's cart, he made me Queen o' the Dray; And we danced and sung and got mad drunk on Walker's sixpenny hops, Till the Charleys come at the row we made, and every one of us cops.
And lugs us off to chokee, mother, and keeps us there all night, As drunken and disorderlies--both women and men were tight-- And Raffles, the beak, next morning, was in a terrible way-- Ten shillin' we had to pay, mother, ten shillin' and costs to pay.
And in default of payment,--our cash we had spent in ale,-- That Raffles he gave us all a week within sweet Walton gaol, Where soon we learnt to pick oakum (the skin's off my fingers still), And Robin did "Sich a gettin' upstairs" upon the revolving mill.
* * * * *
The end of it was, he axed me, as I'd been Queen of his Dray, If I would marry a scavenger as never did work by day, And though his wages was but low--a matter o' twenty-five bob-- Before the month o' May was out we settled the blessed job.
At first my Robin was very kind and gentle, so to speak, He never got drunk and kicked me--not more than twice a week, And of his weekly wages, no matter what else he did, He never would spend on pay-nights more than eighteen bob or a quid.
* * * * *
And after that--it's a month ago--my Robin got much worse, 'Twould make your hair just stand on end to hear him swear and curse, He never gets drunk as he used to do--that's once or twice in a week-- He's never properly sober, on me all his rage he'll wreak.
When he comes home of a morning, it's rarely he goes to bed, He takes to drinking about all day, and hammerin' me instead, And well I know my husband's hand, it's weight I often feel, I wouldn't be lyin' so low, mother, if not for my husband's heel.
The brewers' carts and the scavengers' to-morrow will be gay, The horses all with ribands decked will walk in grand array, The Corporation carters and their wives will have a spread, And get their annual dinner 'neath the great Haymarket shed.
* * * * *
Good-night, dear mother, call me before the day is born; I'd like to see the carters a-marching in the morn; The pubs, are closing early, very early, mother dear, So, if you've got any coppers left, just go for a quart of beer!
* * * * *
THE MAY QUEEN.
(New Version, adapted to existing Climatic Conditions).
[CONSIDERING apology superfluous, Mr. Punch offers none, as the Poet Laureate will doubtless approve the modification of his beautiful lines, rendered needful by recent meteorological conditions.]
YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow'll be the tryingest time of all the Spring, this year-- Of all the Spring, this year, mother, the dreariest, dreadfullest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.
There'll be many a red, red nose, no doubt, but none so red as mine; For the wind is still in the East, mother, and makes one peak and pine: And we're going to have six weeks of it, or so the prophets say say-- And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.
I sleep so sound all night, mother, I am sure I shall never wake. So you'd better call me loud, mother, and perhaps you'll have to shake: I shall want some coffee hot and strong, before I'm called away, To shiver as Queen o' the May, mother, to shiver as Queen o' the May.
As I was coming home to-night, whom think you I should see But DOCTOR SQUILLS! And he saw that my nose was as red as red could be; And he said the weather was cruel sharp, that I'd better stay away,-- But I'm chosen Queen o' the May, mother, so I must be Queen o' the May.
The honeysuckle round the porch is white with sleety showers, And, though they call it the month of May, the hawthorn has no flowers; And the ice in patches may yet be found in swamps and hollows gray,-- Ain't it nice for the Queen o' the May, mother, so nice for the Queen o' the May?
The East wind blows and blows, mother, on my nose I follow suit, For my influenza's so very bad, and I've got a cough to boot; Perhaps it will rain and sleet, mother, the whole of the livelong day, Yet, I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother; I must be Queen o' the May.
I've not the slightest doubt, mother, I shall come home very ill, And then there'll be bed for a week or more, and a long, long, doctor's bill; And with prices up and wages down however will father pay? But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother--oh bother the Queen o' the May!
So please wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, That I may look out some winter wraps, fit for the spring this year. To-morrow of this bitter "snap," I'm sure 'twill be the bitterest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May."
Punch, May 12, 1877.
* * * * *
Truth had a long parody describing the visit in 1877 of Dom Pedro, Emperor of Brazil, whose early rising, and insatiable appetite for sight-seeing were the topics of conversation. Two verses are sufficient to indicate the style:--
THE SIGHT-SEEING EMPEROR.
IF you're waking, call me early, "Boots," not later, please, than four, And if you're passing earlier, pray rat-tat at my door; But stay I have so much to do, that p'rhaps 'twill better be, Not to depend on you at all, but call myself at three.
* * * * *
I cannot, though an Emperor, stay quietly at home, Some impulse irresistibly makes me for ever roam; Each week it holds me tighter still beneath its mystic thrall, Till soon I am afraid I shall not eat or sleep at all.
Truth, June 21, 1877.
Another parody of the same original, called The Business of Pleasure, appeared in Truth, May 9, 1878.
* * * * *
THE PENGE MYSTERY TRIAL.
YOU must come and dress me early, very early, Simmons, mind! For to-morrow'll be the summing-up, and I must not be behind; Of all this jolly trial, I'm told, to-morrow'll be the day, So be sure you call me early, Simmons; now attend to what I say!
* * * * *
The judge means hanging, so they say, and when the sentence's pass'd, There's sure to be an awful scene, more curious than the last; P'raps the men will have hysterics--that would be fun to see! And Alice Rhodes may have a fit. Oh! how jolly it will be!
So you must wake and call me early, Simmons, call me early, Simmons, mind! Or I'll give you a month's warning if you are at all behind! For to-morrow'll be, of all the trial, the awfullest jolliest day, For I think all four will be hanged, Simmons; all four will be hanged, they say!
Truth, October 4, 1877.
* * * * *
THE WELSHER'S LAMENT.
(On the Suppression of Suburban Race Meetings).
May, 1879.
IF yer passin', knock me up, Bill; knock me up, old cock, d'yer yere; For to-morrer's Kingsbury meetin', is the last there'll be, I fear; Of all suburbin races, the werry last they say, For that Anderson in Parlyment, 'as contrived to get 'is way. It's ter'ble rough on us, Bill; on us, an' all our pals, As 'asn't got no tickets for that bloomin' Tattersall's; For 'ow without these meetin's our livin's were to get, Is a rayther ticklish problim, as I 'avent worked out yet.
Truth, February 21, 1878.
* * * * *
THE MODERN MAY QUEEN.
(The Result of the First Fortnight).
DON'T wake and call me early, pray don't call me, mother dear, To-morrow may be the coldest day of all this cold New Year; Of all this wintry year, mother, the wildest stormiest day, And we have had fires in May, mother, we have had fires in May.
I sleep so sound at night, mother, that I don't want to wake, With the horrid thermometer standing at what seems a sad mistake; But none so wise as those who read the weather forecasts, they say; Shall we have more fires in May, mother? must we have more fires in May?
A storm is coming across, mother, the New York Herald has said, And, if you please, I'd rather lie as long as I like in bed; So bother the knots and garlands, mother, and all the foolish play, If we're to have fires in May, mother, why--we must have fires in May.
Punch, May 28, 1881.
The following parody appeared originally in a clever little Cambridge University Magazine, entitled Light Green, which has long been out of print. Light Green contained many excellent parodies, notable amongst them being:--The May Exam., after Tennyson; The Song of the Shirk, after Hood; The Heathen Pass-ee, after Bret Harte; and The Vulture and the Husbandman, after Lewis Carroll. These, with several other amusing pieces of poetry, have been reprinted in a small pamphlet, which can be obtained from W. Metcalfe and Son, Trinity-street, Cambridge.
THE MAY EXAM.
(By Alfred Pennysong).
"Semper floreat Poeta Laureate."--HORACE.
YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, Filcher dear, To-morrow 'ill be a happy time for all the Freshman's year; For all the Freshman's year, Filcher, the most delightful day, For I shall be in for my May, Filcher, I shall be in for my May!
There's many a hot, hot man, they say, but none so hot as me; There's Middlethwaite and Muggins, there's Kane and Kersetjee; But none so good as little Jones in all the lot, they say, So I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May!
I read so hard at night, Filcher, that I shall never rise, If you do not take a wettish sponge and dab it in my eyes: For I must prove the G.C.M., and substitute for a, For I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May.
As I came through the College Backs, whom think ye should I see But the Junior Dean upon the Bridge proceeding out to tea? He thought of that Ægrotat, Filcher, I pleaded yesterday,-- But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May.
There are men that come and go, Filcher, who care not for a class, And their faces seem to brighten if they get a common pass; They never do a stitch of work the whole of the live-long day,-- But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May!
All the College Hall, my Filcher, will be fresh and clean and still, And the tables will be dotted o'er with paper, ink, and quill; And some will do their papers quick, and run away to play,-- But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May!
