Opening…

Preface

[Illustration: W]hen this Collection was originally projected it was intended to publish a few only of the best Parodies of each author. After the issue of the first few numbers, however, the sale rapidly increased, and subscribers not only expressed their desire that the collection should be made as nearly complete as possible, but by the loans of scarce books, and copies of Parodies, helped to make it so.

This involved an alteration in the original arrangement, and as it would have been monotonous to have filled a whole number with parodies of one short poem, such as those on “To be or not to be,” “Excelsior,” “My Mother” or Wolfe’s Ode, it became necessary to spread them over several numbers: In the Index, which has been carefully prepared, references will be found, under the titles of the original Poems, to all the parodies mentioned. In all cases, where it has been possible to do so, full titles and descriptions of the works quoted from, have been given; any omission to do this has been unintentional, and will be at once rectified on the necessary information being supplied.

By the completion of the second Volume of my collection, the works of the following Authors have been fully treated, William Shakespeare, John Milton, John Dryden, Dr. Watts, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, H. W. Longfellow, Thomas Hood, Bret Harte, Matthew Arnold, E. A. Poe, Wolfe’s Ode on the Death of Sir John Moore, and Miss Ann Taylor’s poem “My Mother.” Certainly most of the best parodies on these Authors have been collected, yet as new ones are constantly appearing, a further collection of them will appear in a future part of Parodies, which will also contain any good old parodies that may hitherto have escaped notice.

In a few cases where parodies are to be found in easily accessible works, extracts only have been quoted, or references given; but it is intended in future, wherever permission can be obtained, to give the parodies in full, as they are found to be useful for public entertainments, and recitations. When the older masters of our Literature are reached, a great deal of curious and amusing information will be given, and it is intended to conclude with a complete bibliographical account of Parody, with extracts and translations from all the principal works on the topic. Whilst arranging the first and second volumes, I have been gathering materials for those to come, which will illustrate the works of those old writers whose names are familiar in our mouths as household words. Much that is quaint and amusing will thus be collected, whilst many illustrations of our literature, both in prose and verse, which are valuable to the student, will for the first time be methodically arranged, annotated, and published in a cheap and accessible form.

In all Collections, such as this, there are some pieces which offend the taste, or run counter to the prejudice of some individual reader, but great care has been taken to exclude every parody of a vulgar or slangy description, although it need hardly be said that many such parodies exist.

Every effort has been made to avoid giving preference to the parodies of any Political party, and this could only be done by inserting the poems on their own merits. If any good Political Parody has been omitted, ignorance of its existence, not party motive, has been the cause.

I am much indebted to the following gentlemen either for permission to quote from their works, or for copies of parodies sent to me for publication:――Messrs. P. J. Anderson, of Aberdeen; A. H. Bates, of Birmingham; W. Butler; George Cotterell (Author of the “Banquet”); T. F. Dillon-Croker; F. B. Doveton; James Gordon, F.S.A., of Edinburgh; John H. Ingram; Walter Parke (author of “The Lays of the Saintly”); F. B. Perkins, of the Free Public Library, San Francisco; W. Smith, of Morley, near Leeds; Basil H. Soulsby, Corpus Christi, Oxford; Joseph Verey; John Whyte; J. W. Gleeson White; and A. R. Wright. The following ladies have also sent me some amusing parodies:――Miss E. Orton; Mrs. S. A. Wetmore of New York State; and Mrs. J. E. Whitby. My best thanks are also due to Mr. Walsh, and his courteous assistants in the Guildhall Library of the City of London, as well as to the gentlemen in the Library of the British Museum.

WALTER HAMILTON.

64, BROMFELDE ROAD, CLAPHAM, LONDON, S.W. December, 1885.

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CONTENTS OF PARTS I. TO XXIV. PARODIES.

EACH PART MAY BE PURCHASED SEPARATELY.

PART 1. Introduction. Alfred Tennyson’s Early Poems. PART 2. Alfred Tennyson’s Early Poems. PART 3. Pages 62, 63 & 64. H. W. Longfellow. PART 4. Page 49 to 62. Tennyson’s Poems. Pages 62, 63 & 64. H. W. Longfellow. PART 5. Page 65. A Parody of William Morris. Page 65 to 80. H. W. Longfellow. PART 6. Page 81 to 96. H. W. Longfellow. PART 7. Page 97 to 105. H. W. Longfellow. Hiawatha. Page 105 to 112. Rev. C. Wolfe. “Not a Drum was heard.” PART 8. Page 113. “Not a Drum was heard.” Page 113 to 128. Thomas Hood. The Song of the Shirt, etc. PART 9. Page 129 to 135. Thomas Hood. Page 135 to 140. Bret Harte. Pages 140 & 141. Rev. C. Wolfe. “Not a Drum was heard.” Page 142 to 144. Alfred Tennyson. PART 10. Page 145 to 160. Alfred Tennyson. PART 11. Page 161 to 176. Alfred Tennyson. PART 12. Page 177 to 186. Alfred Tennyson. Page 187 to 190. Rev. C. Wolfe. “Not a Drum was heard.” Page 190 to 192. Thomas Hood’s Song of the Shirt. PART 13. Page 1 to 4. Parodies on Bret Harte. Pages 4 and 5. Thomas Hood. Page 6 to 16. H. W. Longfellow. PART 14. Page 17 to 24. H. W. Longfellow. Page 25 to 40. Edgar Allan Poe. PART 15. Page 41 to 64. Edgar Allan Poe. PART 16. Page 65 to 88. Edgar Allan Poe. PART 17. Page 89 to 103. Edgar Allan Poe. Pages 103, 4 & 5. The Art of Parody. Page 106 to 112. “My Mother,” by Miss Anne Taylor. PART 18. Page 113 to 135. “My Mother.” Page 136 The Vulture, (After “The Raven.”) Page 136 A Welcome to Battenberg (after Tennyson). PART 19. Page 137 to 141. Tennyson’s “The Fleet,” etc. Page 141 to 143. “My Mother.” Page 144 to 160. Hamlet’s Soliloquy. PART 20. Page 161 to 184. W. Shakespeare. The Seven Ages of Man, etc. PART 21. Page 185 to 206. W. Shakespeare. Account of the Burlesques, of his Plays. Page 206 to 208. Dr. Isaac Watts. PART 22. Page 209 to 217. Dr. Isaac Watts. Page 217 to 232. John Milton. PART 23. Page 233 John Milton. Page 233 to 236. Dryden’s Epigram on Milton. Page 236 to 238. Matthew Arnold. Page 239 to 244. W. Shakespeare. Page 244 to 246. Bret Harte. Page 246 to 255. H. W. Longfellow. Pages 255 and 256 Thomas Hood. PART 24. Page 257 to 259. Thomas Hood. Page 260 to 280. Alfred Tennyson.

NOTES AND CORRECTIONS.

The Parody of “The Village Blacksmith,” on page 9, signed SPHINX, was written by Mr. W. Sappe, of Forest Hill.

Foot Note, page 112.――Mr. Artemus Ward is here credited with the advice “Never to prophecy unless you know,” an Aberdeen correspondent points out that Mr. R. Lowell was the real author, the phrase occurs in “The Biglow Papers:”―― My gran’ther’s rule was safer’n’t is to crow, Don’t never prophesy――onless ye know.

Page 232. Milton’s Epitaph on W. Shakespeare, the fourth line should read:―― “Under a star y-pointing pyramid.”

Page 24. Read Charles Baudelure, not Beaudelaire.

Page 219. Wine, a Poem. The Copy of this old poem in the Editor’s possession, was published anonymously in 1702. It has been ascribed to John Gay, who was born in 1688, the poem is certainly a remarkable production for a youth of twenty-one.

INDEX.

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The authors of the original poems are arranged in alphabetical order; the titles of the original poems are printed in small capitals, followed by the Parodies, the authors of which are named wherever possible.

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Albert Grant, M.P. and Leicester Square 2

Home, Sweet Home 3

Trial by Jury, in 1884, a Burlesque Law Report, from the Pall Mall Gazette 20

The Art of Parody, an Article reprinted from _The Saturday Review_ of February 14th, 1885 103

Tracy Turnerelli and the Golden Wreath 237 238

NATIONAL ANTHEM OF THE UNITED STATES.―― Orpheus C. Kerr’s report of the Prize Competition for a National Hymn, with copies of the rejected compositions ascribed to Longfellow, Everett, Whittier, Wendell Holmes, Emerson, Cullen Bryant, Morris, Willis, Aldwick, and Stoddart 22

――――:o:――――

Matthew Arnold.

SONNET TO GEORGE CRUIKSHANK 236 World――Prize Parody, by V. Amcotts 237 Do. do. by Goymour Cuthbert 237 Do. Competition Parody by Nocturne 237 Do. do. do., by Caraway 237 The subject selected was “Mr. Charles Warner in Drink,” August 20, 1879.

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 237 The World――Prize Parody, by Mrs. Winsloe 238 Do, do. by Miss M. C. Kilburn 238 The subject selected was “Mr. Tracy Turnerelli in the Provinces, with the Golden Wreath.” September 24, 1879.

The Wreath, from The World, July, 1879 238

――――:o:――――

John Dryden’s Epigram on Milton.

“THREE POETS, IN THREE DISTANT AGES BORN” 233 Epigram on Orator Henley, Rock, and Dr. John Hill 233 ” on Chatterton, Ireland, Lauder, and Macpherson 233 ” by D. O’Connell on Three Colonels 233 ” on Three Pens, advertisement 234 ” on Hemans, Hallam, and Hogg 234

Parody Competition in Truth, March 27, 1884―― Epigrams on Brandy and Soda 234 ” on Grog and Baccy 234 ” on Generals Wolseley, Roberts, and Graham 234 ” on Truth 234 ” on Beau Nash, Beau D’Orsay, and Beau Brummel 234 ” on Three Champion Batsmen 234 ” on the Midge, the Gnat, and the Mosquito 234 ” on the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle 234 ” on Tyndall, Huxley, and Darwin 234 ” on a Beau, a Dandy, and a Masher 234 ” on Gladstone, Sir S. Northcote, and Randolph Churchill 234 ” on the Members for Eye, Bridport, and Woodstock 235 ” on Lord Salisbury, Sir S. Northcote, and Lord R. Churchill (several) 235 ” on Gladstone, John Bright, and J. Chamberlain 235 ” on Gambetta, Prince Bismarck, and Gladstone 235 ” on the Irish Party (several) 235 ” on Lord Beaconsfield, Mr. Gladstone, and Lord R. Churchill 235 ” on Whigs, Parnellites, and Tories 233 ” on Sir Wilfrid Lawson 235 ” on Pitt, Fox, and Gladstone 236 ” on Irving, Bancroft, and Toole 236 ” on Toole, Sullivan, and Irving 236 ” on Irving, Augustus Harris, and Wilson Barrett 236 ” on Mrs. Langtry, Miss Ellen Terry, Miss Mary Anderson 236

――――:o:――――

Bret Harte.

DICKENS IN CAMP 1 Parodies in print, November, 1884 1

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES―― That Hebrew Ben D――――, 1878 1 Plain Language from Truthful Robert 3 That Greenwich M.P. (on Mr. Gladstone) 244 The Heathen M.P. (on Mr. Disraeli, in 1876) 245 “Ben Diz was his name” 245 On Chang, the Chinese Giant 245

THE AGED STRANGER―― “I was with Grant” (Albert Grant) 1874 2 Home, sweet Home, with variations, by Bret Harte, 1881 3 His Finger, a Prose Parody 4

THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS―― To “Auld Willie,” September, 1884 3

“JIM”―― On Bret Harte 246

――――:o:――――

Thomas Hood.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT―― The Night “Comp” 4 The Song of the Dirt (Covent Garden in 1884) 4 A Song of the Follies of Fashion, 1880 5 The Overseer’s Lament in Australia, 1853, by M. P. Stoddart 255 The Song of the Dirt, 1858 256 The Song of the Student, 1854 256 The Song of Exams. (Aberdeen) 257 The Song of the Drink 257 The Song of the Wheel 258 The Song of the Sponge 258 The Song of the Streets 259

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER―― A Parody of, by Phœbe Carey 4 A Parody of, by Tom Hood, junior 5 What it may come to (the House of Lords) 5 Reminiscences of a Grinder (Aberdeen, 1854) 258 Manchester Musings 259

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM―― The Wanstead Home 5 The Blue-coat Boys’ Ghost 5 A Case of Conscience 259 The Lost Child, or Russell’s Lament on the Loss of his Reform Bill, 1867 5

“Our heads have met, and if thine smarts,” 258

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS―― The Age of Sighs, 1868 259 Old Year unfortunate (1885) 259

――――:o:――――

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

EXCELSIOR―― Higher 6 Diogenes, 1854 6 Upwards, 1873 6 M. Duruof, 1874 7 The Excelsior Climbing Boy, 1875 7 “The Swampy State of Illinois” 8 The Dowager-Duchess at a Drawing Room 8 “’Brellas to mend” 8 On Mr. Disraeli’s first speech in Parliament 17 The Workhouse (Bob) 17 The Griffin 17 The Country Fair (Minnie Mum.) 17 What Roads! W. F. Field 18 Sloper 18 Divitior, 1858 250 Nettle-rash (from St. Bartholomew’s) 251 Young Lambs to sell 251 U-pi-dee, by F. C. Burnand 251 “Loved Arabella,” 1867 252 Ye poor Mahdi, 1884 252 “Ten thousand pounds” 253 (re Maskelyne v. Irving Bishop)

A PSALM OF LIFE―― What the young woman said to the old maid, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 11 “Tell me not in doleful murmurs,” by Thomas Thatcher 11 “Please be cheerful,” advice to Novelists 11 A Psalm of Farming 12 A Song of St. Stephen’s, 1882 12 A Psalm of Burial (on Cremation) 12 On Reading a Life and Letters 12 An Imitation, by C. Baudelaire 24 A Christmas Psalm of Life 246 A Psalm for the Trade 246 The Yankee Merchant to his book-keeper 247 The Psalm of Life as exhibited in Christmas Annuals 247

THE DAY IS DONE―― A parody of, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 12

THE ARROW AND THE SONG 13 The Birds and the Pheasant, 1867 13 The Ex-Premier (Mr. Gladstone), 1877 13 The Arrow and the Hound, 1884 13 The Bubble and the Bullet, by William Sawyer 248

BEWARE!―― “I know a maiden fair to see” (Kate Vaughan) 9 “I know a masher dark to see” 9 “I know a youth who can flirt and flatter” 247 “I know a Barber who in town doth dwell” 248 “I know a maiden with a bag” 248

The Song of the Oyster Land 248

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Under Britannia’s spreading Oak, 1884 9 The Low Bohemian, 1878 10 The Village Schoolboy 10 “Beside a Dingy Public-house,” 10 The War Blacksmith, 1866 18 The Lord Chancellor, Finis, 1877 19 The Village Pet. R. E. Blow 21 The City Blackleg 249 “Before a Study of the Nude” 249

THE NORMAN BARON―― The Roman Prelate, by Walter Parke 249

VOICES OF THE NIGHT―― Voices of our Nights, 1861 9

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS 23 Imitated by C. Baudelaire 24

FLOWERS―― Flowers of Rotten Row in 1858 250

THE BRIDGE―― “I lay in my bed at midnight” 250

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD―― The Soirée, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 14

EVANGELINE―― Dollarine; a tale of California, 1849 14 The Lost tails of Miletus, by Bret Harte 15 Mabel, the Made-up, Finis 1877 21

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA―― Marks and Remarks on the Royal Academy, 1856 15 The Great Medicine-Man, Punch, 1867 15 Revenge, a Rhythmic Recollection 16 The Song of Big Ben (Truth) 16 The Song of Progress, 1884 16 Le Calumet de Paix, by C. Baudelaire 24 The Great Tichborne Demonstration 253 Pahtahquahong, by Walter Parke 253 The Song of Cetewayo, 1882 254 The Printer’s Hiawatha 254 La Belle Sauvage (Princess Pocahontas), 1870 255

――――:o:――――

John Milton.

