Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. III (part 4 of 5)

Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. III (part 4 of 5)

Though loath then, I assure you, To stay the lifted cup, I solemnly adjure you, Sons of the Greeks, dry up!

Chorus. Sons of the Greeks, etc.

The Saturday Review, April. 1886.

――――:o:――――

ENIGMA

’Twas whispered in heaven, ’twas muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell: On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed. ’Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder, ’Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death; It presides o’er his happiness, honour, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. Without the soldier and seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. ’Twill not soften the heart, and tho’ deaf to the ear, ’Twill make it acutely and instantly hear, But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower―― Oh! breathe on it softly――it dies in an hour.

LORD BYRON.

――――

A Parody on the above, by Henry Mayhew.

I dwells in the Herth, and I breathes in the Hair; If you searches the Hocean, you’ll find that I’m there. The first of all Hangels, in Holympus am Hi, Yet I’m banished from ’Eaven, expelled from on ’Igh. But though on this Horb I’m destined to grovel, I’m ne’er seen in an ’Ouse, in an ’Ut, nor an ’Ovel; Not an ’Oss nor an ’Unter e’er bears me, alas! But often I’m found on the top of a Hass. I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam, And yet I’m invariably absent from ’Ome. Tho’ ’ushed in the ’Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part, I enters no ’Ed, I creeps into no ’Art; Only look, and you’ll see in the Heye I appear, Only ’ark, and you’ll ’ear me just breathe in the Hear. Though in sex not an ’E, I am (strange paradox) Not a bit of an ’Effer, but partly a Hox. Of Heternity Hi’m the beginning! and mark, Tho I goes not with Noar, I’m the first in the Hark. I’m never in ’Ealth――have with Fysic no power; I dies in a Month, but comes back in a Hour!

――――

THE LETTER H’S PETITION.

Whereas, I have by you been driven From house, from home, from hope, from heaven, And placed by your most learned society In exile, anguish, and anxiety, And used, without one just pretence, With arrogance and insolence; I here demand full restitution, And beg you’ll mend your elocution.

ANSWER.

Whereas we’ve rescued you, Ingrate, From handcuff, horror, and from hate, From hell, from horse-pond, and from halter, And consecrated you in altar; And placed you where you ne’er should be, In honour, and in honesty;―――― We deem your prayer a rude intrusion, And will not mend our elocution.

――――

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE LETTER W TO THE INHABITANTS OF LONDON.

Whereas by you I have been hurled From the first station in the _w_orld, Condemned in _v_ice to find a place, And with the _v_ulgar show my face; I humbly ask to be restored, In all that’s proper, to a _w_ord. But what I most complain of now, Is that the _w_omen cut me so; When any girl becomes a _w_ife, I’m turned away for all her life―― And even in her _w_idowhood I mayn’t return to her abode. Therefore with reason I complain, Oh! let me not be heard in _v_ain; And born within the sound of Bo_w_, I trust I’m not your care below:

ANSWER.

Your prayer is graciously received, But you can never be believed; With v’s you often spell your name―― Then is it just your dupes to blame? As long as you act parts so double, We cannot deem you worth our trouble; But rest assured that nought will hurt you, So long as you remain in _v_irtue.

DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

On the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement appeared in most of the daily papers:――

“Rebuilding of Drury-Lane Theatre.

“The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair competition for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of the Theatre, which will take place on the 10th of October next. They have, therefore, thought fit to announce to the public, that they will be glad to receive any such compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the Treasury-office, in Drury-Lane, on or before the 10th of September, sealed up, with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, on the cover, corresponding with the inscription on a separate sealed paper, containing the name of the author, which will not be opened unless containing the name of the successful candidate.”

Many addresses were sent in, but the Committee rejected them all, much to the annoyance of the competitors, who, having expended their time and paper, by the implied engagement on the part of the committee that the best bidder should have the contract, had a right to protest against the injustice of this wholesale rejection. The committee made an absurd engagement; but surely they were bound to keep to it.

In the dilemma to which that learned body was reduced by the rejection of all the biddings, they put themselves under the care of Lord Byron, who produced the following:――

ADDRESS.

Spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, Saturday, October 10_th_, 1812.

In one dread night our city saw, and sighed, Bow’d to the dust, the Drama’s tower of pride; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakespere cease to reign.