So you must wake and call me early, call me early, Filcher dear, To-morrow 'ill be a happy time for all the Freshman's year; For all the Freshman's year, Filcher, the most delightful day, For I shall be in for my May, Filcher, I shall be in for my May!
* * * * *
NEW-YEAR'S EVE.
If you're waking call me early, call me early, Filcher dear, For I'll keep a morning Chapel upon my last New-year. My last New-year before I take my Bachelor's Degree, Then you may sell my crockery-ware, and think no more of me.
To-night I bade good-bye to Smith: he went and left behind His good old rooms, those dear old rooms, where oft I sweetly dined; There's a new year coming up, Filcher, but I shall never see The Freshman's solid breakfast, or the Freshman's heavy tea.
Last May we went to Newmarket: we had a festive day, With a decentish cold luncheon in a tidy one-horse-shay. With our lardy-dardy garments we were really "on the spot," And Charley Vain came out so grand in a tall white chimney-pot.
There's not a man about the place but doleful Questionists; I only wish to live until the reading of the Lists. I wish the hard Examiners would melt and place me high; I long to be a Wrangler, but I'm sure I don't know why.
Upon this battered table, and within these rooms of mine, In the early, early morning there'll be many a festive shine; And the Dean will come and comment on "this most unseemly noise," Saying, "Gentlemen, remember, pray, you're now no longer boys."
When the men come up again Filcher, and the Term is at its height, You'll never see me more in these long gay rooms at night; When the old dry wines are circling and the claret-cup flows cool, And the loo is fast and furious with a fiver in the pool.
You'll pack my things up, Filcher, with Mrs. Tester's aid, You may keep the wine I leave behind, the tea, and marmalade. I shall not forget you, Filcher, I shall tip you when I pass, And I'll give you something handsome if I get a second-class.
Good-night, good-night, when I have passed my tripos with success, And you see me driving off to catch the one o'clock "express;" Don't let Mrs. Tester hang about beside the porter's lodge, I ain't a fool, you know, and I can penetrate that dodge.
She'll find my books and papers lying all about the floor, Let her take 'em, they are hers, I shall never use 'em more; But tell her, to console her, if she's mourning for my loss. That she's quite the dirtiest bedmaker, I ever came across.
Good-night: you need not call me till the bell for service rings, Through practice I am pretty quick at putting on my things; But I would keep a Chapel upon my last New Year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, Filcher dear.
CONCLUSION.
I thought to pass some time ago, but hang it, here I am, Having "muckered" in a certain Mathematical Exam. I have been "excused the General," and my reverent Tutor thinks I must take up Natural Science, which is commonly called "Stinks."
O sweet is academic life within these ancient walls, And sweet are Cambridge pleasures--boating, billiards, breakfasts, balls; But sweeter far about this time than all these things to me Would be the acquisition of my Bachelor's Degree.
* * * * *
THE PREMIER'S LAMENT.
I'll be in the House quite early, you come later, Herbie dear, This night will be the hardest in the Cabinet's career; Of all our mad career, Herbie, the hardest, horridest night, For the Vote of Censure's on us, and the Opposition fight.
* * * * *
O, sweet's the docile Liberal who never wants to rise. And sweeter still the Radical who shuns the Speaker's eyes, And sweet are dumb majorities, and men who silent stay, For the hardest things to listen to are what our friends all say.
* * * * *
There's Parnell's lot, my Herbie, that wretched Irish crew; Don't go and say I said so, this is confidence for you: I've done my best to catch them, and gain their solid vote; But Trevelyan's such a blunderer, he's always at their throat.
* * * * *
So I will go down early, you come down after, Herbie dear; To-morrow may be the saddest day of this our sad fifth year. I've felt some twinges sometimes of conscience and of gout; But the painfullest of all would be to know that we're turned out.
The Evening News, February 18, 1884.
* * * * *
THE NEW LORD MAYOR.
(A long way after Tennyson).
You must mind and call me early, call me early, JOHN, d'ye hear. To-morrow'll be the nobbiest day of all this blessed year: Of all this wonderful year, JOHN, the scrumptiousest I declare, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN! I'm to be made Lord Mayor!
There's many an Aldermanic Swell, but none so great as me; I scorn your Common Councillors, such men I will not see; But none so grand as Alderman ELLIS the Liverymen all swear, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN! I'm to be made Lord Mayor!
I sleep well after a heavy meal, and I shall never wake, If you don't knock at my door, JOHN, when day begins to break; And I must dress in my Sunday clothes, and titivate up my hair, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN, I'm to be made Lord Mayor!
As I came up to the Mansion House, whom think ye I should see, But FIGGINS and other Aldermen as glum as they well could be, They thought of the coming pageantry, and how I should swagger there, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN, I'm to be made Lord Mayor!
Then mind and call me early, call me early, JOHN, don't fear To dig me in my illustrious ribs, and shout in my lordly ear; And to-morrow will see me roll along, while all the people stare, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN! I'm to be made Lord Mayor!
Punch, November 12, 1881.
* * * * *
THE LORD MAYOR TO THE LADY MAYORESS.
["If this bill becomes law, it will be our proud privilege to continue the existence of the Lord Mayor for six months, until it comes into action on the 1st of May, 1885."--Sir W. V. Harcourt's Speech.]
If you've read Sir Vernon's speech upon the City, daughter dear, You will see that London's downfall from its great estate is near; But one comfort you will gather--not November ends our sway, For I'm to be Mayor till May, daughter, I'm to be Mayor till May!
I have said that I will fight the bill, in clause, and line, and word. I may not be the conqueror, but my protests shall be heard-- Though that clause my office to extend for six months more may stay, That I may be Mayor till May, daughter, I may be Mayor till May!
They do not stop our banqueting, so that clause I don't condemn-- Oh, the Ministers won't abrogate the feeds we give to them! And that is about the only good they do not take away-- But I'm to be Mayor till May, daughter, I'm to be Mayor till May!
* * * * *
Can Harcourt think to bribe me by this one continuance clause? He'll see that I shall show the bill to be little else but flaws! This "sop" as he may fancy it, won't affect what I've to say, Tho' I'm to be Mayor till May, daughter, I'm to be Mayor till May!
Now tell me your opinion on the matter, daughter dear, For you will be Lady Mayoress as long as we are here; And if it passes, recollect we pass next "Lord Mayor's Day," And I shall be Mayor till May, daughter, I shall be Mayor till May!
Funny Folks, May 3, 1884.
* * * * *
The Prize Editor of The Weekly Dispatch offered two guineas for the best original parody of Tennyson's "May Queen," to consist of not more than five verses, having some reference to current politics. The prize was awarded to Mr. F. W. Binstead, 76, Ockendon road, Canonbury, N., for the following poem, which was published in The Weekly Dispatch, May 4, 1884:--
THE LAST LORD MAYOR TO HIS FAVOURITE BEADLE.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, Bumble, dear, I mean to fight with all my might each minute of this year; For a play is in rehearsal now--a tragic, terrible play-- And I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay!
I'll fight from morn till night, Bumble--my soul must never quake-- For calipash and calipee and Corporation's sake; And I must don the lion's skin, although I can but bray, For I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay!
When I was in the Commons, whom think ye I should see, But Harcourt smiling on his seat, just close to William G.? He thought not of the feed, Bumble, we gave him t'other day-- But I will be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I will be Griffin at Bay!
They want to wreck, with sinful hand, our great time-honoured powers, And take away the wealth and might which have so long been ours; But I will roar and bluster, in my old accustomed way, For I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay!
Go, summons all my aldermen, and bid them take their fill, From terror free let them with me all gaily feast and swill; Reform need have no fears for them, so bid them all be gay, For I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay!
* * * * *
Four other parodies, which had been sent in for competition, were also printed:--
THE EVE OF THE GENERAL ELECTION.
We must wake and get up early, get up early, brother Grimes, For to-morrow'll be the greatest day of all the modern times; Of all the modern times, brother, the day so long delayed, When we're to be freemen made, brother, we're to be freemen made.
There's many a low, low lot, they said, but none so low as we, So sunk in ignorance and vice, in want and penury; But none so stupid as poor Hodge in all the land, they said; But we're to be freemen made, brother, we're to be freemen made.
* * * * *
So we'll rise and poll us early, poll us early, brother Grimes, For to-morrow'll be the important day of all the glad new times; Of all the glad new times, brother, the day so long delayed, When we're to be freemen made, brother, we're to be freemen made.
JAMES FRASER.
TORY LORD TO DITTO DITTO ON THE EVE OF THE INTRODUCTION OF THE FRANCHISE BILL INTO THE UPPER HOUSE.