The Splendid Shilling, in imitation of Milton, by John Philips, 1700 217 The Crooked Sixpence, by Bramston 219 Wine, a Poem, 1709 219 A Panegyric on Oxford Ale, 1822 221 The Suet Dumpling 222 The Copper Farthing, by Miss Pennington 222 The School boy, by the Rev. Mr. Maurice 224 The Opening of Parliament, (Prize Parody) by John Foote, 1880 225 Another version, by H. Hamilton, 1880 226 Prae-Existence, a poem in imitation of John Milton, by J. B., 1714 226 Dr. Bentley’s alterations of Milton 226

L’ALLEGRO, AND IL PENSEROSO―― Whitsuntide, by the Rev. George Huddersford, 1793 227 Christmas do. do. 227 The Garrulous Man, 1776 227 L’Allegro; or Fun, a Parody 227 The Hare Hunter, by Mundy, 1824 229 Fashion, a Paraphrase of L’Allegro, 1814 229 Ode on the Centennial Birthday of Burns, by Samuel Lover, 1859 231 Football, by the Author of “The Idylls of the Rink,” 1883 231 A Reading Man, 1824 233 A Seaside Sonnet, after Milton-Oysters 233

MILTON’S EPITAPH ON SHAKESPEARE 232 Two Parodies on the same, from Punch, dated 1856 & 1863 232

――――:o:――――

Edgar Allan Poe.

Sketch of his Career 25 The Philosophy of Composition 26

THE RAVEN 27 A Gentle Puff, 1845 28 The Gazelle, by C. C. Cooke, 1845 28 The Whippoorwill, 1845 29 The Vulture, by Robert B. Brough, 1853 30 The Tankard, by Edmund H. Yates, 1855 31 The Parrot, by R. B. Brough, 1856 32 The Cat-Fiend (in prose), 1868 32 The Craven (Napoleon III), 1867 33 The Tailor, by A. Merion, 1872 34 The Shavin’, John F. Mill 35 Chateaux d’Espagne, by H. S. Leigh 35 A Ravin’. The Figaro, 1873 36 Dunraven. Punch, 1881, 1884 36 57 The Dove, a Sentimental Parody. J. W. Scott 37 Lines on the Death of Poe. Sarah J. Bolton 38 My Christmas Pudding 39 On a Fragment of a Five-dollar Bill 40 Nothing More 40 Her Pa’s Dog 40 The Phantom Cat, by F. Field, 1868 41 The Croaker, 1875 42 The Stoker (on Dr. Kenealy), 1875. J. Verey 43 The Raven, from the Liverpool Porcupine, 1875 44 A Black Bird that could sing, but wouldn’t sing, 1876 45 Cowgate Philanthrophy, 1876 46 Lines to the Speaker of the House of Commons, from Truth, 1877 47 The Baby, from Finis, 1877 48 The Maiden. D. J. M., 1879 49 The Promissory Note, Bayard Taylor 50 The “Ager,” by J. P. Stelle 50 The Chancellor and the Surplus, 1579 51 The Raven, dedicated to the Duke of Somerset 52 The Gold Digger, 1880 53 Quart Pot Creek, by J. Brunton Stephens 54 A Sequel, The Spirits, W. T. Ross 55 The Drama Despondent, 1882 56 A Voice 57 The Ravenous Bull and the Bicycle 58 A Cat-as-Trophy, in prose, 1866 58 The End of “The Raven,” 1884 59 Sequel to the Raven, by R. A. Lavender (a Spirit poem) 59 A Vigil Vision, by H. Bickford 60 Isadore, by Alfred Pike, 1843 61 Plutonian Shore, by J. E. Tuel, 1849 70 The Goblin Goose. Punch, 1881 71 The College Craven. P. G. S., 1884 71 The (C)raven Student 72 Le Corbeau, by S. Mallarmé, 1875 72 Vox Corvi, 1694 73 Poe-tical Forgeries 73 The Fire Fiend, September, 1864, by Charles D. Gardette 73 Golgotha, by Charles D. Gardette 75 The Raven, in Dublin 92 The Raven, said to have been translated by Poe from a Persian Poem 92 Sequel to the Raven, a Spiritual Poem by R. A. Lavender 93 A Grand Poem, by Lizzie Doten, 1872 94 Farewell to Earth, by Lizzie Doten 95 The Vulture, by Somers Bellamy, 1885 136

SPIRITUAL POEMS, in imitation of Poe, by Mrs. Lydia Tenney 93 The Raven, by R. Allston Lavender 93 A Grand Poem, by Lizzie Doten 94 The Kingdom, ” ” 94 Farewell to Earth ” ” 95 Improvisations from the Spirit, by Dr. J. J. Garth Wilkinson, 1857 95

POT-POURRI, reprinted from the scarce New York Edition of 1875―― The Ruined Palace. (The Haunted Palace) 96 Dream-Mere. (Dreamland) 96 Israfiddlestrings. (Israfel) 97 The Ghouls in the Belfry. (The Bells) 98 Hullaloo. (Ulalume) 99 To Any. (For Annie) 100 Hannibal Leigh. (Annabel Lee) 101 Raving. (The Raven) 102 The Monster Maggot. (The Conqueror Worm) 102 Poetic Fragments 103 Under-Lines 103

THE BELLS 75 The Swells, by R. B. Brough, 1857 76 The Ball-Room Belles. Fun. 1865 77 Pills, by Damer Cape, 1866 77 The Hells. The Tomahawk, 1867 78 Christmas Fancies. Fun, 1867 79 The Bells 79 The Bills, by Thomas Hood, the younger, 1870 80 The Flute 81 The Chimes done in Rhymes, an American parody, 1871 81 The Bills, from the Light Green, 1872 82 The Bells, by an overworked Waiter, 1875 82 The Girls 83 The Bills, by a Mercantile Poet, 1875 83 The Belles, Benjamin D――――, 1876 83 The Bills. The Corkscrew Papers, 1876 84 The Swells. Worthy a Crown? 85 The Bells. Fiz, 1878 85 The Bills. Funny Folks, 1879 86 The Hose. Puck, 1879 87 The Bills. Punch, 1879 87 Bills. Truth, 1880 88 The Bells, Mr. Irving in, 1883 89 The Voice of the Bells, by W. A. Eaton 89 The Bills. Detroit Free Press 89 “O! The Hammers,” by William Allan, 1883 90 Reminiscences of Summer, 1883 90 That Amateur Flute, an American Parody 90 The Office Boy’s Mother in America 91

ISRAFEL―― Bisakel, by J. E. Dalton, 1880 91 The Steed of Fire ” ” 91

ANNABEL LEE 61 Samuel Brown, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 61 The Cannibal Flea, by Tom Hood, the younger 62 The L. C. D. and the L. S. D. by Joseph Verey 62 St. Rose of Lima, by Walter Parke, 1882 63 Beautiful B―――― (Wilson Barrett), J. W. G. W. 63 Annabel Lee, from “Mr. and Mrs. Spoopendyke,” by Stanley Huntley 64

ULALUME 64 Paralune. Punch, 1881 64 The Willows, by Bret Harte 65 What is in a Name, by Thomas Hood, junior 65 You’ll Resume. Punch, 1882 66 Hope; An Allegory, by John H. Ingram 66 Covent Garden. Fun, 1867 68 The Kingdom, a Spirit poem, by Lizzie Doten 94

LENORE The Supper of the Four, by A. Merion, 1872 67

FOR ANNIE 68 Tristan and Isolde, by J. W. G. W. 68

LIGIEA―― Hygiea. Punch, 1880 69 The Demon of the Doldrums 69

――――:o:――――

William Shakespeare.

A PROLOGUE, in imitation of Othello’s address to the Senate 144 Correspondence in The Daily News, 1883, concerning the Gaiety burlesques of The Tempest, and Hamlet, including letters from Mr. Moy Thomas, Mr. W. Kennedy, Mr. John Hollingshead, and Mr. F. C. Burnand 144 The Daily News on Shakespearian Burlesques, October 25, 1884 205 Dreary Song for Dreary Summer, by Shirley Brooks, 1860 205 Shakespoke’s Epigram, by J. G. Dalton 205 The Shakespeare Monument Committee, 1823 205 The “New Shakspere Society,” and Mr. F. J. Furnivall 162

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THE TEMPEST――

The Tempest; or, the Enchanted Isle, by Sir W. Davenant and John Dryden 146 The Enchanted Isle; or, Raising the Wind, by R. B. and W. Brough, produced at the Adelphi Theatre, 1848, with the cast 203 Ariel, by F. C. Burnand, produced at the Gaiety Theatre, October, 1883, with the cast 204

WHERE THE BEE SUCKS 204 Who would be Great Grand Lord High? By J. R. Planché 204

“OUR REVELS NOW ARE ENDED” 204 “Those Golden pallaces,” by Lord Stirling 204 “Our Parodies are ended” 204

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MEASURE FOR MEASURE――

“TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY” 188 Take, O, take that bill away 188 Take, O, take the haunch away, by W. H. Ireland, 1803 188 Take, O, take that wreath away (to Mr. Tracy Turnerelli) 189 I bought thee late a golden wreath (after Ben Jonson) 189 Take, O, take Parnell away, 1882 189

AY, BUT TO DIE, AND GO WE KNOW NOT WHERE 244 Ay, but to love, and not be loved again 244 Oh, but to fade, and live we know not where, by Phœbe Carey 169

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MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING――

“SIGH NO MORE, LADIES” 202 Rail no more, Tories, 1823 202 Sigh no more, Dealers, 1867 203

――――――――

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM――

Act I. A Midsummer Nightmare, 1885 197 Act II. The Casting of the Cabinet, 1885 197 “That very time I saw,” by Phœbe Carey 169

I KNOW A BANK 198 I know a Bank (a monody on Money), 1879 198 I know a Bank (at Paddington), 1883 198 I am that merry wanderer of the night (Lord R. Churchill) 199

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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE――

Shylock; or, the Merchant of Venice Preserved; by F. Talfourd. Produced at the Olympic Theatre, 1853 179 “What find I here? Fair Portia’s counterfeit” 180

TELL ME, WHERE IS FANCY BRED? 180 Tell me, what is Fancy Bread? 180 A Parody by J. R. Planché, 1843 204

THE QUALITY OF MERCY IS NOT STRAINED―― The Jollity of Nursey is not feigned, 1883 180 This Quality of Jelly must be strained, 1880 180 The Quality of Flirting is not strained 204

――――――――

AS YOU LIKE IT――

THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN 169 “All the Town’s a Slide,” 1850 172 “All the World’s a Stable” 174 242 “All the World’s away” (for the holidays) 241 “All Parliament’s a Stage” (Political) 241 “All the Night’s a Stage” (on noises) 242 “All the Day’s a Plague” (on street noises) 242 “All the World’s a Newspaper,” 1824 195 The Stage Coach Company, 1803 170 The Patriot’s Progress, 1814 170 The Seven Ages of Woman 170 174 The Seven Ages of Æstheticism 171 The Seven Ages of Intemperance, 1834 171 The Poetry of the Steam Engine, 1846 172 The Seven Ages of the French Republic, 1848 172 The Seven Ages of a Public Man, 1855 172 The Catalogue of the British Museum 173 The Seven Ages in Mincing Lane, 1868 173 The Politician’s Seven Ages, 1868 173 The Seven Ages of Acting, 1884 174 The Seven Ages of Love, 1881 174 The Seven Carriages of Man, 1885 174 The Seven Drinks of Man, 1885 175 The Seven Courses at Dinner 241 242 The Seven Ages of Cricket 242 The Seven Ages of a Clergyman 243 The Seven Ages of a Politician 243 The Seven Forms of Insanity 243 The Seven Ages of a Sailor 243 The Seven Ages of Fashion 244 “Dinner is a Stage,” by F. B. Doveton 240 “Parliament’s a Stage” (Political) 241 Bud, Blossom, and Decay, by T. F. D. Croker 195 Jaques in Capel Court, 1845 (Gambling on the Stock Exchange) 171 A Paraphrase, by E. L Blanchard, 1866 196 Oxford is a Stage, 1868 196 A Shakespearian after-dinner Recitation, by F. Upton, 196

A FOOL, A FOOL! I MET A FOOL I’ THE FOREST 194 The same, with a cold in the head (at Combe) 194 A Dude――a dude! I met a dude 195 Blow, blow thou Winter Wind, a parody on 176 Lines on Mrs. Langtry as Rosalind, 1882 176 Lines on Miss Mary Anderson as Rosalind, at Stratford-on-Avon, August, 1885 244

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE 196 Under the Greenwood Shed, by Shirley Brooks, 1866 197

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A WINTER’S TALE――

Perdita, or the Royal Milkmaid, by William Brough. Produced at the Lyceum Theatre, 1856, with the cast 200 Zapolya, a Christmas Tale by S. T. Coleridge, 1817 200

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KING JOHN――

King John Burlesque, by G. A. A’Beckett. Produced at the St. James’s Theatre in 1837 199 Cast of Characters in the burlesque, and extracts from it 199

――――――――

KING HENRY V.――

PROLOGUE ACT IV. 201 Lord Mayor’s Day, 1827 201

――――――――

RICHARD THE THIRD――

“NOW IS THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT” 189 “The World” Parody, Competition. The return of Lord Chelmsford from Zululand 190 Cetewayo’s Soliloquy 190 King Richard ye Third, by Charles Selby, at the Strand Theatre in 1844 190 The Rise and Fall of Richard III., or a new Front to an old Dicky, by F. C. Burnand, at the Royalty Theatre in 1868, with the Cast 191 Richard III, Travestie, by William By, 1816 191 Richard III. Burlesque, by J. Sterling Coyne, 1844 191

――――――――

KING HENRY VIII.――

CARDINAL WOLSEY’S FAREWELL 191 Henry Irving’s Farewell, 1875 191 Mr. Gladstone’s Farewell to his Old China, 1875 191 A Parody in College Rhymes 192

――――――――

ROMEO AND JULIET――

I do remember an old Bachelor, 1832 176 I do remember a Cook’s shop 176 I do remember a young pleader, by G. Wentworth, 1824 176 I do remember a strange man, a herald, by R. Surtees 177 Ha! I remember a low sort of shop, by J. R. Planché 204

THE SHAKESPEARE OF THE PERIOD, 1869―― Romeo and Juliet, as arranged by T. W. Robertson 177 Romeo and Juliet, as arranged by T. Maddison Morton 178 Romeo and Juliet as arranged by H. J. Byron 178 Do. Do. as arranged by Dion Boucicault 178 Romeo and Juliet Travestie, by Andrew Halliday. Produced at the Strand Theatre, 1859 179 Romeo and Juliet; or, the Shaming of the True. Performed at Oxford during Commemoration, 1868 179

――――――――

JULIUS CÆSAR.

THE SPEECH OF BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF CÆSAR 192 The Poacher’s Apology 192

MARC ANTONY’S SPEECH 192 Parody Competition in The Weekly Dispatch, June 28, 1885. 193 A Speech by Sir W. Harcourt, by T. A. Wilson 193 A Speech by John Bright, by H. L. Brickel 193 On Mr. Gladstone leaving Office, by George Mallinson 193

――――――――

MACBETH.

Macbeth, in a Song from Rejected Addresses 181 The Incantation on Penenden Plain, 1828 181 Is this a Sovereign which I feel behind me? 1852 182 Macbeth Travestie, in Accepted Addresses 182 Macbeth Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1847. Performed at Henley; at the Strand Theatre in 1848; and at the Olympic Theatre in 1853 182 Making the Pudding; a Christmas Incantation 183 The Modern Macbeth. H. Savile Clarke, 1885 183 Shakespeare’s Recipe for cooking a Beef Steak 184 M. Alexis Soyer’s Soup for the Poor (on the Incantation Scene) 239 Macbeth’s Soliloquy parodied, 1830 240 Shakespeare’s Ghost on the New Apocalypse August, 1885 240

――――――――

HAMLET.