Ye who beheld (oh! sight admir’d and mourn’d, Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorn’d!) Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven, Like Israel’s pillar, chase the night from heaven; Saw the long column of revolving flames Shake its red shadow o’er the startled Thames, While thousands, throng’d around the burning dome, Shrank back appall’d, and trembled for their home, As glared the volum’d blaze, and ghastly shone The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurp’d the Muse’s realm, and mark’d her fall; Say――shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Rear’d where once rose the mightiest in our isle, Know the same favour which the former knew, A shrine for Shakspere――worthy him and you?

Yes――it shall be――the magic of that name Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame; On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she has been: This fabric’s birth attests the potent spell―― Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!

As soars this fane to emulate the last, Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. On Drury first your Siddons’ thrilling art O’erwhelmed the gentlest, storm’d the sternest heart On Drury, Garrick’s latest laurels grew; Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sigh’d his last thanks, and wept his last adieu; But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, That only waste their odours o’er the tomb. Such Drury claim’d and claims――nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; With garlands deck your own Menander’s head![101] Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo’s glass To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine Immortal names emblazoned on our line, Pause――ere their feebler offspring you condemn, Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Play Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, Whose judging voice and eye alone direct The boundless power to cherish or reject; If e’er frivolity has led to fame, And made us blush that you forbore to blame, If e’er the sinking stage could condescend To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, All past reproach may present scenes refute, And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama’s laws, Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; So pride shall doubly nerve the actor’s powers, And reason’s voice be echo’d back by ours.

This greeting o’er, the ancient rule obeyed, The Drama’s homage by her herald paid, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. The curtain rises――may our stage unfold Scenes not unworthy Drury’s days of old! Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Still may we please――long, long may you preside.

Hereon followed “The Rejected Addresses” by the brothers Horace and James Smith, published in 1812 by John Miller, 25, Bow Street, Covent Garden, London, and the wonderfully clever and amusing imitations and parodies contained in the book made it at once popular, and caused it to prominently attract the attention of the literati of the day. The imitation of Lord Byron is not perhaps so successful as some of the other poems. As Lord Jeffrey remarked in The Edinburgh Review. “The author has succeeded better in copying the melody and misanthropic sentiments of Childe Harold, than the nervous and impetuous diction in which his noble biographer has embodied them.” It is not to be expected that the burlesque address, by the brothers Smith, should present any resemblance to Lord Byron’s opening address at Drury Lane.

CUI BONO? (Ascribed to Lord Byron.)

I.

Sated with home, of wife, of children tired, The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;[102] Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired, The restless soul is driven to ramble home; Sated with both, beneath new Drury’s dome The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine, There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome, Scorning to view fantastic Columbine, Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine.

II.

Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way To gaze on puppets in a painted dome, Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray, Like falling stars in life’s eternal gloom, What seek ye here? Joy’s evanescent bloom? Woe’s me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb. Man’s heart, the mournful urn o’er which they wave, Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.

III.

Has life so little store of real woes, That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief? Or is it that from truth such anguish flows, Ye court the lying drama for relief? Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief: Or if one tolerable page appears In folly’s volume, ’tis the actor’s leaf, Who dries his own by drawing others’ tears, And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.

IV.

Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee! Light as the mote that daunceth in the beam, He liveth only in man’s present e’e; His life a flash, his memory a dream, Oblivious down he drops in Lethe’s stream. Yet what are they, the learned and the great? Awhile of longer wonderment the theme! Who shall presume to prophesy their date, Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate?

V.

This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt’s toil, Perchance than Holland’s edifice[103] more fleet, Again red Lemnos’ artisan may spoil; The fire alarm and midnight drum may beat, And all bestrewed ysmoking at your feet! Start ye? perchance Death’s angel may be sent, Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat; And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent, May find, in pleasure’s fane, your grave and monument.

VI.

Your debts mount high――ye plunge in deeper waste The tradesman duns――no warning voice ye hear! The plaintiff sues――to public shows ye haste; The bailiff threats――ye feel no idle fear. Who can arrest your prodigal career? Who can keep down the levity of youth? What sound can startle age’s stubborn ear? Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth Men true to falsehood’s voice, false to the voice of truth.

VII.

To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to make The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy, We dedicate the pile――arise! awake!―― Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy Clear our new stage from reason’s dull alloy, Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy; While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth,[104] Harps twang in Drury’s walls, and make her boards a booth.

VIII.