If you're going, look in early, look in early, brother peer, To-morrow we'll have the merriest fling we've had for many a year; We've had for many a year, brother--Aha! hip, hip, hooray! For "the measure" comes up, they say, brother, "the measure" comes up, they say.
The bishops will go with us, brother, and landlords fat and lean, And they'll vote ditto, brother--the weak-kneed Whigs, I mean; With quiddities and flow'ry quirks we'll whittle the bill away. We'll whittle the bill away, brother, we'll whittle the bill away.
And all the law-lords, brother, will use their subtle skill By verbiage and amendment sly to mutilate the bill; Our lordly mashers, too, brother, will meet in grand array, For 'twill be as good as the play, brother, 'twill be as good as the play.
We thought to kick it out, brother, but we've found it wouldn't pay; J. B. would never stand it, so we'll better tact display; And we'll hocuss him, you see brother, and mar its clauses dear: So, we'll be early, places taking, we'll be early, brother peer.
GERMANICUS.
ON THE EVE OF A DEBATE ON THE FRANCHISE BILL.
You must wake up! there'll be such a hurly-burly, Staffy, dear; To-morrow'll be the merriest night the House has had this year; Of all the nights this year, Staffy, the night to be marked with chalk, For I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk.
There's many a clack-clack cry, they say, but none so shrill as mine; There's Peel and Gorst and Drummond, there's Balfour superfine; But none so rare as little Randy in all the House for talk, So I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk.
As I came through the lobby whom think ye should I see But Gladdy poring o'er the bill to set the yokels free. He caught my eye and shook, Staffy--I eyed him like a hawk! But I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk.
The hinds may reap and sow, Staffy, but ere that measure pass, The cows will get the franchise as they munch the meadow grass; There will not be a vote for Hodge, if only the bill we baulk, And I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk.
All the Tories, Staffy, will obstruct it with a will, And the swift foot and the slow foot will mash and maul the bill; And the G.O.M. will fret and fume like fizz when you draw the cork, For I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk.
GOSSAMER.
THE PREMIER TO MRS. GLADSTONE.
You must wake me in the morning, rouse me early, wifey, dear; To-morrow'll be a ticklish time at Westminster, I hear; At Westminster, the Franchise Bill will glide upon its way, And I shall have something to say, deary, I shall have something to say.
There's many a black-legged Tory who would frustrate our design-- There's Northcote and there's Goschen, who was once a friend of mine; But none, I think, will stand their ground if I can get fair play, For they know it is true what I say, deary, they know it is true what I say.
I sleep so light of late, wifey, that bedtime comes in vain, They've bored me so with Gordon that I've Egypt on the brain: Yet I'll regain these wasted hours--this loss of time won't pay-- And show that I mean what I say, deary, show that I mean what I say.
* * * * *
JESSIE H. WHEELER.
The Weekly Dispatch, May 4, 1884.
* * * * *
THE PROMISE OF MAY!
(An Old Song re-set, and specially dedicated, for purposes of recitation, to Mrs. Bernard-Beere, Manageress of the Globe Theatre).
YOU must call rehearsals early, call them early, KELLY dear! November'll be the merriest month of our dramatic year; November I have fixed it for the Laureate's new play, And I'm to be Promise of May, KELLY, I'm to be Promise of May!
There's many a chosen priestess in the wild æsthetic line. There's ELLEN! and there's MARION! whose fingers intertwine! But all the Grosvenor Gallery think none like me, they say; So I'm to be Promise of May, KELLY, I'm to be Promise of May!
I'm thinking of the night, you know, both sleeping and awake, And I hear them calling loudly till their voices seem to break; But I must fashion lots of gowns in Liberty silks so gay, For I'm to be Promise of May, my Lad, I'm to be Promise of May!
I went down into Surrey--don't laugh, it is no joke-- And found the great Bard dramatist wrapt in a cloak--of smoke! He handed me his manuscript, and read it yesterday; So I'm to be Promise of Maytime, I'm to be Promise of May!
He said I was ideal, because I kept it up, This mixture of his Dora, and his Camma in the Cup. They call me a replica, but I care not what they say. Now I'm to be Promise of May, you see, I'm to be Promise of May!
They say he's pining still for fame; but that can never be. He likes to roar his lyrics, but what is that to me? I'll fill the Globe with worshippers, in the old Lyceum way-- For I'm to be Promise of May, my Friend, I'm to be Promise of May!
My sisters of the cultus shall attend me clad in green; All the poets and the painters must hail me as their Queen! The great dramatic critics of course will have their say, Now I'm to be Promise of Maytime, I'm to be Promise of May!
The Pit with wild excitement will tremble, never fear, And the merry gods above them will greet me with a cheer! There will not be a ribald line in all the Laureate's play, For I'm to be Promise of May, you see, I'm to be Promise of May!
All the Stalls will sit in silence, or with cynicism chill Will pick the Bard to pieces, and work their own sweet will; And HAMILTON CLARKE in the orchestra he'll merrily pose and play-- For I'm to be Promise of May, my Lad, I'm to be Promise of May!
So call rehearsals early, call them early, there's a dear! Bid gipsy-tinted ORMSBY and VEZIN to appear. November'll see what "gushers" call the "sweetest, daintiest play," And I'm to be Promise of May, KELLY, I'm to be Promise of May!
Punch, November 4, 1882.
As this parody refers to a nearly-forgotten play, the allusions in it may best be explained by the reproduction of the Play-bill, which has now become a literary curiosity.
* * * * *
The drama was a complete and melancholy failure; even George Augustus Sala, most lenient and genial of critics, could not but condemn it, as being as unactable a play as Shelley's "Cenci," or Swinburne's "Bothwell," or Southey's "Wat Tyler," whilst it possessed none of the literary merits of either of those compositions. He added, "It is finally and most wretchedly unfortunate that an illustrious English poet has not by his side some really candid and judicious friend, with influence enough, and courage enough, to persuade him to desist from subjecting this disastrous production to the ordeal of representation before a miscellaneous audience."
Bad as The Promise of May was, it contained one leading idea, which, from the very opposition it gave rise to, enabled the management to keep the play on the boards much longer than could have been anticipated. The plot had been foreshadowed in one of Tennyson's earliest poems, The Sisters:--
"We were two daughters of one race: She was the fairest in the face: The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell: Therefore revenge became me well. O the Earl was fair to see!"
THE GLOBE THEATRE.
Licensed by the Lord Chamberlain to Mr. F. MAITLAND, 26½, Newcastle Street.
Under the Management of MRS. BERNARD-BEERE.
On SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 11th, 1882, WILL BE PRODUCED A NEW AND ORIGINAL RUSTIC DRAMA, IN PROSE, BY ALFRED TENNYSON (POET LAUREATE), ENTITLED, THE PROMISE OF MAY, IN THREE ACTS.
THE WHOLE PRODUCED UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OF MR. CHARLES KELLY.
At 8.45 BY THE PROMISE OF MAY. ALFRED TENNYSON. The town lay still in Farmer Dobson Mr. CHARLES KELLY. But a red fire woke in the the low sun-light, Edgar Mr. HERMANN VEZIN. heart of the town, Farmer Steer, Dora's Father .. Mr. H. CAMERON. Mr. Wilson, a Schoolmaster .. Mr. E. T. MARCH. The hen cluct late James } {Mr. H. HALLEY. And a fox from the glen ran by the white farm gate, Dan Smith} {Mr. C. MEDWIN. away with the hen, Higgins } Farm {Mr. A. PHILLIPS. The maid to her dairy Jackson } Labourers {Mr. G. STEPHENS. And a cat to the cream, and a came in from the cow, Allen} {Mr. H. E. RUSSELL. rat to the cheese,
The stock-dove coo'd Dora Steer Mrs. BERNARD-BEERE. And the stock-dove coo'd till at the fall of night, Eva, her Sister MISS EMMELINE ORMSBY. a kite dropped down, By permission of Mr. Wilson Barrett.
The blossom had open'd Sally} Farm Servants. {Miss ALEXES LEIGHTON. And a salt wind burnt the on every bough. Milly} {Miss MAGGIE HUNT. blossoming trees.
The whole produced under the direction of O joy for the promise of May, Mr. CHARLES KELLY. of May. O grief for the promise of May, of May,
ACT I.--STEER'S FARM. O joy for the promise of May. Six years are supposed to have elapsed between Acts 1 & 2. O grief for the promise of May. ACT II.--THE BRIDGE BY THE HAY FIELD. TENNYSON. ACT III.--THE UPPER HALL IN STEER'S FARM.
Music composed by .......... Mr. HAMILTON CLARKE. Dances arranged by .......... Mr. J. D'AUBAN. Rustic Dresses by .......... Mrs. NETTLESHIP. Scenery by ............ Messrs. HANN, SPONG, & PERKINS. Acting-Manager--Mr. CHARLES J. ABUD.