TO BE, OR NOT TO BE (from the 1623 folio edition) 146 Oh, say! To be, or not to be? As a song, from George Cruikshank’s Almanac, 1846 146 To Be, or not to Be? By T. Thatcher 146 To Be, or not to Be? On London’s Municipal Reform, 1884 147 To Be, or not to Be? By Mark Twain 147 To Be, or not to Be? As supposed to be amended by Mr. F. J. Furnivall 163 To Act, or not to Act? (on Speculation) 147 To Affiliate, or not to Affiliate? 148 To Bake, or not to Bake? Advertisement 148 To Bathe, or not to Bathe? 148 To Bee, or not to Bee? (Spelling Bee) 148 To Be, or not to Be? (Gladstone’s Soliloquy) Prize Parody by Jessie H. Wheeler 149 To Box, or not to Box? 149 Burgh, or No-Burgh? From the Ardrossan Herald 146 Canal, or no Canal? By F. B. Cottier (on the Suez Canal) 150 To Cheat, or not to Cheat? By an Attorney 150 Clôture or no Clôture? Punch, 1882 151 To Come, or not to Come? For a Bashful Reciter, by Henry J. Finn 151 Compromise, or no Compromise? 1884 151 To Dance, or not to Dance? Judy, 1871 151 To Drink, or not to Drink? American Paper 152 Ditto ditto Punch, 1841 152 Ditto ditto From Hamlet Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1849 152 To Dun, or not to Dun? The Mirror, 1823 152 To Dye, or not to Dye? The Tomahawk, 1869 153 To Dig, or not to Dig? J. M. Dron (Another proposed Suez Canal) 150 Etre, ou ne pas être! A French version 162 A Flea, or not a Flea? by James Robinson 153 To Fight, or not to Fight? 1823 202 To Go, or not to Go? Ophelia’s Version. 153 To Have it out, or not? A Dental Soliloquy 153 To Hiss, or not to Hiss? The Puppet Show 154 To Hunt, or not to Hunt? The Mirror, 1823 154 To Pay, or not to Pay? The Debtor’s Soliloquy, by F. J. Overton, 1881 154 To Pay, or not to Pay? (on the Suez Canal). by Leonard Harding 150 To be, or not to be Polite? Gossip, 1885 155 To Print, or not to Print? Rev. R. Jago 155 To Yield, or not to Yield? (To the Tories) 149 To Rat, or not to Rat? Once a Week, 1868 155 To Smoke, or not to Smoke? 244 To Sleep, or not to Sleep? O. P. Q. P. Smiff 162 To Shave, or not to Shave? Diogenes, 1854 155 Ditto ditto by T. F. Dillon-Croker 156 To Starve, or not to Starve? W. H. Ireland 156 To Sniggle, or to Dibble? by F. C. Burnand 202 To Stick to Hoy, or not? The Argus, 1831 157 To Stitch, or not to Stitch? The Mirror 157 To Strike, or not to Strike? by a Cabman, 1867, 157 To Stand, or not to Stand, 1808 161 Trousers, or no Trousers? (The Bloomer Question) The Month, 1851 158 Tubby, or not Tubby? by F. C. Burnand 161 To Urn, or not to Urn? by William Sawyer 161 To Vaccinate, or not? 1881 158 To Wash, or not to Wash? by J. P. Roberdeau, 1803 158 To Write, or not to Write? The New Lady’s Magazine, 1786 160

On the Marriage Question. To Wed, or not to Wed? The New Lady’s Magazine, 1786 158 To Woo, or not to Woo? Posthumous Parodies, 1814 159 To Wed, or not to Wed? by W. A. Clouston 159 Marry, or not to Marry? Political Note Book, 1824 159 To Wed, or not to Wed? Echoes from the Clubs, 1868 159 Ditto ditto, Anonymous 161 To Be, or not to Be (married)? by W. H. Edmunds 160 To Pop, or not to Pop the fatal question? 160 When a man becomes tired of his life (Song founded on the Soliloquy) 162 The Soliloquy in Hebrew, 1880 202 Hamlet in Prose, 1848 202 The Ghost Scene parodied 203 Hamlet Travestie, by John Poole, 1810 161 Hamlet, or, not such a fool as he looks, by the Author of “The Light Green” 1882 160 Very Little Hamlet, by W. Yardley, at the Gaiety Theatre, 1884 164 Hamlet Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1849 164 Three Children sliding on the Ice 162 Furnivallos Furioso and the Newest Shakespeare Society, 1876 163 The advice of Polonius to Laertes, a Parody of, by H. J. Byron 164 Hamlet’s instructions to the Players, Parody of, by W. S. Gilbert, in The Pretty Druidess, 1869 165 See what an incubus sits on our City, 1882 165 Look here upon this picture, and on this 165 A Parody Cigarette Advertisement 165 Parody of the scene between Polonius and Ophelia, by F. Talfourd 165 The Barrow Diggers, an Antiquarian conversation in imitation of the Grave Diggers Scene, 1839 167 An Irish Play bill, 1793 169 Ben Dizzy patch’d and mended for to-day, Fiz, 1879 169 Hamlet from a new point of view 164

――――――――

OTHELLO――

OTHELLO’S SPEECH TO THE SENATE 184 The Strolling Player’s Apology 184 Kenealy’s Speech to the Senate, 1875 184 “Good name, in Man and Woman” 185 A Parody in the Ingoldsby Legends 185

FAREWELL, THE TRANQUIL MIND! 185 A Parody, by George Colman 185 The Undertaker’s Farewell, 1849 185 Farewell the quiet chop! (at Evans’s) 1879 185 Shakespeare’s Farewell 185 Address by J. P. Kemble. (O.P. Riots, 1810) 186 William IV. and Reform, 1832, Parody of a scene from Othello 186 Punch and Lord John Russell, 1848 187 Henry Irving as Othello 187 Othello Travestie, an Operatic Burlesque Burletta, by Maurice G. Dowling, produced at Liverpool in 1834, and at the Strand Theatre 188

――――――――

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA――

An Extravaganza, founded on Antony and Cleopatra, by F. C. Burnand, produced at the Haymarket Theatre, 1866 201

――――――――

CYMBELINE――

FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O’ THE SUN 193 Fear no more the voice of the don, 1872 194 “Our Parodies are ended” 204

――――:o:――――

King Queer, and his Daughters Three, at the Strand Theatre, 1855 205 A Coriolanus Travestie, by J. Morgan, produced in Liverpool, 1846 205

――――:o:――――

Miss Ann Taylor.

MY MOTHER 106 A History of the poem “My Mother” 106 My Mary, by William Cowper 107 My Mother, by an Outcast 107 ” ” by F. Talfourd 167 My Mother-in-Law 108 Mothers. The Humourist 143 My Baedeker, from Tracts in Norway 143 My Banker. Punch 1855 111 ” ” Judy 1879 142 My Barrett (Mr. Wilson Barrett), 1884 111 My Bismarck. Judy 1867 112 My Broker. Punch 1875 111 My Brother 142 ” ” The Boys Own Paper, 1884 109 My Father 134 My Mother 134 My Brother 134 My Sister 135 My Boot-Hooks. The Man in the Moon 113 My Bicycle. J. G. Dalton 113 My Bishop. Thomas Moore 123 My Chignon. Girl of the Period 113 My Client. Punch, 1875 111 112 My Dentist. R. E. Egerton-Warburton 113 My Father. Truth, 1877 127 My Godwin. J. and H. Smith 121 My Hairs. Thomas Hood 114 My Hookah 114 My Jenny (on Jenny Lind) 114 My Landlady. Figaro Album 115 My Lodger. Judy, 1869 115 My Little-go. College Rhymes, 1865 115 My Member. Punch, 1852 116 My Murray. Punch, 1857 116 My Miguel. Thomas Moore 122 My Nose. John Jones 116 My Punch 117 My Relations. Funny Folks, 1879 108 My Stockings 117 My Tutor. Paulopostprandials, 1883 143 My Tailor, by a Man of Fashion 117 My Ticker. Punch, 1842 118 My Uncle (ascribed to Louis Napoleon) 118 My Uncle. Punch, 1845 118 My Uncle. John Taylor 118 My Uncle. Punch, 1871 119 My Valentine. Judy, 1880 119 My Whalley. The Tomahawk, 1867 119 My Whiskers. The Belle Assemblée, 1833 120 My Yot. Punch, 1880 120 A Lay of Real Life 109 Audi Alteram Partem 110 Harry’s Complaint 110 A Sister’s Complaint 110 “Another,” by J. W. G. W. 135 Avitor, by Bret Harte 132 “Baby” at the Strand Theatre, Fun, 1879 128 Blucher, Cambridge Odes 123 Cattle Show Queries 132 Free Trade v. Protection, Punch, 1849 124 Her Mother, Finis 109 Her Mother, Funny Folks 132 King Clicquot, Punch, 1855 125 Lines by a Girl of the Future, 1869 126 L. S. D. (Money), Figaro, 1874 127 Nobody 132 Nursy-Pursy, The Tomahawk, 1869 108 Our Bishops, Jon Duan, 1874 127 Our Sunday down East, Punch, 1880 129 Our Marquis, Truth, 1884 130 The Turncock, Punch, 1843 124 The Ramoneur, Punch, 1843 124 The Baker. Punch, 1853 124 The Poet, C. Rae Brown, 1855 125 The Baby Show, Cuthbert Bede, 1856 126 108 The Russians, Benjamin D――――, 1876 127 The “Doctor,” Funny Folks, 1877 128 The Weather, Truth, 1879 128 The Weather, Punch, 1881 129 The Egyptian Baby (Tewfik) 130 The Fog, Judy, 1882 130 The Mahdi, The Referee, 1884 130 The Lords. H. E. Harker 131 The “Comp.” 131 The Newspaper, 1823 122 The Proctor, The Gownsman, 1831 123 The Slug, Judy, 1873 141 The Fog, Judy, 1876 141 The Nervous, The Argosy, 1866 142 The Bible 133 The Orange 133 The People’s William, Ipswich Journal, 1885 131 Tight Lacing, Truth, 1879 128 Your Friend, Countess of Blessington 120 Another Friend (a Stick) 121 Woman, L. O. Shaw 1815 121 Velluti, 1828 122 Valentine (the Curate) 142 What the Seasons bring 130 Who? Ah, who? The Figaro, 1874 110 Who’s who in 1851. Punch, 1851 112

――――:o:――――

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

MARIANA―― Mariana on the Second Floor, 1851 260 Mary Anne; or the Law of Divorce, 1858 260 The Owl’d Yarn, by R. F. Hind 261

ORIANA―― Yule Tide (Oh, my Gracious!) 261 The Ballad of Hoary Anna 261 Idadæca, from Kottabos, 1881 262 Randy-Pandy, by George Cotterell, 1885 203

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE―― Miss Matilda Johnson Jones, by Gilbert Abbot à Beckett, 1845 263

THE MERMAN―― The Mer(ry)man, by George Cotterell 264

THE MAY QUEEN―― “You must save me from the Jingoes,” by J. Arthur Elliott 139 Hodge’s Emancipation, by John H. Gibson 140 Outside the Lyceum, April, 1885 140 The Lord Mayor 264 The May Queen with a cold 264 Russia to England 265 At the Play 265

THE LOTUS EATERS―― The Onion Eaters 140

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN―― A Vision of Great Men 265 A Dream of Fair Drinking 265 A Dream of Unfair Trade 265

ULYSSES―― The Czar of Russia 265

LOCKSLEY HALL―― Lay of Boxing Night, 1847 266 Lincoln’s Inn, by Albert Smith, 1851 266 St. Stephen’s Revisited, by G. Cotterell 267 The Grinder, March, 1885 267 Digwell’s Lament, 1865 267

GODIVA―― Whittington, 1858 268

THE EAGLE, and a Parody 268

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK―― “Block, block, block,” by G. Cotterell 263 “Sleep, sleep, sleep,” by F. Field 209 The Lost Joke 269 “Talk, talk, talk!” (to Mr. Parnell) 269 “Wake, wake, wake!” by R. H. W. Yeabsley 269 “Thirst, thirst, thirst!” 269 “Broke, broke, broke!” 269 Who breaks pays 269 Gladstone hath us in his net 270

THE BROOK―― The Song of the Flirt 270 The Mont Cenis Train, 1868 270 The Corn, by Jayhay, 1878 271 The River, a Steamboat version 271 The Song of the Steam Launch 272 The Sherbrooke. A Lowe Ballad 272 A Lay of Lawn Tennis 272

HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD―― Home they brought her “Worrier” dead 273 “Let me lie here,” by John Cotton 273 Give me no more 140 “The Slander falls in different halls” 273

TEARS, IDLE TEARS―― Tears, maudlin Tears 141

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE―― The Light (Blue) Brigade――The University Boat Race 273 The Gas Stoker’s Strike, by J. Verey, 1873 274 Clapham Junction, by J. Verey 274 The Charge of the “Light” Brigade, by C. T. Druery 274 The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Kassassin 275 The Charge of the Fire Brigade 275

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA―― Stradella, by Rose Grey, 1863 275 A Welcome to Battenberg, Funny Folks 136 In Tennysoniam, by Albert Smith, 1851 276 A Parody of Tennyson’s Prefatory Sonnet for “The Nineteenth Century” 276 Wages, Judy 140

IDYLLS OF THE KING―― A Parody of the Dedication (on John Brown) 276 A little rift within the lute 277 “Too soon, too soon” 277 “Little Miss Muffet” as an Arthurian Idyll 277

DESPAIR, 1881―― Never say die 278 Hands all round, by John Phelan 278

THE FLEET (April, 1885), The Times 137 The Bard (on his reported imbecility) 137 138 A Laurel. J. Fox Turner 137 “We, we.” E. S. Watson 137 Tennyson (on his reported lunacy) 137 Tennyson Tackled. Punch 137 Our Fleet. Moonshine 138

Parody Competition Poems on The Fleet.―― Prize Parody, by Mrs. Emily Lawrence 138 A Conservative (on his leader’s reported inefficiency). Henry L. Brickell 138 The Government. John Carter 139 The Laureate. Exe 135 The Corporation. Thomas H. Knight 139 To the Jingo. George Mallinson 139 To the Jingo. Edward Scott 139 Gladstone’s Rebuke. Jesse H. Wheeler 139 The Unfitness of the Meat, by F. B. Doveton 279

LINES TO PRINCESS BEATRICE ON HER MARRIAGE 279 Two Suns of Love make day of human life 279 Two Moons for thee of honey and of strife 279 Two sums of cash will fill a German purse 279 Two tones of love make woe of married life 279 Two things, no doubt, make day of married life 280 Two tricks of trade make bearable my life 280 Two sorts of grants make rich the royal train 280 Two bridal loves make laugh of “You, you’s” song 280 Tennyson on General Gordon 141

――――:o:――――

Isaac Watts, D.D.

HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE 206 How doth the little busy Flea 206 208 How doth the ever busy Wasp 207 How doth the busy Russian Bee, 1875 207 How doth the dizzy Disraeli, 1858 207 How doth the lively Spelling Bee, 1876 207 How doth the little busy Wheeze 207 How doth the busy Parliament, 1876 208 How doth the little Crocodile 208 How doth the little Mosquito 208 How doth the honest Land League man, 1881 208 How doth the little coal-hole top 208 How doth the very Bizzy Bee (Bismarck) 209 How doth the gorging, greedy Bee 209 How doth the wobbling, wily wops 209 Buggins’s Variations of the Busy Bee 209 A Prose Version 207

LET DOGS DELIGHT TO BARK AND BITE 210 Let Canine Animals, 1847 210 Let Austria delight to bark and bite, 1854 210 Let peaceful Bright in speech delight, 1854 210 Let Lords delight to bark and bite, 1869 210 Let Rads delight to bark and bite 211 Let Bigots write with sneers of spite 211 Let Fools and Bullies brawl and fight 211 Let Cads delight with fists to fight 212 Let Frenchmen fight with kick and bite 215 Whigs in their cosy berths agree, 1849 210 Birds in their little nests agree 211 Oh, Marcus! You should never let 211 On a Fracas at Newmarket, 1883 211 To a Policeman 212 When Bishops, who in wealth abound 216

’TIS THE VOICE OF THE SLUGGARD 212 ’Tis the moan of old Louis (of France), 1823 212 ’Tis the voice of the lobster 212 ’Tis the voice of the Czar, 1879 213 ’Tis the voice of the Rinker 213 ’Tis the voice of Britannia 213 ’Tis the voice of the glutton 213 ’Tis the voice of the oyster 213 ’Twas the voice of the “Special” 213 A Parody from Funny Folks 212 The Wise one and the Foolish 213

WHENE’ER I TAKE MY WALKS ABROAD 214 Do. do. in London Streets 214 The Irish Landlord’s Song 214 I cannot take my walks abroad 214 Another Version, by Shirley Brooks 215 Whene’er abroad we take our walks (in Covent Garden) 215 Abroad in the Boroughs 215 How sweet a thing it is to dwell 216 Why should I relieve my neighbour 216 A Paraphrase on Dr. Watts’ Distich on the Study of Languages, 1792 216

――――――――

Bret Harte.

DICKENS IN CAMP.

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew;

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of “Little Nell.”

Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,――for the reader Was youngest of them all,―― But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall;

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows, Wandered and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes――o’ertaken As by some spell divine―― Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: And he who wrought that spell?―― Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths intwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,―― This spray of Western pine! BRET HARTE. July, 1870.

――――――――

PARODIES IN PRINT.

Among the books the gloom was darkly drifting, The writer’s spirits low; The duller serials, and the weeklies, lifting But melodies of woe.

The older authors, with rude humour, painted The glowing fun of health Now lost in dreary prose, jokes died or fainted In sterner race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from the past’s great treasure Of hundred volumes drew, A scheme to tap the hoard untold of pleasure And bid it flow anew;

And so the parodies unearthed grew vaster, Than ever one could tell, All mimicking some mighty poet Master, In many a sprightly “Sell.”

Perhaps ’tis too fond fancy,――that the reader Should leave the weeklies all, Let Punch go prosing, scorn the D. T. leader, And let Police News pall;

While ’mid these gambols of poetic shadows, Listening to bygone play, As each mad parody evokes the glad “Ohs!” (As Browning p’raps would say).

See Tennyson, in mighty verse――o’ertaken, Mimicked in tripping line―― When jokes from Longfellow, so grave, are shaken Like gush in penny-a-line.

To find in rush of their poetic fire, A comic theme told well, While stately verse, and song, and culture higher, Are used some joke to tell.

Lost be that scamp, who would no funny story Tell in the rhyme that thrills Like farthing rushlight posing as the glory Of sun o’er ancient hills.

If, in the crowd of puppets, some poor dolly Should ape a bard sublime, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly―― To jest is not a crime. J. W. G. W. November, 1884.

――――――――

THAT HEBREW BEN D―――― House of Lords, January, 1878.

Which I wish to remark―― And my language is plain―― That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The Hebrew Ben D―――― is peculiar, Which the same I would like to explain.

I have mentioned his name, And I shall not deny, In regard to the same He is wary and sly; And his smile it is mocking and ice-like And there isn’t no green in his eye.

Now, some rumours had spread, Which Ben D―――― could not burke, And every one said He’d been at his old work. (It was strange, you must know, how he doated Upon the “Unspeakable Turk.”)

It was Gran-Vil who rose, And quite soft was his style; But you must not suppose That he hasn’t no guile; Yet D―――― played it that day upon Gran Vil In a way that made most of them smile.

Which some questions he’d brought, And Ben rose――as ’twas planned―― To reply. What was sought He did well understand; But he smiled, as he stood at the table, With a smile that was artfully bland.

How he trifled with sense, You would scarcely believe; And with cunning intense, Fancy statements did weave: Whilst he kept back his facts by the dozen, And the same, with intent to deceive.

Yes, the tricks that were play’d By that Hebrew, Ben D――――, And the points that he made Were quite shocking to me; Till at last he sat down amid laughter, And chuckling himself, I could see.

Then up sprang Ar-Gyle, With his hair flowing free, And he gave a wild snort, And said, “Shall this be? We are humbugged by Asian myst’ries, And he went for that Hebrew, Ben D――――.

Which the war-dance he had Was exciting to watch, Though I feared, lest too mad, His job he might botch, For he whooped, and he raved, and he ranted;―― You see he’s so pepp’ry and Scotch.

Still, the scene that ensued Was uncommonly grand, For the floor it was strewed, Like the leaves on the strand, With the facts that Ben D―――― had been hiding, The facts “He did well understand.”

For his head, which is long, Contained facts by the score; Which, with effort so strong, Ar-Gyle out of it tore; Till Ben D――――, if he has any feelings, Must have, morally, felt very sore.

Which expressions is strong, Yet but feebly imply What I think of the wrong―― Not to call it a lie―― As was worked off by Benjy on Gran-Vil, Which he can’t go for it to deny.

Which is why I remark―― And my language is plain―― That for ways that are dark, And tricks that are vain, The Hebrew Ben D―――― is peculiar, Which the same I am bold to maintain.

Truth, January 31, 1878.

――――――――

THE AGED STRANGER. (An Incident of the War).

“I was with Grant――” the stranger said, Said the farmer, “Say no more, But rest thee here at my cottage porch, For thy feet are weary and sore.”

“I was with Grant――” the stranger said; Said the farmer, “Nay, no more,―― I prithee sit at my frugal board. And eat of my humble store.

“How fares my boy,――my soldier boy, Of the Old Ninth Army Corps? I warrant he bore him gallantly In the smoke and the battle’s roar!”

“I know him not,” said the aged man, “And, as I remarked before, I was with Grant――” “Nay, nay, I know,” Said the farmer, “Say no more;

“He fell in battle,――I see alas! Thou’dst smooth these tidings o’er,―― Nay: speak the truth, whatever it be, Though it rend my bosom’s core.

“How fell he,――with his face to the foe, Upholding the flag he bore? O, say not that my boy disgraced The uniform that he wore!”

“I cannot tell,” said the aged man, “And should have remarked, before, That I was with Grant,――in Illinois,―― Some three years before the war.”

Then the farmer spake him never a word, But beat with his fist full sore That aged man, who had worked for Grant Some three years before the war. BRET HARTE.

The following parody appeared in Jon Duan, one of Beeton’s Christmas Annuals. The original poem refers to General Ulysses S. Grant, President of the United States; the parody is in allusion to Mr. Albert Grant, M.P., who presented Leicester Square to the public in July, 1874, and whose name was then prominently before the public in connection with numerous financial schemes:――

“I WAS WITH GRANT.”

“I was with Grant――――” the stranger said; Said McDougal, “Say no more, But come you in――I have much to ask―― And please to shut the door.”

“I was with Grant――――” the stranger said; Said McDougal, “Nay, no more,―― You have seen him sit at the Emma Board? Come, draw on your mem’ry’s store.

“What said my Albert――my Baron brave, Of the great financing corps? I warrant he bore him scurvily ’Midst the interruption’s roar!”

“No doubt he did,” said the stranger then; “But, as I remarked before, I was with Grant――――” “Nay, nay, I know,” Said McDougal; “but tell me more.”

“He’s presented another square!――I see, You’d smooth the tidings o’er―― Or started, perchance, more Water-works On the Mediterranean shore?

“Or made the Credit Foncier pay, Or floated a mine with ore? Oh, tell me not he is pass’d away From his home in Kensington Gore!”

“I cannot tell,” said the unknown man, “And should have remarked before, That I was with Grant――Ulysses, I mean―― In the great American war.”

Then McDougal spake him never a word, But beat, with his fist, full sore The stranger who’d been with Ulysses Grant, In the great American war. Jon Duan, 1874.

――――――――

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL ROBERT. (With Apologies to Bret Harte’s “Truthful James.”)

Do I sleep? Do I dream? (I’m sarcastic, no doubt.) Are things what they seem? Or is visions about? Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle and truncheon played out?

Which expressions is strong; Yet I beg to declare That the constable throng Have a grievance to air While they’re forced to meet murderous cracksmen upon terms which are far, far from fair.

Charley Peaces abound In the subbubs to-day; And they’re apt, when they’re found, To go blazing away At a constable all unpertected, which the same has the worst of the fray.

Can you tap a cove’s head If you’re progress is checked By the neat bit o’ lead That a Colt does eject? And when bullets is lodged in your stummick, can you tootle with proper effect?

That you can’t, I submit, And the truth must be faced That the Force will get hit, And the town be disgraced, Till each Bobby with Billy――that’s Sikes, sir――on a more equal footing is placed.

Are these shootings a dream? (I’m sarcastic, no doubt.) Are things what they seem? Or is visions about? Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle and truncheon played out?

Funny Folks, August 2, 1884.

Scribners’ Monthly for May, 1881, contained a humorous collection of imitations of various authors, entitled “Home, Sweet Home, with Variations.” It commences by giving a couple of verses from the original poem by John Howard Payne; next comes a variation such as might have been written by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Walt Whitman, Austin Dobson, Oliver Goldsmith, and Alexander Pope are also supposed each to contribute a new setting of the old song, the imitation of Walt Whitman is exquisitely humorous; but that which principally concerns us here is the third imitation, which is entitled:――

HOME, SWEET HOME

as Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into a touching tale of a western gentleman in a red shirt――

Brown, o’ San Juan, Stranger, I’m Brown. Come up this mornin’ from ’Frisco―― Ben a-saltin’ my specie-stacks down.

Ben a-knockin’ around, Fer a man from San Juan, Putty considable frequent―― Jes’ catch onter that streak o’ the dawn!

Right thar lies my home―― Right thar in the red―― I could slop over, stranger, in po’try Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.

Stranger, you freeze to this: there aint no kinder gin-palace, Nor no variety-show lays over a man’s own ranche. Maybe it hain’t no style, but the Queen in the Tower o’ London Aint got naathin’ I’d swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.

Thar is my ole gal, ’n’ the kids, ’n’ the rest o’ my live-stock; Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there’s a griddle-cake br’ilin’ Fer the two of us, pard――and thar, I allow, the heavens Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.

Stranger, nowhere else I don’t take no satisfaction. Gimme my ranch, ’n’ them friendly old Shanghai chickens―― I brung the original pair f’m the States in eighteen-’n’-fifty―― Gimme them, and the feelin’ of solid domestic comfort.

Yer parding, young man―― But this landscape a kind Er flickers――I ’low ’twuz the po’try―― I thought thet my eyes bed gone blind.

* * * * *

Take that pop from my belt! Hi, thar――gimme yer han’―― Or I’ll kill myself――Lizzie! she’s left me―― Gone off with a purtier man! Thar, I’ll quit――the ole gal An’ the kids! run away! I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard―― The griddle-cake’s thar, anyway.

――――――――

TO “AULD WILLIE.” (After Bret Harte’s “The Return of Belisarius.”)

So again you’ve been at it, old fellow, The old game of four years ago; You’ve given the Tories a drubbing; You’ve had, so it seems, quite a go. By Jove! and you were down upon them, Denouncing, and all that, you know; But what about Egypt, old fellow, And those vows of yours four years ago?

Ah! it’s far, far from jolly, old fellow, To think it is four years ago, And scarcely a measure effected, Attempted, and all that, you know! You denounce Lords and Tories with vigour; But for all your palaver, I trow, Matters are about much of a muchness To-day, they were four years ago! AVONICUS. The Weekly Dispatch, September 14, 1884. (Parody Competition).

Bret Harte’s prose writings have been frequently parodied, and several examples will be given when the subject of prose parodies is reached. One of the best of these occurs on page 156 of The Shotover Papers for November, 1874; it is entitled “His Finger.”

Thomas Hood. (Continued from Part 12 )

THE NIGHT “COMP.”

With fingers weary and worn, Eyelids heavy and red, A “comp.” stood at his frame all night, Picking up “stamps” for bread.

Full-point, comma, and rule, Colon, and quad, and space, “Setting” a line, “pie-ing” a line, Dozing awhile at his “case.”

“Leader,” and “latest,” and “ads.” “Nonp.” and “brevier” and all that; Matter all solid, never a “break;” Oh! for a trifle of “fat!”

Moon peeping in through the pane; Gas, with its dull yellow glare; Nought to be heard, save the solemn “click, click,” And the Editor’s foot on the stair.

One o’clock! two o’clock chimed! “Proofs,” coming up again, “read;” Three o’clock! four o’clock! daylight is here; Trudge away homeward to bed. ANONYMOUS.

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE DIRT. (Covent Garden Market, August, 1884)

With boots all dirty and worn, And trousers heavy with mud, A Londoner trudged on a market day With a footfall’s dreary thud―― Splash, splash, splash! While cabbage-leaves spatter and spirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch He sang “The Song of the Dirt.”

Splash, splash, splash! From morn to even-time, Splash, splash, splash! Through garbage, filth and grime. Stenches strong in the street, Streets with stenches strong, As over the flags I gingerly creep, I wonder to whom they belong.

Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the man far away in the rear, But I’m forced to hold my nose, For I must with such odours near. Oh! but for one short hour An appetite good to feel! I formerly used my dinner to want, But a walk now costs a meal.

With boots all dirty and worn, And trousers heavy with mud, A Londoner trudged on a market-day With a footfall’s dreary thud. Splash, splash, splash! While garbage may spatter and spirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch―― Would that its cry could reach the rich―― He sang “The Song of the Dirt.”

Punch, August 23, 1884.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I remember, I remember, The house where I was wed, And the little room from which that night My smiling bride was led; She didn’t come a wink too soon, Nor make too long a stay; But now I often wish her folks Had kept the girl away!

I remember, I remember, Her dresses, red and white, Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,―― They cost an awful sight! The “corner lot” on which I built, And where my brother met At first my wife, one washing-day,―― That man is single yet!

I remember, I remember, Where I was used to court, And thought that all of married life Was just such pleasant sport:―― My spirit flew in feathers then, No care was on my brow; I scarce could wait to shut the gate,―― I’m not so anxious now!

I remember, I remember, My dear one’s smile and sigh; I used to think her tender heart Was close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now it soothes me not To know I’m farther off from Heaven Than when she wasn’t got!

Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, United States, 1854.

――――――――

The first number of Truth, which appeared January 4, 1877, contained a long parody, signed by Thomas Hood. This, of course, was Tom Hood, the Editor of Fun, and son of the author of the original “I Remember.”

I remember, I remember, The house――’twas Clunn’s Hotel, The friends who knocked me up at eight, I recollect as well; They never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, For liquor flowed from when they came Till when they went away.

I remember, remember, The “brandies”――large and small―― The Chablis and the Veuve Clicquot, The sodas split by all; The caraffe at my bedside set, With cognac well filled up―― And what a time it took to mix The primal champagne cup.

(Here five verses are omitted).

I remember, I remember,―― Last and fresh this memory comes,―― They brought hot pickle sandwiches, Which filled my bed with crumbs; It was a heated taste I own; But brandy’s apt to cloy, Unless you pick your palate up With devilled eggs and soy. THOMAS HOOD.

――――――――

WHAT IT MAY COME TO.

I remember, I remember, The House where I was bred; The Woolsack, whence the CHANCELLOR That annual Message read. He never came till after four, And rarely stayed till five; For, if their dinners were delayed, Could Senators survive?

I remember, I remember, The Marquises and Earls, The peerless rows of Peeresses, Those flowers decked in pearls. The cross-bench, where the Princes sat; And where the Prelates shone In piety and lawn arrayed―― The Bishops now are gone!