For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March? And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl? And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch, Orlando’s helmet in Augustin’s cowl. Shakespeare, how true thine adage, “fair is foul!” To him whose soul is with fruition fraught, The song of Braham is an Irish howl, Thinking is but an idle waste of thought, And nought is everything, and everything is nought.

IX.

Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above, Not laurel-crown’d, but clad in rusty black; Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè’s grove, But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack; What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack, Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long, Condemn’d to tread the bard’s time-sanction’d track, Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng, And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song,

X.

So fares the follower in the Muses’ train! He toils to starve, and only lives in death! We slight him, till our patronage is vain, Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe, And o’er his bones an empty requiem breathe―― Oh! with what tragic horror would he start, (Could he be conjured from the grave beneath) To find the stage again a Thespian cart, And elephants and colts down-trampling Shakespeare’s art.

XI.

Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules! Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface; Back, sister Muses, to your native schools; Here booted grooms usurp Apollo’s place, Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace, The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit, Man yields the drama to the Hou’yn’m race, His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit, The stage a stable-yard,[105] a jockey-club the pit.

XII.

Is it for these ye rear this proud abode? Is it for these your superstition seeks To build a temple worthy of a god, To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks! Then be the stage to recompense your freaks, A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks, Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks, And Wisdom weeps and Folly plays his pranks, And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks.

From The Rejected Addresses.

Following close upon The Rejected Addresses, by J. and H. Smith, appeared a small volume entitled,

THE GENUINE REJECTED ADDRESSES,

Presented to the Committee of Management for Drury-Lane Theatre, preceded by that written by Lord Byron, and adopted by the Committee. London: B. McMillan, 1812.――This contained a collection of as many of the Addresses, sent in to the Committee for the competition, as the Editor could gather from the various authors. He admits that it is not a complete collection, nor do the authors’ real names appear with every poem.

Several of the addresses were really written by authors who had been parodied in The Rejected Addresses, notably W. T. Fitzgerald, and Dr. Busby.

――――:o:――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

LORD BYRON.

――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ALDERMEN. A Mansion House Melody.

Apoplexia came down on the Alderman fold, And his cohorts were gleaming with jaundice like gold, And the sheen of the spectres that own’d his behest Glimmer’d bright as the gas at a new Lord Mayor’s feast.

Every fiend that humanity shrinks from was there, Hepatitis, Lumbago, with hollow-eyed Care, Hypochondria, and Gout, grinning ghastly with pain, And of Incubi phantoms a horrible train.

* * * * *

Then he straightway amongst them his grisly form cast, And breathed on each puffing red face as he pass’d; And the eyes of the feasters wax’d deadly and chill, And their stomachs once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And the turtle devourers were stretched on the floor―― Each cheek changed to purple――so crimson before! Their dewlaps all dabbled with red wine and ale, And extremities cold as a live fish’s tale!

And there lay the Liv’ryman, breathless and lorn, With waistcoat and new inexpressibles torn; And the Hall was all silent, the band having flown, And the waiters stared wildly on, sweating and blown.

And Cripplegate windows are loud in their wail, And Mary-Axe orphans all trembling and pale! For the Alderman glory has melted away, As mists are dispersed by the glad dawn of day.

Punch, November 13, 1841.

――――

A NEW SENNACHERIB.

Sir Robert came down on the Corn Laws so bold, And his backers felt savage, and sorry, and sold; But the Premier of votes had a majority, Amounting, in all, to about ninety-three.

As sheep follow the wether, submissive and mean, That host at the heels of their leader were seen; As sheep scatter wide when you leave them alone, That host, says the Times, are now broke and o’erthrown.

For the Iron Duke set his fate on the cast, And nailed, for the Corn-laws, his flag to the mast; And the Cabinet’s hopes felt a sensible chill, When they thought of the Duke, and his potent “I will.”

And there sat the Premier, his head on one side; His arguments pooh-poohed, his statements denied; And tho’ he tried hard, he had need of his nerve, A decent composure of face to preserve.

And there sat grim Grahame, so nervous and pale, With his hat on his head, and his mouth to his nail; And their measures were done for, their plans overthrown, And Peel had to leave his own trumpet unblown.

And Conservative gentry are loud in their wail, That the country is ruined if Peel should turn tail; And repeal of the Corn-laws, we soon shall record, Has been won, not by Peel, but a certain small lord.

Punch, on Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington in the struggle for the repeal of the Corn-laws in 1846.

――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF NICHOLAS.