Assuming that Mrs. Bernard-Beere, as Dora Steer, speaks these lines, we have the counterpart of the villainously seductive Earl in Philip Edgar, a thankless part, which was admirably played by Mr. Hermann Vezin. This Edgar, having ruined and abandoned one sister, returns, after an interval of five or six years, to the scene of his former conquest, and lays siege to the heart of the other sister; confidentially informing the audience that he intends to marry Dora as an atonement for the injuries he has inflicted on the luckless Eva. The shouts of derisive laughter with which this announcement (the culmination of absurdity), was met on the first night, led Mr. Hermann Vezin to somewhat modify his language on the following evenings, but he was still compelled to inflict on the audience the most tedious and extraordinary soliloquies touching Communism, Free-love, Agnosticism, and other wholly undramatic topics. For Tennyson had, with characteristic bigotry, chosen to assume that a Freethinker must necessarily be a villain; and with a view of generally condemning opinions distasteful to him, had burdened poor Edgar with the task of proclaiming himself at once as a seducer, a hypocrite, a liar, a coward, a Freethinker, an Agnostic, a Secularist, a Democrat--and all this in speeches of a contradictory and decidedly tiresome description.
On the third representation of the drama the Marquis of Queensberry, who occupied a seat in the stalls, rose, and loudly protested against the Laureate's misrepresentation of the principles of freethought as a gross caricature, especially in regard to Edgar's sentiments about the law of marriage.
He subsequently addressed a letter to The Globe, containing the following explanation:--
"THE PROMISE OF MAY."
TO THE EDITOR OF THE GLOBE.
"SIR,--In reply to Mr. Hermann Vezin's letter, which appears in your issue of to-day, may I be allowed to make a few remarks? He says that on the first night 'some one started a hiss, which soon grew into a storm,' &c., and he continues to say, 'it is to be presumed that this opposition came from professing orthodox Christian people. On the third night the Marquis of Queensberry, a professed Freethinker, rose in his stall, and loudly protested against what he considered a caricature of his own sect.' Not a caricature against my own sect, Sir, which is Secularism, but against an infamous libel to the whole body of people who have been designated by that name of Freethinkers. Mr. Hermann Vezin says, here we have a curious spectacle of the most outspoken opposition from both extremes, and that neither party has quite caught Mr. Tennyson's meaning. Whether two separate parties spoke (or only one, as I expect is the case) it would be as well if Mr. Tennyson himself would explain what his meaning is; for, coming so soon after the poem, which he issued to the public a short time ago, entitled 'Despair,' we Freethinkers can have but one opinion as to what his meaning is, and that is to caricature and to misrepresent what the outcome of freethought has led to in its secession from orthodoxy. My object the other night in causing an 'interruption' at the theatre was not only to make a public protest against the supposed sentiments of a Freethinker (on marriage), but to attract public attention to that protest, and I consider that the end justified the means, considering the difficulty that we have in getting a hearing from those who oppose us, and not only who oppose us, but who misrepresent us. Freethinkers may not be satisfied with the present marriage law--as I explained the other day in my letter to the Daily News--but that is no reason that they should not respect marriage, and we cannot be attacked on a more tender point, from the very delicacy there is to speak on the subject.--Yours faithfully,
"QUEENSBERRY.
"45, Half Moon-street, Piccadilly, November 20, 1882."
This led to a discussion in the newspapers on Tennyson's muddled metaphysics and absurd theories; public curiosity was thus aroused, and the management was enabled to run the play much longer than could have been expected from its original reception.
Punch (November 25, 1882) had a long and elaborate criticism of the play, giving a humorous analysis of the plot. The opening and closing paragraphs are much to the point, especially as they include two amusing parodies.
NEITHER RHYME NOR REASON;
Or, Promise of May, and Performance of November at the Globe.
"THE sources of literary ambition are proverbially obscure, and it is scarcely worth while to enquire why the Laureate, who has spent a lifetime in filling the world with his verse, should, at the eleventh hour, have conceived the idea of emptying the Globe with his prose. If there could be any doubt that he had not only done so, but also had set himself to the business with a right good will, the hearty and sympathetic jeers of the not unkindly audience that attended the first performance of his Promise the other evening must have settled the matter. Indeed, some of the Poet's own lines--or something like them--seemed to occur to everybody. Even his staunchest admirers could be heard in the lobbies between the acts respectfully quoting to each other--
'I hold it truth that he who flings His harp aside, to try the bones, Will somehow find that paving stones, Are levelled at his neatest things.'
By the way, the management might even now take a hint from a rival establishment, and try this on a poster.
"The plot of the piece is simplicity itself, and if the talented author had merely contented himself with working out his pretty little idyl in some ordinary and unpretentious fashion, there could hardly have been any doubt about the result. But he went further than this, and in some inspired moment appears to have conceived the brilliant and happy idea of spicing his whole story, from beginning to end, with the wildest and most boisterous fun.
"Not that his purpose was distinctly apparent on the first go off of his piece in a Lincolnshire farm; for the serious utterances of several gloomy rustics for a few moments filled the house almost with awe.
"However, with so much genuine pantomime go for the finish in reserve, very possibly the author knew what he was about. And he was not at fault. He must have realised what depths of quiet fun would be stirred when placing Mrs. BERNARD-BEERE over the dead body of Eva, he made her, in so many words, courteously request Farmer Dobson and the comic agnostic Edgar to consider themselves quite at home, and not mind the corpse, as she had a few general remarks to make that wouldn't take her much more than five-and-twenty minutes.
"But there,--the matter really defies sober criticism, and, taking his own charming lines from the bill, the story is soon told:--
'The Town booked well for the opening night, The Pit was full, an evident pull, The Grand Old Man had a box of his own, And VEZIN behind said it looked all right, And the critics in front took an excellent tone. There's a chance for The Promise of May, of May, There's a chance for The Promise of May.
'But a sly wink woke in the eye of the Town, And a frivolous fit got hold of the Pit, And KELLY a pitchfork, and VEZIN a roar, And the stock chaff followed the Curtain down; And the Critics they did--as they've done before-- They slaughtered The Promise of May, of May, They slaughtered The Promise of May!'
"The Laureate cannot write a playable play. The Falcon at the St. James's was saved by the acting; Queen Mary, nothing could save; The Cup was the success of Miss ELLEN TERRY, Mr. IRVING, the scene-painter, and the stage management.
"But The Promise of May must be an Utter Frost, with, we are sorry to think, no Promise to Pay in it; and nothing, except the spasmodic curiosity of the Public to see what the Laureate can't do, can set this unfortunate Humpty-Dumpty up again."
* * * * *
THE LAUREATE'S LATEST.
The "town" ran off to the Globe one night, For a play was played then from the Laureate's pen; But they soon said, "How dare he?" and kicked up a "row," And pooh-poohed the drama--and serve it right, For that it deserved it I think you'll allow. Yea, they jeered at "The Promise of May,"--of May-- Annoyed at "The Promise of May."
But stay; we'd better, maybe, leave that song, Yea, leave its "hen," its "fox," its "cat," and "cheese"-- For where is he who can burlesque burlesque? And this strange playwright, mystic, wonderful, Loved stage plays with a love that was his doom! For lo! this "Promise" played by Bernardbeere Has gained, at least, this very doubtful fame-- Hereafter, through all ages--"'Twas no good!"
The critics, o'er its threadbare plot, Ere long grew "crusty"--one and all. Said they, "'Twill fail; such awful rot Will on the public quickly pall. The leading character is strange, The rest are all a prosy batch, The audience they'll never catch-- The programme they must shortly change.
"A. T.," they said, "'tis weak and dreary. A lot of bosh," they said. "It makes the audience aweary; Soon it will be dead!"
Besides the forced and feeble plot, Full soon did men discover The scientific "snob" was not A pleasant sort of lover.
Of speech he had an awful flow-- Which Tennyson thought clever-- And he soliloquised as though He meant to jaw for ever!
And then unto the critics and reviewers, Irresponsible critics and reviewers, Thus, Alfred (not in metre of Catullus-- But more in "In Memoriam" sort of measure):
"The critics prattle on amain-- That envious and grumbling race Declare my play is commonplace, And rather full of chaff than grain.
"I hold it true--although they bawl, And I may heavy find the cost-- 'Tis better to produce a 'frost' Than ne'er to write a play at all."
And then unto the Queen (s'berry) he hymned This little lay; for he, the noble "Q.," Cried out at Edgar's "Maxims of the Mud." Then Alfred and fair Bernardbeere were glad, And rested well content that all was well.