I remember, I remember, Where I was used to spout, And thought the papers must be mad To leave my speeches out. My eloquence was practised then, That now is left to rust; And Statesmen oft, I’m sure, have winced Before my boyish thrust!

I remember, I remember, The Commons trooping in; I used to think that in a fight The Peers must always win. It was a childish ignorance, But now ’tis little joy To know I’m kicked out of the House I sat in when a boy!

Punch, September 6, 1884.

――――――――

An imitation of Hood’s Dream of Eugene Aram was published in Truth, February 22, 1877. Its twenty-six verses were descriptive of the sorrows of a poor orphan girl on leaving the Wanstead Home to go into service:――

’Tis in the prime of summer-time, A sunny morn in May, And scores of merry maidens cease A moment from their play; For from their Happy Wanstead Home, A girl is going that day.

* * * * *

A still more melancholy poem, in imitation of the same original, appeared in Truth, July 19, 1877. This was entitled The Blue-coat Boy’s Ghost, and described, in twenty-seven verses, the horrible manner in which a poor lad, named Arthur Gibbes, had been killed in Christ’s Hospital. A public investigation was held, and the result showed that a brutal system of fagging was in full force in the school, and that scarcely any supervision was exercised over the elder boys.

“Meeting in the Boudoir; or, a Song of the Follies of Fashion,” which appeared in Truth, June 24, 1880, was a long parody of Hood’s Song of the Shirt, in fourteen verses.

“The Lost Child, or Russell’s lament on the loss of his Reform Bill,” a long, political parody of Hood’s Lost Child, appeared in Punch, February 16, 1867.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. (Continued from Part 12)

[Illustration: O]n page 101, Part VII., of Parodies there is a poem called The Settler’s version of Excelsior. It was taken from a MS. copy, lent by a friend. The following is probably more correct. It is an American attempt to translate Excelsior into plain English:――

HIGHER.

The shadows of night were a-commin’ down swift, And the dazzlin’ snow lay drift on drift, As thro’ a village a youth did go, A carryin’ a flag with this motto,―― Higher!

O’er a forehead high curled copious hair, His nose a Roman, complexion fair, O’er an eagle eye an auburn lash, And he never stopped shoutin’ thro’ his moustache, Higher!

He saw thro’ the windows as he kept gettin’ upper A number of families sittin’ at supper, But he eyed the slippery rocks very keen, And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein’―― Higher!

“Take care, you there!” said an old woman; “stop! It’s blowin’ gales up there on top―― You’ll tumble off on t’other side!” But the hurryin’ stranger loud replied, Higher!

“Oh! don’t you go up such a shocking night. Come sleep on my lap,” said a maiden bright. On his Roman nose a tear-drop come, But still he remarked, as he upward clomb, Higher!

“Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree! Dodge rollin’ stones, if any you see!” Sayin’ which the farmer went home to bed, And the singular voice replied overhead, Higher!

About quarter-past six the next afternoon, A man accidentally goin’ up soon Heard spoken above him as often as twice, The very same word in a very weak voice, Higher!

And not far, I believe, from quarter off seven―― He was slow gettin’ up, the road bein’ uneven―― Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow, Still clutchin’ the flag with the motto―― Higher!

Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt, The lamp of his life being decidedly out, On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin’! And there was no more use for him to be sayin’ Higher!

――――――――

DIOGENES!

The carriages were filling fast, When o’er a railway platform pass’d A youth who bore, with tread precise, A paper with this bold device, DIOGENES!

His arm a parcel held beneath; He drew a number from its sheath, And shouted, with well-practised lung, Accents that through the station rung, DIOGENES!

In happy hours he saw the light,―― The Cynic’s lantern glowing bright; Resolved to make its lustre known, His lips soon gave the welcome tone, DIOGENES!

“One hither pass,” an old man said, (Life’s tempests snow’d his aged head;) He oped his mouth with laughter wide, While still the clamorous vendor cried, DIOGENES!

“Oh stay!” a maiden cried; the rest Around her were as much impress’d; Each looking forth with eager eye, Urging the vendor to supply! DIOGENES!

Beware! the train moves from the branch; The sheets fly like an avalanche! The boy’s blue eyes with pleasure shine, While voices shout far up the line, DIOGENES!

Far on the way, with breaks down hard, Two trains each other rush toward; And midst the wreck so fearful there, Voices are heard still loud and clear, DIOGENES!

A traveller on a rugged mound Was in a hundred pieces found; His hand still grasping like a vice That paper with its bold device, DIOGENES!

There, as he cold and lifeless lay, Smiles seem’d around his lips to play! Still in the air his accents are, And echo through each passing car, DIOGENES!

From Diogenes, February 4, 1854.

Diogenes was a comic paper, somewhat resembling Punch in its general features. It contained many good parodies, principally in reference to the Crimean War.

――――――――

A pesky night was coming down, As a young man pass’d through a rustic town; And in his hand he clutch’d a flag, And this is what was on the rag―― Upards!

As he pass’d by three windows he chanced to see Three several families taking tea; He smelt the cakes, but never swerved, But as he drop’t a tear, observed―― Upards!

A nice girl holler’d “Stay, oh stay! And I will marry you right away;” While tears all down his cheeks did flow, “Its no use, young woman, I’m bound to go―― Upards!”

Said a cute old cove, “Young man, take care, There’s a rotten old pine-tree fix’d up there; Sure as eggs is eggs it will fall on your head,” The young man only wink’d and said―― Upards!

Next morning at the break of day, A Shaker chanced to pass that way, And thought he heard the voice of a coon, A-singing to a service toon―― Upards!

His dog then sniff’d and smelt about, And soon discover’d what, without doubt, Was the young man’s body all cover’d with snow, What carried the flag with the rum motto―― Upards!

All cover’d in snow the young man lay, In a sort of uncomfortable kind of way; And though as dead as any nail, A voice was heard borne on the gale―― Upards! A. Z. The Tonbridgian, April 1873.

――――――――

M. DURUOF.

The shades of night were falling fast, As from the table d’hôte there pass’d A pair who cried that they would rise, Obedient to the people’s cries, Excelsior!

Their hearts were brave――with reckless breath, They swore they both could face the Death! And, answering to the mob’s fell clang, Foolhardy were the boasts that rang, Excelsior!

In Calais’ streets they saw the light Of homes and gas-lamps gleaming bright, Yet from their lips escaped no groan, As onward flew the mad balloon, Excelsior!

“Try not the air,” their friends had said, “Dark storms are raging overhead; The seas are tossing far beneath, And you will meet with certain death, Excelsior!”

“Come, let us go!” his wife had cried; “We will not stay, for all beside Will chaff us, if we do, and jeer;” He answer’d, “You are right, my dear, Excelsior!”

“Beware the Tempest’s awful blast! ’Twill sweep you out to sea at last!” This was the Frenchman’s last good-night. Cried some one, now far out of sight, “Excelsior!”

Next morn some sailors out at sea With nets were toiling wearily; When loud resounded through the air A cry that made them wondering stare, Excelsior!

Two travellers at the dismal sound, Half-buried in the waves were found, Grasping with eager clutch the ropes, On which depended all their hopes, Excelsior!

There ’mid the tossing billows’ spray, Wretched and shivering they lay; The freed balloon then, with its car, Shot upward like a rising star, Excelsior!

The Tonbridgian, September, 1874.

――――――――

THE EXCELSIOR CLIMBING BOY.

(Poëma partìm Canino-Latinum, post LONGUM――_seu potiùs, meritò dicatur_,――EXCELSIOREM SOCIUM).

Some few, whose days are closing fast, Remember, in their time long past, How youth, in toil of little price, Might yet have borne, for their device, Excelsior!

These youngsters, in that distant time, Swept chimneys, which they had to climb, They could have cried as they clomb higher, Like one who skywards did aspire, Excelsior!

Our “Climbing Boys,” as they were called, Howe’er they “Sweep!” and “Soot O!” bawled, As they ascended up the flue Were not instructed to halloo Excelsior!

By reek and close air overcome, The Climbing Boy was oft struck dumb, And stifled soon, unless got out―― Of course he then no more could shout Excelsior!

His knees were worn by rough ascent Bare to the very ligament; Flayed were his fingers and his toes; Because he grazed them as he rose, Excelsior!

When, jammed in, on his upward way He stuck fast, oft, some used to say, His master, in the grate below, Would light a fire, to make him go Excelsior!

These horrors having been at last Dragged into day, an Act was passed Declaring it, henceforth, a crime To make a child a chimney climb Excelsior!

Still certain Bumbles, it appears, Against the law, these many years, Have had their Town Hall’s chimneys swept By means of little boys who crept Excelsior!

May a new law, more strictly framed, All parties hit at whom ’tis aimed, Concerned in making children sweep Foul flues, whilst painfully they creep Excelsior!

Long brush, worked deftly by machine, All chimneys must, ye Bumbles, clean, Law must on cruel masters fall, Who take to driving urchins small Excelsior!

Punch, June 26, 1875.

――――――――

EXCELSIOR.

The swampy state of Illinois Contained a greenish sort of boy, Who read with idiotic joy―― Excelsior!

He tarried not to eat or drink, But got a flag of lightish pink, And traced on it, in violet ink―― Excelsior!

Though what he meant by that absurd, Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word, Has not been placed upon record―― Excelsior!

The characters were very plain, In German text, yet he was fain, With greater clearness to explain―― Excelsior!

And so he ran, this stupid wight, And hollered out with, all his might, (As to a person out of sight)―― Excelsior!

And everybody thought the lad Within an ace of being mad, Who cried in accents stern and sad―― Excelsior!

“Come to my arms,” the maiden cried: The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed, And then appropriately replied―― Excelsior!

The evening sun is in the sky, But still the creature mounts on high, And shouts (nor gives a reason why)―― Excelsior!

But ere he gains the topmost crag His feeble legs begin to lag; Unsteadily he holds the flag―― Excelsior!

* * * * *

Now P. C. Nab is on his track! He puts him in an empty sack, And brings him home upon his back―― Excelsior!

Nab takes him to a lumber store, They toss him in and lock the door, Which only makes him bawl the more―― Excelsior!

Edinburgh Sketches and Miscellanies. By ERIC. (John Menzies and Company, Edinburgh, 1876).

――――――――

THE DOWAGER-DUCHESS AT THE DRAWING ROOM.

(“A bleak, nipping south-easterly wind was blowing throughout yesterday, the glass having again fallen, but the usual rules as to the Court dress to be worn by all ladies who attended the Drawing Room were strictly enforced. Low-cut bodies, both at back and front, were de rigueur.”――Weekly Paper, February, 1880).

The Dowager-Duchess has been to the Palace, And duly presented the Honourable Alice; And now we will show in what sort of condition Her grace, who is eighty, returned from this mission.

The shades of night were falling fast, As up a Mayfair street there passed A carriage with this strange device As crest:――A rampant cockatrice And enfant or.

Within was seen an agèd dame, Whose breath in gasps most frequent came; Her face was white as Death’s own hue, Her Roman nose was red; with blue Her lips spread o’er.

The fair young maiden by her side, By briskly rubbing, bravely tried Her grandma’s blood to make reflow―― It seem’d a hopeless object, though, She labour’d for!

“Oh joy!” this maiden cried, when she Observed they’d stopped at forty-three; “We are at home, dear Grandma, come! Do speak to me!” The Dame was dumb―― E’en as before.

And when she would have left her seat, She all but tumbled in the street; Her state, in fact, the house alarms, When, leaning on the flunkey’s arms, She gains her door.

“Be quick and heat my grandma’s bed!” The Honourable Miss Alice said: “Let well warmed bricks in flannel wrapp’d Without delay be in it clapp’d, And bottles hot!

“Beware no window open be, And blankets bring at once to me!” Thus was the maiden’s forethought shown―― Her Grandma scarce had strength to groan: “Hot ginger, dear!”

And ere of minutes ten had fled, The chilled old Duchess was in bed; Where, thanks to measures prompt and sound, She promised shortly to come round To health once more.

Then in the firelight, thin and gray, And cold, but not so cold, she lay, Whilst from her lips, no longer blue, A voice came, somewhat hoarse ’twas true, And somewhat sore. * * * * *

Truth, February 26, 1880.

――――――――

AFTER LONGFELLOW. (A Long Way).

The western sun was sinking fast, As through the quiet street there passed A tinker with a blackened eye, Who ever and anon did cry―― “’Brellas to mend.”

His brow was dark with smoke and soot, His raiment, rags from head to foot; And like a penny trumpet rung The beery accents of his tongue―― “’Brellas to mend.”

He lingered at the corner “pub,” He drew his last coin from his fob; He quaffed his glass of half-and-half, And only answered to their chaff―― “’Brellas to mend.”

“Go not again,” the landlord said, “Wild blows the tempest overhead, Your rags will lash you unto death.” Our friend replied with bated breath―― “’Brellas to mend.”

“Oh, stay,” the daughter said, “and rest Thy weary head upon this breast; Why should’st thou from our presence fly?” This was the tinker’s sad reply―― “’Brellas to mend.”

“Beware the stern blue-coated man―― Beware the falling chimney-can;” Such was the landlord’s parting word, And this was the reply they heard―― “’Brellas to mend.”

In Duke Street, at the break of day, Within a court the tinker lay; In falling he his leg had broke, When gently raised, these words he spoke―― “’Brellas to mend.”

He died; his body calmly rests; His ghost the lonely streets infests; And often at the midnight hour A voice cries, with sepulchral power―― “’Brellas to mend.”

Teddy May and other Poems, by William Thomson, Glasgow, 1883.

VOICES OF OUR NIGHTS. (Submitted to the American Poet, by Mr. Wrongfellow).

I heard the feline footsteps in the night Pad through the Court and Hall! I saw the sable wretch in the moon’s light Climb MRS. COXE’S Wall!

I felt her (that I did! I’m sure I’m right!) Step o’er me just above; With shrill pathetic mewings through the night, As of a cat in love.

I heard the sounds of passion and of fight, The caterwauling chimes, That fill each attic chamber in the night, Where some starved poet rhymes.

My night-capped head in the cool midnight air Sought vainly some repose; The echo of perpetual squalls rose there, From the new cistern rose.

Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend, you green-eyed fright! I hate, while thus you screech, and spit, and swear, The cat-infested night!

Punch, May 4, 1861.

――――――――

PICKED UP AT THE STALL ENTRANCE TO THE NOVELTY THEATRE.

I know a maiden fair to see―― K. V.! K. V.! (Cave!) She dances most bewitchingly―― K. V.! K. V.!

Her twinkling feet, her ankles neat, Her pirouettes, her glances sweet, Will make your heart more quickly beat―― K. V.! K. V.!

When you are seeing “Lalla Rookh”―― K. V.! K. V.! O keep your eyes upon the book―― K. V.! K. V.!

Or Kate’s fair face, and facile grace Will “mash” you in a moment’s space; Then yours will be a hopeless case―― K. V.! K. V.!

Truth, May 22, 1884.

(Referring to Miss Kate Vaughan’s performance of the part of Lalla Rookh, in Mr. Horace Lennard’s burlesque extravaganza of Moore’s poem).

――――――――

Picked up at the stage entrance to the Novelty Theatre:――

I know a masher dark to see, J. D., J. D. He mashes most bewitchingly, J. D., J. D. His varnished feet, his collars neat, His buttonhole (gardenia sweet), Must make her heart more quickly beat, J. D., J. D.

When you are seeing Lalla Rookh, J. D., J. D. Pray keep your eyes upon the book, J. D., J. D. For Kate’s fair face and lower lace Have made you change your mind apace; Ah, yours must be a dreadful case! J. D., J. D.

The Topical Times, May 24, 1884.

SUGGESTED BY “THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.” (With Apologies to the Shade of Longfellow.)

Under Britannia’s spreading oak The Grand Old Woodman stands; A presentation axe he wields With large and sinewy hands; But the onslaught of his cruel arms As yet the tree withstands.

His hair is white and dank and long His collars none can span; His brow is wet with honest sweat―― He chops down all he can; He won’t look Duty in the face, But he’ll talk with any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his speeches flow; You can hear him wag his ceaseless tongue, Dreary and loud and slow, As the sexton’s song on the village bell, When the evening sun is low.

The children of his Rebel School Crowd round his open door; They love to watch his swelling gorge, And hear his blatant roar, And catch the myriad words that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach―― He hears his own loved voice, Reading the daily lessons, And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like an angel’s voice Singing in Paradise! Which reminds him he will talk no more When in the grave he lies, And with his collar end he wipes A tear out of his eyes.

Talking――orating――promising, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begun, Long years don’t see it close; Too much attempted, nothing done, How can he seek repose?

Experience by thee, my friend, Thy country has been taught; Hadst though been doomed to silent life, As reckless talkers ought, Then had thy native land escaped Much evil thou hast wrought. SPHINX. The Globe, September 10, 1884.

――――――――

THE LOW BOHEMIAN.

Before the Cheshire Cheese’s bar The low Bohemian stands; A sallow, seedy man is he, With dirty nails, and hands; And ’tis in a gin-sodden voice He “four of Cork” demands.

His nose is large and very red, His mouth ’twere hard to span; His daily work he likes to shirk, He borrows when he can, And he scans new comers anxiously, For he owes to many a man.

Week in, week out, from morn to night, He loiters bars before; He knows the barmaids’ Christian names (A fact they much deplore;) Now here, now there, he, with a leer, Slinks in at the swinging door!

He glories in the Referee, And reads the Weekly Times, In Reynolds’ finds congenial stuff, And sends it jokes and rhymes; For he’s a writer for the press, When liquor duly primes.

Loafing――and loitering――liquoring―― Down to his grave he goes; Each morning finds him “coppery,” He’s “screw’d” ere night doth close; Something attempted――some one “done,” Whilst liquor always flows.

He dies at length, and round his grave His boon companions tread, Then go and drink at various bars Till maudlin tears are shed―― Whilst their dead friend has left a wife And children lacking bread!

But his lost life and early death, Do they no sermon preach? His doom, self-sought, has it no power A lesson strong to teach? No; his friends’ brains too sodden are, The message them to reach.

Truth, Christmas Number, 1878.

――――――――

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLBOY.

Under the garden apple-tree The village schoolboy stands; The boy, a nasty boy is he, With muddy, filthy hands; And the mussel-shells he’s playing with Are pick’d from dirty sands.

His hair is short, and red, and straight, His face is like the tar; He cries and bawls when mother calls, You hear him near and far, And when he gets a chance he steals The sugar from the jar.

Week in, week out, from morn till night, He bellows and he cries, And in the village there’s not one So good at telling lies; Big stones he throws at other boys, And hits them in the eyes.

He goes on Sunday to the church, And every one annoys; He pinches all the kids he’s near, And asks them for their toys; And when they sing up in the choir He shouts out, “Hold your noise!”

His father smacks him in the face, He pulls him by the nose, The village schoolboy only cries, And crying――off he goes; His parents go to bed at night, And THERE, they’ve no repose. W. C. L. The Sporting Times, July 5, 1884.

――――――――

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

Beside a dingy public-house, the village smithy stands, The smith, a nasty man is he, with beastly dirty hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms a bruiser well might suit, His face is void of any charm, he looks a nasty brute. His brow is wet with beery sweat, he scarcely earns a bob; But to drink up another’s drink he’s always on the job!

Week in, week out, from morn to night, he curses high and low. You seldom hear his hammer’s beat, his step is dull and slow; Communications from his mouth are seldom “yes” or “no.” And children coming home from school run frightened past his door, They fear to see the ugly beast, and shun his drunken roar, They’d only catch a kick or blow, if they lingered near his door.

He never goes inside a church, and never sends his boys, He never heard a parson preach, he hates his daughter’s voice, Snarling over her kitchen work, it makes him swear like vice, Reminding him of her mother’s voice――that wasn’t over nice. And when he thinks of her once more, how in the grave she lies, He thinks in his heart that Providence is sometimes kind and wise,

Cursing, drinking, borrowing; onward through life he goes. No morning sees good work begin, no evening sees its close. Nothing attempted, nothing done, from gin he gets repose.

The Topical Times, September 13, 1884.

The parody of “A Psalm of Life,” entitled “The Maiden’s Dream of Life,” which was quoted on page 64, Part IV., of Parodies, was copied from a Washington (U.S.) newspaper, dated December, 1871. The idea of this parody had evidently been borrowed from one contained in a small volume by Phœbe Carey, entitled “Poems and Parodies.” The borrower made some verbal alterations, which were by no means improvements on Miss Carey’s parody, which is decidedly the better of the two:――

A PSALM OF LIFE.

(_What the Heart of the Young Woman said to the Old Maid_).

Tell me not, in idle jingle, Marriage is an empty dream, For the girl is dead that’s single, And things are not what they seem.

Married life is real, earnest, Single blessedness a fib; Taken from man, to man returnest, Has been spoken of the rib.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Nearer brings the wedding day.

Life is long, and youth is fleeting, And our hearts, if there we search, Still like steady drums are beating Anxious marches to the Church.

In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a woman, be a wife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act――act in the living Present. Heart within, and MAN ahead!

Lives of married folks remind us We can live our lives as well, And, departing, leave behind us Such examples as will tell;――

Such examples, that another, Sailing far from Hymen’s port, A forlorn, unmarried brother, Seeing, shall take heart, and court.

Let us then be up and doing, With the heart and head begin; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour, and to win!

Poems and Parodies_. By Phœbe Carey, Boston, 1854.

――――――――

The following is an amusing specimen of advertisement parodies. It was written by Mr. T. Thatcher, of College Green, Bristol:――

Tell me not in doleful murmurs Ink is but a mouldy stream! And the pen it rusts, and murders Writing paper by the ream!

Thatcher’s Ink is Ink in earnest! And to rust is not its goal; Mud thou art, to mould returnest, Was not spoken as its dole.

With enjoyment and not sorrow Welcome thee in loudest lay: Ink to write, that each to-morrow Finds it blacker than to-day.

Blots begone! Vile ink be fleeting! Penman, be no more a slave! Let all other inks go beating Funeral marches to their grave!

In the world’s wide field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Write not like dumb driven cattle! Use this Ink and end thy strife!

Lines of this Ink all remind us We may write with ease sublime, And departing, leave behind us Words to live as long as time!

Pen marks, that perhaps another, Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwreck’d brother, Reading, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing, Seize this Ink before too late, Thatcher’s now at once securing, Neither hesitate nor wait! SHORTFELLOW.

――――――――

PLEASE BE CHEERFUL. (Advice to Modern Novelists.)

Tell us not, in mournful numbers, Life is all a ghastly dream! Such as those we have in slumbers, When the nightmare makes us scream.

Life is dark enough in earnest, Without bringing in the gaol; Only readers of the sternest Like their heroines out on bail.

Not to swindle, or to borrow, Is the reputable way; Not to marry, and to-morrow Kill your bride, and run away.

Arson’s wrong, and poisoning dreary, And our hearts, though pretty brave, Now and then get rather weary Of the gallows and the grave.

In the great domestic battle, In the matrimonial strife, Be not like those Mormon “cattle,” Give your hero but one wife.

Wives and daughters should remind you There are women without crime; Draw them, and you’ll leave behind you Fictions that may weather time;――

Fictions free from that Inspector Who is sent by RICHARD MAYNE, And finds footmarks that affect a Solemn butler in the lane.

Let us, then, have no more trials, No more tampering with Wills; Leave the poisons in the phials―― And the money in the tills.

Punch, December 1, 1866.

――――――――

A PSALM OF FARMING. Bell’s Messenger, December 9th, 1878.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG FARMER SAID TO THE OLD ’UN. (After Wrongedfellar).

Tell me not in cheerful numbers You have known when times was wuss, Kip on sowin’ wutts and barley, And things will come right for us.

Rents are too much, labour’s heavy, And our fair share’s not the goal, Landlords take all they can gather, Cow and calf, both mare and foal.

Not enjoyment and not profit Seems our destined end or way; But to act that each to-morrow Finds us poorer than to-day.

The world is big and steam is quick, But our hearts, though stout and brave, Do not like to leave the “dear” land, ’Cause our wives do look so grave!

With the world’s broad field for farming, With the chance of a free life, Be not like dumb, driven donkeys, With such prospects have no strife.

Trust no landlord, howe’er pleasant; Let the dead past bury its dead. Act, act in the living present, Heart within and God o’erhead.

Happy Colonists do teach us We can go and be the same, And, departing, leave behind us Wiser landlords, much more tame.

Landlords, that perhaps another Year or so might make so wise, Might then know that ’tis quite certain Rents must fall as well as rise.

Let us, then, be up and going, With a heart for any fate, Then succeeding, more persuading That ’tis good to emigrate.

Reproduced in “Farming,” by Joseph Mangoldwurzel, London, W. Ridgway, 1879.

(A small pamphlet on Free Trade versus Protection).

――――――――

A SONG OF ST. STEPHEN’S.

Tell me not in mocking numbers We shall have to come to town, And resume our wonted slumbers, When the leaves are sere and brown.

* * * * *

Lives of patriots all remind us We can show uncommon nous, And, departing, leave behind us Relays that shall “keep a House.”

Relays that perchance our Leaders O’er that legislative main May observe, while we are pleaders, Autumn leisure to attain.

Punch, July 1, 1882.

――――――――

A PSALM OF BURIAL.

Tell me not with words inflated Bodies were not meant to burn; For the moo-cow when cremated Doth to “frosted silver” turn.

Not the grave-yard, not interment Is the cheapest, healthiest way; But to rob the worm preferment Finds with cultured men to-day.

Lights of learning all have told us We can shunt the gloomy pall, And, when churchyards will not hold us, Roast our flesh for funeral.

Let us, then, keep time with culture: “Earth to earth” is out of date―― Leave no carrion for the vulture, Spurn the sexton, and cremate.

Moonshine, May 17, 1884.

――――――――

ON READING A LIFE AND LETTERS.

“Lives” of great men all remind us Friends may after our last breath Publish what we leave behind us, Adding thus new fears to death.

Wives of rich men oft remind us, We may make our wives sublime; But ten pounds for a lady’s bonnet Knocks a cheque-book out of time.

“THE DAY IS DONE.”

The day is done, and darkness From the wing of night is loosed, As a feather, is wafted downward, From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker Gleam through the rain and mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me, That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing That is not like being sick, And resembles sorrow only As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper―― A good and regular meal―― That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry bakers, Not from the shops for cake; I wouldn’t give a farthing For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner, Such things would but suggest Some dishes more substantial, And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher, Whose beef is fresh and nice, As any they have in the city, And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labour, And nights devoid of ease. For sad and desperate feelings, Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing power To aid and reinforce, And come like the “finally, brethren,” That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin From off the bench or hook. And lend to its sterling goodness The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort, And the cares with which it begun Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, And silently cut and run.

Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey, Boston, United States, 1854.

The three parodies following are imitations of Longfellow’s

THE ARROW AND THE SONG.

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in his flight.

I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterwards, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

――――――――

THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT.

I shot a partridge in the air, It fell in turnips, “Don,” knew where; For just as it dropped, with my right I stopped another in its flight.

I killed a pheasant in the copse, It fell amongst the fir-tree tops; For though a pheasant’s flight is strong, A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.

Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie, I found the birds in jelly lie; And the pheasant, at a fortnight’s end, I found again in the carte of a friend.

Punch, October 12, 1867.

――――――――

BALLAD. THE EX-PREMIER. (Mr. Gladstone).

I wrote a pamphlet t’other day; It fell still-born in the usual way; For the public knew ’twas the old, old tale, And they thought it just a wee bit stale.

I wrote an article in a “mag,” And it made its circulation flag; For the readers knew ’twas my only work To speak about th’ unspeakable Turk!

Not long after my spirits sunk, For I found the pamphlet lining a trunk; And the article (degradation utter) Was round a pat of the best salt butter.

Truth. Christmas Number, 1877.

――――――――

THE ARROW AND THE HOUND.

At Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight, I shot an arrow such a height, It fell to earth, I know not where, And, sooth to say, I do not care.

A poem to a mag. I sent, Receiving no acknowledgment; The subject was, I know not what―― If e’er I knew I have forgot.

A traveller the arrow found Half-buried in his faithful hound, And what he said in his distress I do not know――I dare not guess.

And soon, when reading in the train, I found my poem once again; But on the fire that in it burned, A comic hydrant had been turned.

What verse with arrow had to do I know not now――I never knew! But that such things should hap no more I called upon the editor.

I aimed an arrow with such care, It hit I scarce remember where; A tear stood in his bright blue eye, He turned, and called me with a sigh――

But what, to tell you were not right; Besides, I have forgotten quite; But arrow, editor, and hound, Are famed to earth’s remotest bound.

EXCELSIOR JUNIOR. The Topical Times, June 14, 1884.

――――――――

THE SOIRÉE. (After “The Arsenal at Springfield.”)

This is the Soirée: from grate to entrance, Like milliners’ figures, stand the lovely girls; But from their silent lips no merry sentence Disturbs the smoothness of their shining curls.

Ah! what will rise, how will they rally, When shall arrive the “gentlemen of ease!” What brilliant repartee, what witty sally, Will mingle with their pleasant symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite sweet chorus, The laugh of ecstacy, the merry tone, That through the evenings that have gone before us In long reverberations reach our own.

From round-faced Germans come the guttural voices, Through curling moustache steals the Italian clang, And, loud amidst their universal noises, From distant corners sounds the Yankee twang.

I hear the Editor, who from his office Sends out his paper, filled with praise and puff, And holy priests, who, when they warn the scoffers, Beat the fine pulpit, lined with velvet stuff.

The tumult of each saqued, and charming maiden, The idle talk that sense and reason drowns, The ancient dames with jewelry o’erladen, And trains depending from the brocade gowns――

The pleasant tone, whose sweetness makes us wonder, The laugh of gentlemen, and ladies, too, And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of some lady blue,――

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With pastimes so ridiculous as these, Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the wealth that fills the world with ladies, Were half the time bestowed on caps and lace, Given to the home, the husbands, and the babies, There were no time to visit such a place.

Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey (Ticknor, Reed, and Fields). Boston, United States, 1854.

The following old parody was written in imitation of the hexameters of Evangeline:――

DOLLARINE; A TALE OF CALIFORNIA. A FRAGMENT IN HEXAMETERS. BY PROFESSOR W. H. LONGANDSHORTFELLOW, Of Cambridge, Connecticut.