"You jeered, O, "Q," and you were bold To treat my great prose-play with mirth; But your advertisement was worth No end of praise and lots of gold.
"For now the town will haste to see My 'Edgar' that made you so ill; And so they'll keep it in the bill Since that advertisement from thee."
* * * * *
Shall it not be scorn for me to harp upon this mouldy thing? For surely in a week or two it will have taken wing.
"Weakness to be wroth with weakness"--that this play is weak, 'tis plain. I have seen much better dramas founded by a shallower brain. From the programme of the Globe, then, sweep this foolish thing away. Better fifty Meritt-mixtures than this sickly, stupid play!
CARADOS.
The Referee, November 19, 1882.
* * * * *
A DREAM OF GREAT PLAYERS.
I read one night, while lying on the down, In L. T. Annual[11] of the current year-- Tho' unpretending volume, bound in brown-- Great deeds recorded were.
At length, methought that I had wandered far Through the long path that runs beside the line, And found myself before the entrance-door, And knew I was in time.
I knew the stands, I knew the nets, I knew The smooth, green level of the well-rolled lawn, And thought, "Here many an athlete anxious grew, Dreading the fateful dawn."
A voice from out the ticket-office came-- From overworked collector in his prime-- "Pass quickly through, the seats are all thine own Until the end of time."
Close by a player, leaning on the rail, Clasping a racket, Tate-made, in his hand-- A champion among men, who made me hail, And led me to the stand.
His cigarette from out his mouth he drew: Blew out white clouds, then said, with courteous smile-- "Hast come to see great players? Good! Then you Had best stay here awhile.
"I am the champion! ask thou not my name; Not to know me argues thyself unknown. Many played here, and fell; whene'er I came All men were overthrown."
"No marvel," I made answer; "In fair field Myself before such skill had doubtless quail'd, As all men must." Then, turning, I appealed To one who merely wailed--
As he with forced perpetual smile averse, To his full height his stately figure draws-- "My youth," he said, "is blighted with a curse-- This stripling is the cause.
"For seven years The Cup I strove to win, But ever, when it seemed within my grip, He, rising o'er all others, entered in, And dashed it from my lip."
His words of grief fell idly on my ear, As thunderdrops fall on a sleeping sea. Sudden I heard a voice that cried--"Come here, That you may look on me.
"I am ex-champion, now three years displaced, And since that time I find it very slow; I have no men to conquer in this waste, I war with fairer foe."
He paused in gloom, and towards the others faced, To whom the Smiler--"Oh! you tamely died; You should have stood well to the back, and placed The ball along the side."
"Alas! alas!" a low voice, full of care, Murmured beside me--"Champion I might be, But for this injured member which I bear I had gained victory."
I gazed upon him, then became aware Of some one coming hastily in wrath, Reminding his twin-brother--"We're the pair Chosen to play the North.
"Do hurry up, our foes await us there; The stem, black-bearded form, the referee, Ejaculating, as he tears his hair, 'Where can the players be?'"
Then seized his arm, and drew him from the spot. I, feeling tired and thirsty, strolled away; The day becoming most extremely hot, I cared to see no play.
Pastime, February 13, 1884.
* * * * *
THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.
Listen to the doleful story Of a juvenile M.P., He was but a voting Tory, And a farmer's daughter she.
Spake he in his wisest manner (Whereat people often smiled), "You must give up your piano, You are but a farmer's child.
"Straight forget each foreign tongue, dear, And, to further my desire, All the songs you ever sang, dear-- For a tenant is your sire."
So she sells her dear piano; With the cash her bargain yields Buys she Gibbs's best guano, Which she scatters o'er the fields.
Then forgets each well-bred accent, Foreign, native, just the same, All her modern books are back sent To the stores from whence they came.
Then he marries her and makes her Thus a lady of renown, And with condescension takes her To his house by Stamford town.
From the gate his crest depended, Which the owner's breeding shows; Hand with fingers wide extended Stretching from a lordly nose.
Waves the flippant owner's pennant O'er the keep's embattled brow, Though her sire was but a tenant She is Lady Burleigh now.
Long she lived in stately manner 'Mid the highborn and the grand, But she pined for her piano Scattered on the teeming land.
Then she grew and ever thinner, And she murmured, "O that he, At that agricultural dinner, Had not ever counselled me."
So she drooped and drooped before him, And at last, with anguish bent, To his freedom did restore him, Following her dear instrument.
He survived in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, young and free, Not a lord in all the county Was so great a fool as he.
CECIL.
The Kettering Observer, March 21, 1884.
When Lord Burghley, M.P. (son of the Marquis of Exeter), took the English farmers to task for allowing their daughters to play the piano, and to learn a few of the polite little accomplishments of the day, his remarks were generally resented as impertinent, and his name lent itself irresistibly to the ridicule contained in the preceding parody of Tennyson's "Lord of Burleigh." Inasmuch as Tennyson's poem was founded on incidents connected with the courtship and marriage of the first Marquis of Exeter, to Sarah Hoggins, the daughter of a small yeoman farmer at Bolas Magna, in Shropshire. The marriage took place in October, 1791, and the lady died in January, 1797, leaving two sons, of whom the elder became the second Marquis of Exeter, and was the grandfather of the Lord Burghley above referred to.
* * * * *
THE FAITHLESS PEELER.
Skulking slily down the area, He to her his mind doth tell-- "I feel somewhat dry, my Mary, And some beer would be as well." She replies, by way of feeler, "La, who'd thought of seeing thee?" He is but a smart young peeler, And a maid-of all-work she.
He to lips that do not falter, Raises up the half-pint mug; Vows his love will never alter-- Eyeing hard the empty jug. "I can pick that bone of pheasant, Little care I for a knife-- Love, it makes our duty pleasant, Luncheon love I dear as life."
He across the kitchen going, Sees two lordly bottles stand; "India pale" within them glowing, And he grasps one in each hand. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, "I could pop these in my trousers' Pocket, and no one might tell."
This he doth by her attended, And they lovingly converse Of the toothsome things that tended To bind so close his heart to hers. Leg of pork, with sauce of apple, Fowl and bacon and broad beans; cold roast beef, with which he'd grapple, Sooner than with warmed-up greens.
What she gives him makes her dearer, Such she hopes to be the case; Hopes his beat will still be near her, Should she ever change her place. Oh! but he doth love her truly; He shall have a cup of tea-- She will bring it to him duly, Some time after half-past three.
And her heart rejoices greatly, Whenever peeler she discerns, Past the small boys pacing stately, While they mimic him by turns. Thinks he looks far more majestic Than he ever looked before-- Fears he winked at the domestic Higher up at Number Four;
Hears him speak in gentle murmur, Knows he's answering her call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading past the garden wall. All at once the colour flushes His false face from brow to chin; As it were with shame he blushes, While she vows she's "been took in."
Then unable to conceal her Love, she murmurs, "Oh, that he Were once more that faithful Peeler, Which did win my heart from me." He but begged she'd no more bore him, When she falls flat at his side; Gathered soon a crowd before him, Whilst to lift her up he tried;
And one came to raise her bonnet, And he looked at him and said, "Bring a chair, and place her on it, For I fear she's hurt her head." Home they took her, and next morning, By her mistress she's addressed, "Mary, you have a month's warning-- This time, mind. I'm not in jest.
The Puppet Show, July 29, 1848.
* * * * *
THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.
(Slightly altered from the Poet Laureate).
To the Bill he whispers gaily, "Land Bill, I the truth must tell-- You're a nuisance; but believe me That I really love you well!" She replies, that Irish Maiden, "No one I respect like thee." He is Lord of ancient Hatfield, And a simple Land Bill she. So most kindly he receives her Merely with two hours' reproof, Leads her to the Lords' Committee, And she leaves her GLADSTONE'S roof.
"I will strive to guard and guide you, And your beauty not impair; Only add a few amendments, Prune a section here and there. Let us try these little clauses Which the wealthy Lords suggest; No connection with FITZMAURICE, Or with HENEAGE and the rest!" All he tells her makes her queerer, Evermore she seems to yearn For her Commons and her GLADSTONE, And the moment of return. And while now she wonders wildly Why she feels inclined to sink, Proudly turns the Lord of BURLEIGH, "I have drawn your teeth, I think!"
Then her countenance all over Pale and (emerald) green appears, As he kicks her down the staircase, 'Mid their Lordships' wicked jeers. But her GLADSTONE looked upon her, Lying lifeless, worn, and spent, And he said, "Your dress is ragged-- These must be arrears of rent." Deeply mourns the Lord of BURLEIGH, No one more distressed than he, When the PREMIER moved the Commons With the Peers to disagree. And they gathered softly round her, Did the Commons, and they said, "Bring the dress we sent her forth in-- That will raise her from the dead!"