In St. Francisco located was NATHAN JEHOIAKIM BOWIE; Down by the wharf on the harbour he traded in liquors and dry goods, Darned hard knot at a deal, at Meetin’ a powerful elder. There at his store, in the shade, they met, onbraced and enlightened Traders and trappers and captings, and lawyers and editors also. Freely they liquored and chewed, indulgin’ in expectoration, Rockin’ with heels over heads, and whittling’, laborious, the counter. Like dough-nut at a frolic, or yellow-pine stump in a clearin’, Sharp as a backwoodsman’s axe, and cute as a bachelor beaver, Glimmer’d, through clouds of Virginny, the cypherin’ mug of NATHANIEL. Sweeter nor candy of maple, a’most too genteel to be raal, Straight as a hickory sapling and clean as a Nar’ganset pacer Tall she moved through the bar, a-sarvin’ of juleps and cock-tails, Sweetenin’ the cobblers with smiles, and firin’ Havannahs with glances, NATHAN J. BOWIE’S fair darter, splendiferous MISS DOLLARINA! Tall she moved thro’ the bar, collectin’ the joes and the cents in: Not that she needed to did it, but ’cause nigger helps there’s no trustin’, And she was too tender-hearted to get the black varmint cow-hided. ――There in pastoral peace, since first the location was ceded, Dwelt the old man and his child, beneath their own vine and their fig-tree, Doin’ a good stroke of business, for cash or beaver-skins only. On NAT’S. roof of split shingle, illustrious GOVERNOR TARBOX Hoisted the Stars and the Stripes, representative there of the Mighty, The Free, and the Fearless of airth, the Go-a-head ’Merican people; Boarded there the great TARBOX, and took his horn like a mere man, Paying four dollars per diem for grub, grog, shake-down, and washin’. Then came down, like iled lightning, on St. Francisco a rumour―― Fame her brazen trump turned best mint metal to puff it―― How that the root of all evil was found growin’ wild up the country, How gold stuck to folk’s fingers that washed in the St. Sacramento! NAT. chawed two plugs extra to hear it; the editor swore he Wished to be darned, if it wasn’t a caution how folks could be gammoned. “My!” sighed sweet DOLLARINA, and paused as she squoze a half lemon; But the magnanimous TARBOX, he reckoned ’tmight be kinder likely, Seein’ the States whipt the airth for men, and why not for metals? Came from the diggins a straanger, with two carpet-bags full of goold dust; NATHAN diskivered the fact, as he traded a pinch for a gin-sling; And as that straanger loafed, thro’ the bar, from parlor to bedroom, Streams of the glorious sand oozed out through a hole in his trousers. ――Gathered the rumour and grew, and soon rose a sudden demand for Calabash, can, keg, and kettle; and NATHAN’S prime lot of tin fixin’s, Crockery, also, went off at figgers that beat to eternal Smash all prices he’d thought, in dreams e’en, of e’er realisin’. Soon the traders upped hook, and the editor talked edifyin’ All about lucre and dross; and the lawyer convened it was awful; Till one mornin’ trampoused the lawyer and editor with him. Off were the trappers for beaver, they said, but “it warn’t noways likely,” NATHAN remarked, “they would strike beaver-trail in them there locations.” Then the captings went too, they said, to bring back their sailors; And as it stands to natur’, their customers followed the captings. Next the Meetin’s they thinned――that’s a fact――till, down to the elders, Dropped, like leaves in the fall, congregations of e’en the awakened. Ontil the deacon was forced to look arter the flock of backsliders, Minister mizzlin’ himself, before long, to look arter the deacon. Why should NATHAN hold on, with his bar of its customers empty, Strawers unsucked in the cobblers, and mint unplucked in the garding, Swopped his prime tin doin’s, or sold to the uttermost pipkin? So he went――but before him the helps, black and Irish, had vanished. Lone in the shanty she lingered, the fair and forlorn DOLLARINA―― Lone like a flower, in the face of great natur’, and GOVERNOR TARBOX! Blushin’ she bowed to the governor’s snigger, when first to his bed-room, Bearin’ his boots and his breakfast, she came like a minist’rin’ angel―― Blushin’ she raised her bright face――and the Governor swore catawampus, “Burn my old bree――that is, boots――gals like you didn’t ought for to do it.” ――Soft was the heart of Great TARBOX, and most horrid hansum the maiden, Loftily spoke he of goold, and the tarnal low hitch of the humans, Leavin’ such gals all alone, to go the whole hog at the washin’s. Sweetly she’d set there beside him, the while with his governor’s hands he Washed his own dicky or fried his simple repast of pork fixins; Sweetly she sot there beside him, and TARBOX a-slavin’ was happy! Still now and then that bright eye from its tail would glance up to the mountains, And a faint sigh be the echo of TARBOXES glowin’ soft sawder; Oft in her pail of ablution he’d catch her a rinsin’ the water; And once she ventured to murmur, “I wonder what nateral goold’s like.” ――Down came the moment at last――set TARBOX a-mendin’ his shoe-sole, Breathin’ his love in a Sonnet, and chawin’ a plug of tobaccer―― Entered the maiden so stately――and bowin’ her beauty before him, Smilingly, sobbingly uttered, “Adoo――I am off for the diggins!”

* * * * *

Burst the full heart of Great TARBOX―――― (Here the MSS., becomes illegible, apparently from tears).

Punch, January 20, 1849.

――――――――

THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS.

High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover, Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet, She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts. Vainly the Mænid and the Bassarid gambolled about her, The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan――the renowned, the accomplished―― Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their gambols and dances! High o’er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shepherdess, wailing――

“Ai! for the fleecy flocks,――the meek-nosed, the passionless faces; Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high-stepping; Ai! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, sagacious, Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion!” Her then Zeus answered slow: “O daughter of song and sorrow,―― Hapless tender of sheep,――arise from thy long lamentation! Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a Greek maiden, Look and behold thy sheep.”――And lo! they returned to her tailless!

BRET HARTE.

――――――――

In 1856 a pamphlet was published (at the price of two shillings), by W. J. Golbourn, of Princes Street, Leicester Square, entitled: “MARKS AND REMARKS for the Catalogue of the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, MDCCCLVI. (after the manner of ――――) by A. E., to which is added a DIRGE (in imitation of another).” This very scarce pamphlet consists of thirty-two pages, mostly occupied by descriptions of the pictures in the Royal Academy for that year, and the author’s comments upon them, in the metre of Hiawatha, commencing thus:――

“Should you ask me whence the Stories? Whence the legends and traditions’ That have furnished forth our Artists With the most attractive subjects For the present exhibition?” “I should answer, I should tell you, They have drawn them from the Poets, From the Book-of-books have drawn them, From the best Historic sources, From the Mountains, Lakes, and Rivers, From the Hills, the Lanes, the Meadows, From the Highland and the Lowland, And the mighty surging Ocean; And the Portraits, large and little, And the Portraits of all sizes, With their frequent repetitions, Pillars, table cloths and curtains, From the Court, the Camp, the Senate, And plain Gentlemen and Ladies.” * * * * *

――――――――

A long political parody appeared in Punch, February 23, 1867, entitled “The Great Medicine-Man; a new Canto of Hiawatha.” This was apropos of Mr. Disraeli’s Reform proposals, then submitted to the House of Commons in Thirteen Resolutions.

On page 95, Part VI., a long extract was given from a parody of Hiawatha, entitled The Song of Big Ben, which appeared in Truth, February 15, 1877. It was descriptive of the opening of Parliament, and the subsequent proceedings in the Houses have since been related in the same metre, and under the same title, in many other numbers of Truth. On page 80 reference was made to a parody which appeared in Tom Hood’s Comic Annual for 1877; unfortunately, it is much too long to give in full. The following short extract will, however, give an idea of its style:――

REVENGE. A RHYTHMIC RECOLLECTION.

If you ask me where I found it, found this very dreadful legend, with its strange coincidences and its tragic repetitions, I should answer, I should tell you, in the columns of the “Pleecenoos,” in the pages of the “Standard,” in the Organ of the Knife Board, in all sheets of published scandal, published in the month of August, published in the midst of Fleet Street, where the tide of life rolls onward, whilst the modest newsman murmurs low amid the noise of traffic, “Buy the ‘Hecker,’ fifth edition! Buy the ‘Standard,’ latest war news! Buy the Organ of the Knife Board!”

’Twas the pleasant April weather, and a coach was bound for Cambridge, and four youths alike in feature sat together in the rumble; each alike was bound for Cambridge, each alike in air was noble, each alike in hair was curly, each in speech was Hebraistic, and they all were bound for Cambridge.

Never had they met before this, though their fathers in four townships wide apart had heard the rumours of each other’s great successes in the art of habit-making, famed for thirteen-shilling trousers; and each parent, little recking of the others’ great successes, said, “My son shall rise to swelldom; he shall have his fling at college, and shall dwell among the nobles who, by my fair art made nobler, wear my thirteen-shilling trousers.”

As in April’s pleasant weather all the four rolled on to Cambridge, did they swear eternal friendship; and alighting from the rumble, pledged each other in great beakers, drank each other’s healths in “dogsnose;” sought the portals of the college where they had matriculated, crossed the sunny green quadrangle, and betook them to their chambers; parted tearful on the landing, and betook them to their chambers.

* * * * *

Then they severed at the doorway; but by devious ways returning, met again before the doorway.

Then with scowling brows they entered; and the barmaid――most impartial of the race of British barmaids――sweetly winked in turn upon them till their hearts within them gladdened; and they drank the luscious “dogsnose,” and their friendly vows repeated, till with arm-in-arm close linking they once more the dim quadrangle crossed, and all was wrapped in silence.

* * * * *

D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.

――――――――

THE SONG OF PROGRESS.

Should you ask me, “Why this hubbub? Why this coming strife of parties? Why the Hyde Park Demonstration? Why the mighty northern meeting? Why Conservatives take counsel With their own selected members, Each admitted with a ticket?” I should answer you in this wise, “Harken to the Song of Progress, Listen to the din of warfare―― Listen for the coming triumph

Of the People o’er the Peerage.” By the dark and murky waters, Foul and dank with filth and sewage, Waters which are not pellucid, Of the noble river Isis, Stands a large and stately Palace, Where th’ elected of the people Meet for work of legislation. One a Party firm, united, Loved and trusted by the People. They the Party are of Progress―― Ever have been, ever must be; They the champions who do battle ’Gainst hereditary privilege.

Their opponents are a Party Smaller far and disunited. Dwarfed in mind, with doings crooked, Quick to “execute a sharp curve,” With no Policy whatever, Save to stop the work of Progress, They the Party are of Privilege, Who oppose, and ever have done, Social progress of the masses.

Should you ask me why the Peerage Rule responsible to no one, What their deeds of wondrous valour, What their wisdom unsurpassed, What their nobleness of nature, What their learning, power, or goodness, That they thus should reign supreme there, I should answer you, “I know not.” This I know, that tho’ their country Scarcely knows the names of any, On the racecourse every welcher, Every gambling scoundrel, blackleg, Knows them there by tens and dozens. I should answer ’tis a relic Of the ignorant Middle Ages, When the king held all the country, Shared it with his greater barons, And the toilers were in bondage. One by one the links of thraldom Have been rent and burst asunder; Few the fetters that are left us Of the hateful Feudal system; But this one stands trembling, tottering, Till the breath of further Freedom, Strengthened by the voice of Gladstone, Bright, and Chamberlain, and Picton, Broadhurst, Illingworth, and Lawson, Shall abolish it for ever.

Funny Folks, August 16, 1884.

――――――――

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. (Continued from Part 13.)

There was a competition for Parodies on “Excelsior” in Truth, fourteen parodies appeared on November 11, 1880, and the following week nine more were published, each consisting of five verses. The parody with the refrain, “That Thirty-four,” which was selected as the prize winner, has already appeared in Part VI. of Parodies. A few of the others may be given here; the first evidently refers to Mr. Disraeli’s entry into political life, when he was not favorably received:――

The shades of night were falling fast, When, through the House of Commons, passed A youth, with curls not over nice, Who bore as motto and device―― Excelsior!

His brow was dark, his eye beneath Flashed from its eyelid’s dusky sheath, And, with a nasal music, rung The accents of his Hebrew tongue―― Excelsior!

“Thou offshoot of a withered branch! Beware the scornful avalanche, Which shall o’erwhelm thy speech to-night!” A voice replied, in shame and spite, Excelsior!

“Stay,” said the maiden Muse, “and rest Thy weary head upon this breast;” He either wept or winked his eye, And said with simulated sigh, Excelsior!

Now in life’s twilight, old and grey, He seems to hear his rival say, From his high place, serene and far, “Ha, Lucifer! thou fallen star,” Excelsior! GOSSAMER.

――――――――

THE WORKHOUSE.

The shades of night were falling fast As through a London alley passed A woman, wan, with hands of ice, The workhouse sought, from cold and vice―― Moritura!

In happy homes she saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the planets glittering shone, From her pale lips escaped a groan―― Moritura!

“Try not to pass,” the porter said; Dark lowers his visage overhead―― “No order; rules I must abide;” And weak that weary voice replied, Moritura!

“O stay,” a sister said, “and rest Thy weary head upon my breast.” A tear stood in her dull grey eye, And still she answered with a sigh, Moritura!

There, in the daybreak, cold and gray, Lifeless, on workhouse steps she lay; And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Est Mortua! BOB.

――――――――

THE GRIFFIN.

The tawny folds of London fog Fell round the lamp-lit Court of Gog. Clarions and toasts were loud within; A weird cry mingled with the din―― “One blunder more!”

Forth from that glorified Guildhall A griffin reeled with easy sprawl; Through mire and midnight, floundering west He hooted, like a brute possessed―― “One blunder more!”

“Halt!” cried the watchmen of St. Bride, As hastily they edged aside. “Try Scotland Yard!” a small boy said; The answer came, from far ahead―― “One blunder more!”

A pilgrim, under Street’s new clock, Beheld him climb the Temple block, A chuckle through the darkness passed―― “This blessed night we’ve crowned at last “One blunder more!”

And when the morn broke, soft and fair, Lifeless he stood, erect in air; A stark and startling beast of brass, Completing, in the Fleet-street pass One blunder more! GLEN JUNE.

――――――――

THE COUNTRY FAIR.

Night was fast falling o’er the scene, As through the crowd on village green, There passed a youth, who once or twice Said, as he stopped to eat an ice, Excelsior!

“Climb not the pole,” an old man said, “The grease will spoil your trousers, Ned;” With upward glance the youth replied, “The mutton at the top is tied.” Excelsior!

“O stay,” a maiden said, and sighed, “And take me for a donkey ride;” He grasped the pole, and in reply, He softly murmured with a sigh, Excelsior

“Beware!” a withered crone cried out, “Take care, take care what you’re about:” Far up the pole they heard him pant, As though his breath was rather scant, Excelsior!

Just as he neared the prize he stopped, Then quick as falling star he dropped, He laid upon the ground and groaned, Yet still in feeble accents moaned, Excelsior! MINNIE MUM.

――――――――

“Wheeling Annual” for 1885 contains many excellent parodies, relating principally, of course, to the joys and troubles of bicyclists.

WHAT ROADS!

At a recent sessions of the Uxbridge Court a gentleman pleaded guilty to riding on the footpath with a bi., and excused himself on the ground that the roads were very muddy. P.C. X. 20. proved the case, and a fine of 5s. was imposed.――Uxbridge Gazette.

The shades of night were falling fast, As thro’ a local village pass’d A youth, who rode a Rudge, once bright, He cried, as onward sped his flight, “What roads!”

His brow was sad, the road beneath Resembled much dull Hounslow Heath, And in a voice, just tinged with ire, Cried as he still rode through the mire, “What roads!”

In happy “pubs.” he saw the light Of Argand burners very bright, Said he, “I’ll stop and try a drink.” Mine host replied with knowing wink, “What roads!”

“Try on the path,” the landlord said, “Our Robert’s ‘off,’ e’en gone to bed.” “A good idea,” the youth replied, “And one that shall be quickly tried, “What roads!”

“Oh! stay,” the barmaid said, “and rest.” The wheelman answered, “Pray don’t jest!” I’ll TRY the path, it can’t be worse, Which brings us to another verse. What roads!

“Beware the stones that lie in heaps “Beware the dog the farmer keeps.” The wheelist mounted, sped away, And hailed the light of breaking day. What roads!

Just then, X 20, on his track, Stopp’d short the youth’s career, alack! In vain he pleads, “This isn’t fair!” X 20 takes him you know where. What roads!

There in the Court with face quite ruddy He urges that, “The roads were muddy.” Vain hope! The Chairman with a sob, Murmur’d serenely, “Fined Five Bob!” “What roads!” W. F. FIELD.

――――――――

SLOPER.

The shades of night were falling fast, As o’er a station platform passed A youth, who bore, with step precise, A paper with the strange device Of SLOPER.

His coat was torn, his hair unkempt, His face from water long exempt, But quick his action, sharp his eye As loud he shouted, “Who will buy A SLOPER.”