Punch, August 13, 1881.
The Figaro of January 22, 1873, contained a long parody (eleven verses), entitled, "The Lord of Burleigh," but it is not now of sufficient interest to warrant its reproduction.
* * * * *
A BURLINGTON HOUSE BALLAD.
(With Apologies to Our Lordly Laureate).
In her ear he whispers sadly, "I've a grief upon my soul, And I want you very badly Just to take a little stroll." She replies, in accents fainter, "Anywhere, my love, with thee." He is but a budding painter, And his fair fiancée she. To her chamber straight she scurries, Lest delay should bring reproof, Pops her bonnet on and hurries With him from her father's roof. So she goes, by him attended, Hears him absently converse, As with spirits all unmended He controls his steps to hers. Faring thus, she wonders greatly, Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns. Sees a building most majestic In a simple maiden's eye; Pays he then a smug domestic, And the turnstile clicks them by. All around are paint and glitter High and low upon the wall, While he treads with feelings bitter, Leading on from hall to hall. And as now she freely utters Rapture it were vain to hide, Fiercely turns he round and mutters, "There's my picture--it is 'skyed!'"
Funny Folks, May, 1884.
* * * * *
THE MAY QUEEN OF 1879,
AS SHE MIGHT HAVE BEEN.
Well, you waked and call'd me early on the first, my mother dear, As though't had been the jolliest time of all the glad new year, For as you were aware, mother, in spite the wretched day, I had to be Queen o' the May, mother, I had to be Queen o' the May.
You did your best for me, mother, I must say that of you; You had my waterproof prepared, and my goloshes too; You lent me your own muff, mother, my chilblains were so sore, And made dear Robin bring the cover'd cart close to our door.
And yet the May-day games, mother, were not a great success; And I, for I was Queen, alack!--got in the greatest mess; The mud was over all our boots--it hail'd, too, as it chanced, And I fell in a puddle, mother, while I with Robin danced.
(Five verses omitted).
"So, on the whole, I cannot say I'm glad--no more can you, You call'd me early on the first, though then I begg'd you to; In truth, could I have known, it would have been so cold and wet, I'd have told the lads and lasses, mother, another Queen to get.
"But, there, it is too late to fret--the thing is over now, But not again will your poor child thus play the fool, I vow; Another year, if spring is late, I'll stay in bed all day, Rather than get up early, mother, and be the Queen o' the May."
Truth, May 22, 1879.
* * * * *
You ask me why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas?
* * * * *
TENNYSON.
* * * * *
THE NEW UMBRELLA.
You ask me why, though ill at ease, And chilled with rain, my gentle Stella, I stand beneath the dripping trees, With shivering hands and shaking knees, But do not use my umbrella.
The reason I can soon explain, Succinctly, simply, and precisely: If once I used it in the rain, I could not fold it up again, Or roll it up so smooth and nicely.
No, precious slender staff! no hand of mine, With ruthless hate or foolish gaming, Shall mar thy symmetry divine-- The curved diagonal of line That circles round thy wooden stamen.
The skill that wrapped thee up so tight And fastened up the ring and button Is rarer far than second-sight, The art of catching fish at night, Or carving any joint of mutton.
* * * * *
(Two verses omitted).
The Cambridge Meteor, June 13, 1882.
* * * * *
"OF old sat Freedom on the heights, The Thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet."
* * * * *
TENNYSON.
* * * * *
PAM UPON THE HEIGHTS.
[Lord Palmerston was appointed Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, March, 1861].
NOT old, stood Pam upon the Heights, The Commons roaring at his feet, And Beadledom, with antique rites, Did him the homage meet.
Punch, in his place did much rejoice, Not for the title then assigned, But glad to hear the brave old boy's Name shouted on the wind.
Admiring much his British pluck, His ready tongue, his cheery jest, His never downing on his luck, But hoping for the best.
His hate of humbug, saving such As should to humbugs still be flung, His speeches, void of artist touch, Yet suiting English tongue.
His deeper hatred for the gang, Who, prating of some Right Divine, Doom freedom's friends to starve, or hang, Or in foul dungeons pine.
Cheer for the Constable! Our foes Find him the nightmare of their dreams; We, the wise Englishman, who knows The Falsehood of Extremes.
Punch, 1861.
* * * * *
LORD BEACONSFIELD AS TITHONUS.
THE Whigs decay, the Whigs decay, and fall, The Obstructives drag our Senate through the mire; Parliaments cumber earth, then pass away; E'en this one, after many a session, dies; While I, secure of immortality, Take my calm saunter, propped by Monty's arm, Along the highways of the busy world, A noted figure, roaming, in my dream, All sorts of places in my Favourite East, The gleaming halls and splendours of Lothair. Alas for that grand piece of statesmanship, That glorious work, the Berlin settlement! So highly lauded by my chosen print The Daily Telegraph. Almost I seemed To its great heart none other than a god! Bulgaria asked for independency; 'Twas granted with a few strokes of the pen. Some people really don't care what they grant. But the strong Russ, indignant, worked his will, Pared down and minimised my settlement; And though he could not end it, left it maimed, The veriest of hashes. Can fine words From Salisbury make amends? Though even yet Our faithful organs in the daily press Are tremulous with praise, weep tears of joy To hear us. Come, let's go; we've had enough Of Government. How can a man desire To mix with Irish members, rowdy lot, Who never mind the ruling of the Chair, But pass beyond the Speaker's ordinance, Which all obey--or ought to, if they don't?
A black cloud hovers o'er the Cape: there come Glimpses of dark men we have made our foes. Once more I hear the rumour steal abroad Of an election-time approaching near; And who can tell the upshot? Will the rout Whom I enfranchised not so long ago Shake off the yoke of Tory Government, And bring the Liberals in instead? Who knows?
Fain would I get me to the gorgeous East! I wonder how my constitution stands The rigours of this chilly English clime, This so-called summer, wretched, cold, and wet. I shiver by the fireside, while the steam Floats from the damp fields round my country seat, And racks my agèd bones with rheumatism. Place me upon some Asiatic throne, Give me an empire in the realms of morn, Thither I'd hasten from this bourgeois court On a triumphal car with silver wheels.
V. A. C. A.
The World, July 30, 1879.
* * * * *
WHAT LOCKSLEY HALL SAID BEFORE HE PASSED HIS OXFORD RESPONSIONS,
(Vulgo SMALLS).
OH the misery of "Smalls!" the cark, the turmoil, and the grind! Oh the cruel, cruel fetters which are wreathing round my mind! There is grammar, there is Euclid, and far worse than all of these, Arithmetical refinements, with their stocks, and rules of threes, With their discount and their practice, and their very vulgar fractions, Smashing up the one ideal into many paltry factions. Square root makes the head to ache, the decimals the tear to start, For they're ever circulating round the fibres of my heart-- Learning grammar is like putting water in a leaky pot, And its memory is only like the days remembered not; Verbs in "M I" are aggravating, Euclid makes the foot to stamp, Only lucid when enlightened by a moderator lamp, The old spider and his cobwebs! would that I could sweep them out From the dust and must of ages with a triumph and a shout; Shall I spurn him with my foot, or shall I scorn him with mine eye? Shall I tear him into pieces? SOUTHEY burnt him--so will I.
C. C.
B. N. C. College Rhymes, 1861.
These lines also appeared in Punch.
There was also an early parody of "Locksley Hall" in Punch, describing the Railway Mania of 1845. This parody was rather technical in its language, not very amusing, and is now quite out of date.
* * * * *
BATTUE SHOOTING.
Gather round, my noble comrades; hardy sportsmen, gather where, Placed in yonder shaded corner, stands for each an easy chair; Close behind are well-packed hampers, and attendants duly wait To reload your deadly weapons while you sit and shoot in state. Amply fed and reared, my pheasants--tame they'll answer to your call, But, like whirling leaves in winter, soon you'll see them thickly fall. Hark, the beaters drive them forward. Now, prepare--the time is nigh, We shall soon reduce their numbers. Peste! they're far too fat to fly! See the startled hares and rabbits vainly shelter safe have sought, Headlong rushing, mad with terror--surely this is noble sport! Eh! what say you? Let go at them, now's the time to try your skill; Crawling wounded, lame and fluttering, down they go the bag to fill. Warmish work, and quite fatiguing--let's refresh ere we renew. Vulgar hinds may sneer and welcome. Vive, say I, the good battue!
* * * * *
Surely those who so love slaughter might, when close time comes for grouse, Find congenial occupation if they donned the butcher's blouse.
D. EVANS.
The Weekly Dispatch, August 31, 1884.
* * * * *
GODIVA.
(A Pose Plastique, by Madame Warton, before the forthcoming picture by Edwin Landseer, R.A.)
OR, THE PEEPING GENT OF COVENTRY STREET.
_I waited in the street named Coventry; I hung outside the 'bus from Putney Bridge, To watch the three short fares; and there I shaped The last new "Tableau Vivant" into this._
NOT only we, the smartest blades on Town, Fast men that with the speed of an express Run down the slow, not only we, that prate Of gents and snobs, have loved the genus well, And loathed to see them unamused; but she Did more, and undertook, and overcame, The Venus of the Tableaux Vivans--Madame Warton, Queen of the Walhalla, near the street Of Coventry: for when there was nought up To take the Town, the Gents all came to her, Clamouring, "If this last, we die of slowness!" She sought a painter, found him where he strode About the room, among his dogs, alone, His beard shaved close before him, and his hair Cropped short behind. She told him the Gents' fears, And prayed him, "If this last, they die of slowness!" Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, "What would you have me do--an animal painter-- For such as these?" "A Tableau paint," said she. He laughed, and talked about Sir Peter Laurie.[12]
Then chucked her playfully beneath the chin; "O, ay, ay, ay, you talk!" "Talk! yes!" she said. "But paint it, and prove what I will not do." And with a sly wink there was no mistaking, He answered, "Ride you as the famed Godiva," And I will paint it," she nodded, and in jest They parted, and a cabman drove her home.
All was arranged. The boardmen in the street, As curs about a bone, with snarl and blow Made war upon each other for a board: The best man won. She sent bill-stickers forth, And bade them cover over every hoarding With large placards, announcing she would please Her favourite gents; who, as they loved her well, From then till Monday next, in crowds should come And gaze at her,--each one his shilling paying For seats within the public promenade.
Then went she to her dressing room, and there Unhooked the wedded fastenings of her gown, Some soft one's gift; but every now and then She lingered, looking in her toilette glass, Rougeing her cheek: anon she shook herself, And showered the rumpled raiment 'neath her knee; Then clad herself in silk; adown the stair Stole on; and like a bashful maiden slid Through passage and through passage, until she reached The platform; there she found her palfrey trapt With pewter logies and mosaic gold.
Then rode she forth, clothed all in silken tights: The fiddles played beneath her as she rode, And the reserved seats hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-mouthed heads beyond the stalls Had cunning eyes to see: the crimson rouge Made her cheek flame: a fast man, winking, shot Light horrors through her pulses: the saloon Was all in darkness; though from overhead The flickering gas-light dimly flared: but she Not less through all bore up, till, last she gave The signal to the workmen in the flats, And round upon the pivot slow she turned.
Then rode she back, clothed all in silken tights: And one low Gent, decked out in Joinville tie, The certain symbol of a Gentish taste, Using an ivory opera-glass he'd hired, Peeped--but the glasses, ere he had his fill, Were shivered into pieces, and the curtain Was dropt before him; so that the deposit Left on the glass was forfeit to the Jew; And he that knew it grieved: Now all at once, With twelve great shocks of sound, the interlude Was scraped on cat-gut from a dozen fiddles, One after one, for neither did keep time, Nor play in tune: and Madame Warton gained Her chamber; whence re-issuing, as "Venus Rising from the Sea," the ennui passed away, And she made everlasting lots of tin.
The Puppet Show, April 1, 1848.
* * * * *
THE VOYAGE.
We hired a ship: we heaved a shout: We turned her head towards the sea; We laugh'd and scull'd, and baled her out, We scream'd and whistled loud for glee: We scull'd, we scream'd, we laugh'd, we sang, Beneath the merry stars of June: Went flute tu-tu, and banjo bang: We meant to sail into the moon!
Far off a boatman hail'd us high: "My boat is named the Bonny Bess; Old Jack will charge you more than I, For I will charge you sixpence less: My boat is strong, and swift, and taut, But Jack's--she is not worth a cuss." We held his terms in scorn, for what Was sixpence or a crown to us?
We bang'd; we baled; we scull'd; we scream'd; The water gain'd upon us fast. We looked upon the moon: she seem'd As far as when we saw her last. We look'd: no terror did we show; We did not care a button, we; We knew the good ship could not go Beyond the bottom of the sea.
But one--at best he was a lout-- The same, we guess, was short of chink-- Exclaim'd in terror, "Let me out, I am quite sure the ship will sink. The leak is quickly gaining height; 'Twill soon be half-way up the mast." And through the hatch that starry night We let him out, and on we pass'd.
Slight skiffs aslant the starboard slipt, And jet-black coal-boats, stoled in state, And slender shallops, silvern tipp'd, And other craft both small and great. But we nor changed to skiff or barge, Or slender shallops, silvern-peak'd; We knew no vessel, small or large, Was built by mortal hands, but leak'd.
Beyond the blank horizon burn'd; The moon had slid below the main; About the bows we sharply turn'd, And scull'd the good ship home again. Before us gleam'd the hazy dawn; We scull'd, but ere we shockt the lea, And paid old Jack, the ship had gone Down to the bottom of the sea.
Above the wreck the sad sea breaks, And many a pitying moonlight streams; And o'er the yeasty water flakes The snow-white sea-gull, sliding screams. If any goods be wash'd ashore, Or cash--if any cash be found-- To us, and not to Jack, restore: But then--you cannot; we were drowned.
S. K. C.
Kottabos (William McGee), Dublin, 1875.
* * * * *
"Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me."
* * * * *
TENNYSON.
It seems hard to believe that the weather was even hotter in New York during last June than it was in London during certain days of July and August. An American poet thus records his impressions:--
Hot, hot, hot, Is the blistering breath of June, And I would that my throat could utter An anti-torridness tune. O well for the Esquimau That he sits on a cake of ice! O well for the Polar bear That he looks so cool and nice! But the scorching heats pours down And blisters both head and feet! And O for a touch of vanished frost, Or the sound of some hail and sleet!
* * * * *
THE LAY OF THE DRENCHED ONE.
(Time, 11.45 P.M.)
Pelt, pelt, pelt, On the cold wet earth, thou Rain! While my tongue is about to utter The anger that swells in my brain.
Oh, well for the waterproof'd gent, As he walks in his shiny array: Oh, well for the dandified swell, As he drives in his cabriolet.
And the last lone 'bus rolls on, As full as its guard can fill; But oh for the sight of a vanish'd cab, And the sound of a wheel that's still!
Pelt, pelt, pelt, On the damp, drench'd streets, O Rain; But the tender bloom of a dress-coat spoilt Will never return again.
JOHN COLLETT.
"But, says the Sporting Times, Calcutta is a rough place for a 'stony-broke,' for there is no comfortable workhouse for Europeans, such as would remind one of Tennyson's well-known 'Workhouse Song.'"--
"Break, break, break, All these cursed stones I see, For that is the task they've set me, And I wish that I wasn't me."
* * * * *
Wake! wake! wake! In thy Northern land so free, And our eloquent leader utters A protest for you and me.
Oh, well for Midlothian's sons That they shout with him in the fray, Oh, well for our British lads, For we know he will gain us the day.
And the Franchise war goes on, Though the Lords would have us be still; But, O for our triumph, thou Grand Old Man, When the people have their bill.
Wake! wake! wake! To the war-cry of "Liberty!" And slav'ry's old despotic days Shall never return to thee.
RICHARD H. W. YEABSLEY.
The Weekly Dispatch, September 14, 1884. (Parody Competition).
* * * * *
RHYME FOR ROGERS.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me A House of Peers can be no good: Mob caps are more than coronets, And Hyde Park crowds than Hatfield's brood.
Punch, September 6, 1884.
* * * * *
Tennyson's "Enoch Arden" has been less frequently parodied than most of his poems; some years ago the Australian Punch had a clever burlesque of it, and a "continuation" of Enoch Arden was privately printed in 1866. This very scarce little pamphlet consisted of twelve pages, in a blue wrapper, and had no printer's name or place on it. As it is now eagerly sought after by collectors of Tennysoniana, it is here given in full:--
ENOCH ARDEN,
(CONTINUED)
BY
C. H. P.
Not by the "LAUREAT,"--but a timid hand That grasped the Poet's golden lyre, "and back Recoil'd,--e'en at the sound herself had made."
1866.
ENOCH ARDEN
(Continued).