“Stay!” said an old man, “stay, my boy, Who ought to be your mother’s joy, Linger a while, and give to me (For I would wish amused to be) A SLOPER.”

“Here!” said a maiden, sad yet “swell,” In accents like a silver bell, “Come here, my youth, and I will try To drown my sorrow; I will buy A SLOPER.”

And soon from every side there came The accents of that well-known name, Until the little urchin stands, And there’s not in his dirty hands A SLOPER.

There in the gas-light, clearly seen, The little boy stood “all serene;” A smile lit up his bright blue eye, He whistled loud, and ceased his cry Of SLOPER.

THE WAR BLACKSMITH.

Under its sulphurous canopy Old Vulcan’s smithy stands, And Vulcan, grown a man-of-war, Has so much on his hands, That stocks run low, and files but show War-orders and demands.

His Cyclops when he needed most, Off every Cyclops ran; For why should not a Cyclop do As another working-man, And take the time when trade is brisk To insist on all he can?

So every day, and all day long Poor Vulcan’s sweat must flow, Toiling for Europe’s sovereigns, And still the orders grow For breech-loaders, and armour-plates, Steel-shot and chilled also.

With Chassepots for the EMPEROR (O’er Dreyses they’ve the pull); With Remingtons for Austria, And Sniders for JOHN BULL, Balls, Cochranes, Mountstorms, Henries, His hands may well be full.

Meanwhile the EMPEROR writes to us, And bids us be good boys: It does one good to hear him preach, And see how he enjoys The shift of weights that trim the POWERS For Europe’s equipoise.

How glad he is that Prussia comes So strong out of the row, That Italy Venetia gains―― Viâ France, as all allow: Proving “whatever is, is best”―― At all events, just now.

And when France sulks that East and South Her neighbours’ power increases, He hints, ’tis not from every smash She can “pick up the pieces,” While Peace is Peace, although it brings No Savoys, and no Nices.

Some say ’tis like the voice that once Wiled Eve in Paradise: But it preaches so delightfully, And gives such good advice, Bidding France arm, because she’s sure Of peace at any price.

So Vulcan all his toil and stock Must on War’s task bestow, And iron, good for spade and share For sword and gun must go: For before this the Emperor’s word Has been a word and blow.

Then let us thank the Emperor For the lesson he has taught, That it is in the forge of War The arms of Peace are wrought, And if we haven’t breech-loaders, Breech-loaders must be bought.

Punch, September 29, 1866.

It will be remembered that the Austrians had been completely defeated by the Prussians at Sadowa, on July 3, 1866, and that the Emperor Francis Joseph had ceded Venetia to Napoleon III., requesting his intervention with the King of Prussia to arrange the terms of peace. From that period until the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War, Napoleon was looked upon as the arbiter of Peace or War in Europe.

――――――――

Although the following parody is taken from an old Christmas annual, it is singularly à propos at the present time, when disgust is universally expressed at the costliness and uncertainty of our Legal system. Recent scandals have also greatly detracted from the confidence and respect which should be felt for the administrators of Justice:――

THE LORD CHANCELLOR. (Loq.)

“Were it once known that only right could win, No villain then an action would begin; Did rogues not know how equal was their chance With honest men’s, false claims they’d not advance; In short, were only simple justice done, The special pleader’s course were well-nigh run.”

Song: The LORD CHANCELLOR. Tune: “The Village Blacksmith.”

Under a stunted black elm tree The Q.C.’s chambers are; Q.C., a leading silk is he, With name known near and far; And the practice he’s contrived to make Is famous at the bar.

His wig is crisp, and soiled, and black―― That’s where the ink once ran―― His eye is bright, and apt to roll, ’Tis his most favourite plan; And he looks a jury in the face As very few men can.

Week in, week out, from ten till four, You can hear his language flow; You can see him hitch his gown and swing His arm with motion slow, Like a ranter beating the Holy Book With a downright thumping blow!

And country people up in town Look in at the Law-court’s door; For they like to see the great Q.C., And hear his voice’s roar; And ’tis thought a bit of luck to catch Him standing on the floor.

He sits on Sundays in his rooms, And “tots” up his week’s fees; He thinks on those he hasn’t earned, And had no right to seize: And much it makes his heart rejoice As he turns over these.

He thinks of verdicts he has won, By torture and by lies; Of verdicts lost through his default Thoughts will unbidden rise: Through one a widow lost her all, He seems to hear her sighs.

Toiling――speechmaking――circuiting, Onward through life he goes; Each evening sees some briefs begun, How many? goodness knows! Something attempted, some one “done,” He’s earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my legal friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! That fortune quickly comes to one Who does what he “didn’t ought;” And that taking fees for work not done Is a very “happy thought.”

Finis (Beeton’s Christmas Annual, 1877.)

In a recent trial for libel brought against the son of the Lord Chief Justice, the plaintiff had to conduct his case in person, and was subjected to continual interruptions, and hostile remarks from the bench. This conduct on the part of the judge, Mr. Justice Manisty, was even more noticeable than his contemptuous treatment of the verdict of the jury, and the following parody of a Law Report (which appeared in the Pall Mall Gazette, November 25, 1884)――is really but a mild exaggeration of the actual proceedings:――

TRIAL BY JURY IN 1884.

The libel case of ―――― versus ―――― was tried in the Court of ――――, before Mr. Justice Manifest. The plaintiff conducted his own case; the defendant was represented by his counsel, a great legal luminary, and several of the most prominent names at the bar. The defendant is the son of a person high placed in the legal world, and is himself a barrister. The plaintiff is, vernacularly speaking, “the deuce knows who.” The alleged libel is contained in a letter written by the defendant to a widow lady (his great aunt by marriage), who wished to ally herself by marriage to the plaintiff.

The plaintiff was proceeding to open his own case, when the judge asked him why he was not properly represented by professional counsel, after the manner of a gentleman, and warned him that such an omission was likely to tell against him in the gravest manner.

Plaintiff: May it please your lordship, I am a poor man, and cannot well afford――

Mr. Justice Manifest: The question of your means is wholly irrelevant. I must request you to keep strictly to the matter in hand.

Plaintiff: My other reason was that I feared no member of your respected profession would be quite whole-hearted in conducting my case, in view of who the defendant is. (Groans from the members of the Bar present.)

The great legal luminary: I protest against the plaintiff’s speech as an insult to the entire profession, including your lordship.

Mr. Justice Manifest condoled warmly with the outraged feelings of the legal gentlemen present, but urged them to allow the plaintiff to proceed; as by so doing he would best reveal to the jury the manner of man he was.

Plaintiff: With the permission of the court, I will first read the letter.

The great legal luminary objected to this, as unnecessarily wounding to the feelings of the defendant’s eminent family.

Plaintiff humbly submitted to the court that unless he were allowed to produce the letter it would be difficult for the jury to decide whether it were a libel or not. Mr. Justice Manifest begged the great legal luminary to allow the letter to be read as a personal favour to himself. The great legal luminary consenting, the plaintiff read the letter, which was as follows:――“My dear Aunt,――It is with sincere regret that I see myself forced to point out to you the true character of the unprincipled scoundrel you are thinking of marrying. Should you be surprised to hear that he is a professed atheist? Should you be surprised to hear that he has been three times married already, and that one of these marriages took place while the former wife was still alive? Should you be surprised to hear that many excellent people suspect him of having made away with his last wife, though the murder has never been brought home to him? Should you be surprised to hear that he has on several occasions embezzled large sums of money? Should you be surprised to hear that he is a convicted felon? Should you be surprised to hear that he has a daughter in the workhouse?”… At this point the reading of the letter was interrupted by the great legal luminary, who said that the remainder of it had no bearing on the case.

The plaintiff said he thought he had read enough to give the court some idea of the animus of the document. He would next ask if the defendant denied having written it?

The great legal luminary said his client acknowledged having written the letter.

Mr. Justice Manifest said this was one more instance of the manly and straightforward manner in which the case for the defendant was being carried on.

The plaintiff said he had given the defendant an opening to withdraw his statements in presence of the defendant’s fa….

Mr. Justice Manifest (interrupting): “I must beg you not to mention eminent people in no way connected with the case.”

The plaintiff apologised and continued: The defendant refused either to withdraw or substantiate his charges.

Mr. Justice Manifest: Quite right too. (Loud cheering.)

The plaintiff next called witnesses to speak to his character and disprove the charges contained in the letter which the defendant acknowledged having written, and refused to withdraw.

The Rev. Lord Bishop of ―――― was sworn, and in answer to questions said he had known the plaintiff from a boy, and that he had always borne the highest character.

Several other reverend gentlemen, of whose congregations the plaintiff had at various times been a prominent member, were called, and deposed to the same effect――namely, that he was a man against whom there had never been a breath of even ordinary scandal. Also that he was of a most edifying piety.

Plaintiff: Would it have been possible that such facts as my having murdered my wife, embezzled money, been a convicted felon, &c., could have remained unknown to you during the time I was a member of your congregations?

The Reverend Gentlemen; “Quite impossible.” Plaintiff then produced evidence that the period during which he had sat under the various reverend gentlemen extended over his whole life, from the age of eighteen to the present day.

Mr. Justice Manifest asked the great legal luminary if he did not wish to cross-examine the witnesses.――Great legal luminary: “No, my lord, I have no questions to ask.”

Mr. Justice Manifest thanked him for so considerately saving the time of the court.

The plaintiff next called witnesses to prove that he had only been once married, that he had lived in great peace and harmony with his late wife, that she had died a natural death, that he had sincerely mourned her, that he had always supported his daughter honourably, and as well as his small means would allow.

The great legal luminary scornfully refused to cross-examine any of the witnesses.

The plaintiff then declared his case closed.

Mr. Justice Manifest: And high time too.

The great legal luminary then opened the case for the defence: My lord I do not mean to waste the valuable time of the court, already so mercilessly squandered by the plaintiff. My client, acting on my advice, has considerately refused to appear in the witness-box, or to call any witnesses. I shall not soil myself by attempting to set aside any of the evidence the plaintiff has thought fit so tediously to inflict upon the patience of the court. The fact that a man is obliged to call such evidence to his personal character is, I should hope, sufficiently significant to all right-thinking and unprejudiced minds. The law of libel is happily clear and concise, and is known to all. That the position occupied by the defendant’s family could in any way influence the judgment of the court, which, monstrous as it may seem, the plaintiff has not hesitated to imply, is a supposition I need not even repudiate. My lord, I have done.

Mr. Justice Manifest: I cannot sufficiently express my admiration for the moderation with which the counsel for the defence has expressed himself, or my regret that such a case should have been brought into court at all. The jury must now consider carefully whether such a letter, written confidentially by one member of a family to another, can in any sense of the word be rightly called a libel, or whether the whole thing is not a base conspiracy to annoy a family of high position, and degrade the law. For my own part my mind is quite made up, and though I have the highest opinion of juries and their decisions, I must warn the jury that in the extremely improbable event of their disagreeing with me, I shall reserve to myself the right of setting aside their decision.

The jury, without retiring, consulted for a few moments, when the foreman said, My lord, we are unanimously agreed.

Mr. Justice Manifest: I was sure you would be; and your verdict is?

The Foreman: We find unhesitatingly for the plaintiff.

Mr. Justice Manifest (with withering sarcasm): Oh, do you? Then may I ask at what you fix the damages?

The Foreman (after a brief consultation with the other jurors): At £2,000, my lord.

Mr. Justice Manifest: I have no hesitation in overruling the decision of the jury, and have much pleasure in deciding that the court finds for the defendant with costs.

――――――――

THE VILLAGE PET.

Around their panting captain The village clubmen stand; A presentation “pot” he bears In his large and sinewy hand; For he just has won the mile “cham,” To the music of the band!

His hair is gingery, coarse, and long; His muscles none can span, His brow is wet with honest sweat―― He’s “put in” all he can; He ain’t much to look at in the face, But he’ll ride ’gainst any man! (In the village!)

Week after week, morn, noon, and night, You could see him rushing round The cricket-field the club had hired For an impromptu training-ground; You could hear his back wheel clump and clatter, Although with wire bound!

The loafers and cadgers of the place: Crowd round the open gate: They love to watch him wheeling round Like some pursuing Fate; To count each gasp, to cheer each spurt, And fill with pride his pate!

He goes on Sunday to the church; And sits among his pals: Receiving homage from each youth, And winking at the gals! Makes weak attempts to “mash” ’em, and Criticises their “fal-lals!”

He sleeps――dreams――hears his trainer’s voice Telling him when to “stick it on!” Remembers that he’ll ride no more When the cold earth lays his chest upon! Waking, he checks a deep, loud snore, And finds his “mashes” homeward gone!

Training――perspiring――grinding: Onward through life he goes―― Each evening sees a mile begun, 2m. 50s. sees it close! Something attempted, something done, Has gained a broken nose!

Experience by thee, my friend: Thy chums, they have been taught, Hadst thou been doomèd nées to ride As reckless fellows ought Then had thy Roman nose escaped Much evil thou hast wrought! R. C. BLOW. The Wheeling Annual for 1885.

Finis (Beeton’s Annual, 1877) contained a long parody on “Evangeline,” from which the following lines may be quoted:――

MABEL, THE MADE-UP.

This is the Forest of St. John. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss and with lichens, have nothing to do with this Forest. Here ’stead of pines there are lamp-posts; and ’stead of the hemlocks, post-pillars; And as for the moss and the lichens, there’s dust and there’s slush in their places. This is the Forest of St. John――but here are no beasts save cab-horses; Birds, though――soiled doves as some call them――roost pretty thick in its villas. Sooth ’tis a forest, say some, where one may find lots of “dears-talking.” Certainly is it a tract for growing wild oats very famous! Ye who believe in fair beauty, in beauty skin deep and enduring, Ye who believe in the truth and the genuine charms of a woman, List to my mournful experience gained not long since in the Forest; List to the tale of Miss Mabel, a belle of that north-western quarter. In the Ranunculus Road, near to the underground station; In a small villa, detached, bounded on all sides by garden; Lived on a competence easy, Mabel, the belle I have mentioned. Fair as to face and so slim; flawless, in sooth, was this damsel; Rounded her bust in a manner approved of by painters and sculptors; Golden her hair as the sunshine that, careless, got tangled amongst it; Blue though her eyes as the ocean, jet black her brows and her lashes; Soft was the bloom on her cheeks as the delicate blush upon peaches; Seeing her smile, teeth and lips seemed like pearls set in pinkest of coral; Snow in her bosom had melted, despairing to rival its whiteness; Taper and lithe were her fingers, each with its pink pearl-shell helmet; Lightly had Time run the wheels of his chariot over her forehead, Never a rut had they made, for the road was like white alabaster, All this I saw and still more, though I am not a little short-sighted, When at a morning performance by chance I happened to meet her. Known to the friend I was with, he in the entr’acte introduced me; And from that moment her box became the shrine of a goddess. Little I saw of the play, now even its name I’ve forgotten; Little I thought of my friend, but sheltered behind a box curtain, Kept I my lorgnette on Mabel, watching her moods and her glances. Perfect was each of her poses as that of a painter’s lithe model; E’en when she talked to her friends the shape of her lips seemed like poetry; Smiles rippled over her face like sunshine upon broken water.

* * * * *

During the war between the Northern and Southern States of America many humorous works were published which were intended to expose the weaknesses, and abuses, in the policy and administrations of both sides in the struggle. Amongst these, few were more amusing, or more popular than the Orpheus C. Kerr (i.e., office-seeker) Papers, and the following chapter is quoted, as it contains imitations of the poets most popular in the States twenty odd years ago. Under the thin veil of initials the names may be traced of H. W. Longfellow, Edward Everett, J. G. Whittier, Dr. O. W. Holmes, R. W. Emerson, W. C. Bryant, G. P. Morris, N. P. Willis, T. B. Aldwick, and R. H. Stoddart.

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