So Enoch died, as he had lived so long. Alone--alone! for Miriam Lane had pass'd To an adjoining chamber; but she heard Those joyous dying words, "A sail! a sail! I'm sav'd," and hurried back to comfort him; But wist not that the "sail" his spirit saw Was God's own ark, propell'd by angel wings Towards the Ocean of Eternity. "Ah well!" she said; "poor Enoch! he is gone; God rest his soul: give him more joy in Heaven Than he had found on earth,--at least of late: I thought he had not long to linger here, The sea made such a moaning all the night: It sounded like his death-wail; and methought I saw the corpse-light dancing in the fen. Now will I tell the neighbours who he was: They'll wonder how Dame Miriam knew the truth, But kept it close, because she loved her friend Enoch:--they cannot call me gossip now." It chanced that day, that Philip left his mill Earlier than wont: the nutting-time was come,-- That season of the year so closely link'd To Philip's destiny;--it seem'd to stir His pulse to quicker beat, and send a thrill Of strange mysterious feeling thro' his veins. He knew not how, or why: but Philip hurried on That he might keep the promised holiday With all the children--his, and hers, and theirs-- All dear to him; nor least the bonny Ralph, That last wee prattler, climbing to his knee. And all were ready with their nutting crooks; And Annie Ray, his own, his wife at last,-- His "beam of sunshine," as he called her oft. But as he left his mill, the passing-bell, With its first startling boom, tolled on his ear. It is a sound that enters at the brain, A saddening augury of woe, and strikes The inmost chord of sympathising hearts That fondly breathe an echoing sigh of pain. Sudden it falls, chilly as winter's frost, Turning to icicles the heart's warm blood. Spoke Philip to the comrade at his side, "Know you for whom that passing-bell is struck? Some full-grown man: it is the minute-toll." "Mayhap the stranger down at Miriam Lane's; I heard that he was dying yester-e'en. The tide has turn'd but now: 'tis running out; Whoe'er he was, his soul upon the shore Waited the ebbing tide to ebb away." Then came they to a little knot of men (Fishers in dark-blue knitted woollen vests) Hard by "the idle corner,"--so 'twas called,-- The blacksmith's forge. The honest gossippers, As Philip pass'd along, hushed their voices. Could he have read their looks, he might have known Some dark o'er-clouding sorrow was at hand, More nigh than he could think for, and more hard. Then passed a woman from the ale-house door, And, all unwitting Philip was so near, Cried, "Have you heard who died just now? 'Twas Enoch Arden,--lost, but late returned; And Miriam Lane has known it all along!" As if some hand had struck a sudden blow, Philip seemed stunned: the blood forsook his cheek, The big cold drops stood out upon his brow, As on the victim's, stretched upon the rack. His comrade laid his hand on Philip's arm, And uttering no word (what could he say?) Led him, as one half-blinded, step by step, Until they reached the home, where Annie Ray, Poor widow-wife, sat watching his return; He stagger'd towards her, caught her in his arms: God help me,--kiss me darling,--wife look up! "My wife--his wife--I know not what I say: If we did sin it was unwittingly; O, Annie! darling, one more fond embrace, E'er it be said our wedded love was wrong." Then, as she wonder'd, gazing on his face, And twined her loving arms around, he told,-- Yes, told her all--how Enoch had returned. Then Philip's comrade, who had linger'd near, Beckon'd the children out, and closed the door: There Miriam met them, with the lock of hair: But, loth to interrupt the sorrowers, She led the children to the house of death; And took a key from off the wooden peg, Beside the settle, where she used to hang The skeins of twine to mend the fishing nets: Then gently led them up the narrow stair, That creaked beneath their stealthy-moving tread. Sacred the silence that we ever keep, When death is in the house! we speak, we walk, With muffled tone and step, as if the dead Could be disturb'd, and waken out of sleep. Then Miriam turn'd the key;--that jarring click! How harsh it grated on the children's ear! As do the pebbles on the boat's sharp keel. Cold thro' the open casement came the breeze: There stood the bed--and on the sacking lay, Distinct beneath the sheet, a rigid form-- The feet so prominent, the arms close down!-- The children clung together, half afraid, While Miriam turned the coverlid aside. They dar'd not stoop to kiss the pallid face; But gaz'd awhile, then slowly left the room. Once they had seen their brother, as he lay Dead in his little cot: but he had look'd So beautiful asleep, you might have thought Death's angel had but gently turned him round, To rest more quietly: the tiny hands Were clasp'd together, and the face bent down, As resting on the pillow--not like this,-- So stiff, so cold, so utterly alone. Now, as the twilight fell the second day, Another mourner came: she spoke no word: Miriam had put the key within her hand, Turning aside, to dash away her tears: The widowed woman went up-stairs alone. One moment gazing on her Enoch's face, She stoop'd to kiss it, putting back the hair, As she had done in life: then kneeling down She pray'd,--"forgive me,--pity me,--Oh God." She touch'd his marble-cold, pale, hand with hers, That bore e'en then the double wedding rings. She laid her aching head upon his breast,-- When from her lips came forth a cry,--a shriek, Like to a hare's when shot: and Miriam came, And bore her senseless from the room of death. 'Twas strange how quick the widow's glance had caught Each little circumstance of the chamber, And noted in her loving memory,-- How on the table lay his Bible--closed: No need had Enoch now of Holy Writ, No need of Gospel Message; for he stood In presence of his SAVIOUR, and his GOD. But had she open'd where the much-worn page Told of the frequent reading, she had seen The marks of blistering tears upon that text, "Whose shall she be in Heav'n? there they marry Not, nor give in marriage, but are angels." There was a fly upon the window pane Whose low monotonous hum she scarcely heard, And that unconscious; but in after years The buzzing of a summer fly recall'd, E'en in her happiest hours, that day, That lonely visit to the bed of death; And cast a moment's shadow o'er her heart. More keenly she remarked the remnant store Of lulling anodynes: ah! bootless all To soothe the fever of his aching brain: The Wise Physician healed him with a touch, (E'en as we lay our hand on ringing glass To still the sound that careless fingers make), And sent a loving angel as his guide Through the dark valley to the realms of joy. There lay his watch, his big round silver watch, Whose constant tick had sadly echoed "Home" In all his wanderings; now its pulse was hushed: No need of Time for him: he had Eternity.
* * * * *
Then Philip left the village for awhile: And when once more the nutting-season came, And yellow "rust-spots" on the autumn leaves, He and his Annie were again at home! They'd learnt the lesson God had set them, "Wait:" And now the time of their reward was come: In Faith's strong soil Patience had taken root, And brought forth Hope and Joy, as bloom and fruit.
* * * * *
ENOCH'S "HARD 'UN."
Part I
In a fair village on the English coast There dwelt a lad--they called him Hunky Sam. He was but young--three years, or may be four, But manly for his age; his appetite For bulls'-eyes, "coker"-nuts, and such light fare Was something awful, even for a boy; But better far than even coker-nuts, He loved a maiden of surpassing grace-- Of humble parentage, but very fair, Whose name euphonious was Susan Ann. The parents of these twain were fisher-folk Of low degree, but honest to a fault. They would not steal the veriest pin, unless They were quite certain they would not be caught. Now Hunky's love for peerless Susan Ann Was felt by her, and given back to Hunk; And as the twain upon the yellow sands Would play, young Sam would say, "Now let us be, As grown-up folks, and we'll pretend we are A wedded pair, and I will be a man, And you, dear Susan Ann, my little wife; And you, go sit within yon gloomy cave, Which we will make believe to be our house, And I'll come staggering in like daddy does, And you can belt me on my flaxen head With this small stick, which we will call a broom-- For that's the way my dad and mammy do." And so they played upon the seashore sand Till Susan Ann had got the thing down fine. And time sped on, and Sam and Susan Ann Were married, and the twain became one flesh.
Part II
Sam went to sea, and whilst upon a voyage, He read of Enoch Arden and his woes; And so he soon resolved to do the same As in the book he read that Enoch did. To carry out his plan he sent word home, By trusty shipmate, to his Susan Ann, That he was drowned. He really did not care A great deal for his once-loved Susan Ann, Who, when the knot had but been tied a year, Had clearly showed that she could be the boss. So time sped on, and artful Hunky Sam In foreign climates had a jolly time For several years. "I think I'll homeward sail," One day he said, "and see how Susan Ann Gets on; like Enoch, I will softly glide Towards the cottage there upon the cliff, And see how she makes out with her new man, For she is doubtless wedded once again, Just like that Mrs. Arden in the book." Away he sailed across the sounding surge (A good expression that, but not my own), And soon he reached his village on the coast. 'Twas night. He crept towards the little cot Where once he'd dwelt. A light was burning clear; He peered in through the window. Susan Ann Was there, but t'other fellow was away. His wife glanced up: she saw the faithless Sam; She sprang towards him--grabbed him by the hair And held him there, whilst with her other arm She dealt him myriad thwacks with broomstick stout. "You would," she cried--"you would say you were dead, And with your foreign gals go cuttin' up; And leave me here to take in washing--eh? You wretch! take that, and that, and that, and that!" Each "that" being followed by a sickening thud.