The Russian came down like a thief in the night, And his legions were arm’d with all weapons, save Right; And the sheen of their spears to the Turks seem’d afar Like the passion that burn’d in the heart of the Czar.

Like the loaves of the baker, when breakfast is laid, That host in their armour of “plate” were array’d; Like the loaves of the baker, ere tea time next day, That host lay all “cut up,” and crumbled away!

For the warcry of England is borne on the air, And France sends her brave in the conflict to share; And link’d with the Moslem, they shout as they go, And all Europe is thrill’d with the groans of the foe.

And there lay the sea, but no more on its tide His vessels shall float in their strength and their pride; And the foam of its billows shall dash o’er the graves Of the serfs, who had come to make other men slaves.

And there lay the Czar, all dejected and pale, With a frown on his brow, and his teeth at his nail; His palace all silent, deserted, alone; He trembled to think on his tottering throne!

And the widows of Russia are loud in their cries, Though idle the tears that may flow from their eyes; And the might of the tyrant, down-struck by the gun, Hath melted, like butter when placed in the sun.

Diogenes. October, 1853.

――――

THE BLIZZARD.

The blizzard came down like a thousand of brick: His breathings were cakes of ice four inches thick, And his hair streamed far out in a stiffness that bent With the swirl and the speed of the pathway he went.

His beard that found roots to the lids of his eyes Hid his face in a hairy, unpierced disguise, And spread out in ice-like rigidity far From his one eye that flashed like a pivotal star.

Unseen was the rest of the demon-like form Of the swift-moving blizzard, the god of the storm, But the presence was felt of an unconquered will, For the fast-running rivers stood suddenly still.

And the noses of people who travelled the street Turned white with affright, and the hurrying feet Were stung as with sting of a hundred bees, While the blood crept away and allowed them to freeze.

Columbus Dispatch.

――――

THE ROUT OF BELGRAVIA.

The Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold, And their costumes were gleaming with purple and gold, And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the sea, As their chariots roll’d proudly down Piccadill-ee.

Like the leaves of Le Follet when summer is green, That host in its glory at noon-tide was seen; Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked and worn, That host four hours later was tattered and torn.

For the crush of the crowd, which was eager and vast, Had rumpled and ruin’d and wreck’d as it pass’d; And the eyes of the wearer wax’d angry in haste, As a dress but once-worn was dragged out of waist.

And there lay the feather and fan, side by side, But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride; And there lay lace flounces, and ruching in slips, And spur-torn material in plentiful strips.

And there were odd gauntlets, and pieces of hair; And fragments of back-combs, and slippers were there; And the gay were all silent; their mirth was all hush’d; Whilst the dew-drops stood out on the brows of the crush’d.

And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail, And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale; And they vow, as they hurry, unnerved, from the scene, That it’s no trifling matter to call on the Queen.

Jon Duan.

――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF A CAT.

Miss Pussy jumped down, like a thief in the night, From the cream in the cupboard with eyes gleaming bright; And the ends of her whiskers bedabbled her face, When Somnus had chloroform’d Europa’s race.

Like all guilty creatures, she feared to be seen, And crawled o’er the carpet so spotlessly clean; Like the streaks of the sunlight so daintily thrown, The whiskers of Pussy a demon had drawn.

This image of death spread its wings o’er the cat, And rising on tip-toe he lifted his hat; But the eyes of Miss Pussy grew deadly and chill, For something had told her――and told her still――

That she had ta’en poison, there could be no doubt, For there she lay gasping and rolling about, And as she lay sprawling and thumping the floor, The demon arose and went out at the door.

And then Puss was silent, distorted, and pale, From the point of her nose to the end of her tail, And all the night long she lay there all alone, Till out of the window at last she was thrown.

And the maid in the kitchen is loud in her joy, For now “There’s no ’orrible cat to annoy,” “No dishes is broke,” and “Missus can’t say As ever I put the poor Pussy away.”

DON DIEGO.

――――

Truth for January 25, 1877 contained a long parody on “Sennacherib.” It related to the Conference, and commenced:――

The Diplomats came like a wolf on the fold, With their uniforms gleaming in green, blue and gold; And they all were picked men, there was never a fool, That recently met to confer in Stamboul.

――――

IROQUOIS.

The Yankee came down with long Fred on his back, And his colours were gleaming with cherry and black. He flashed to the front, and the British Star paled, As the field died away, and the favourite failed. Like the leaves of the summer when summer is green, The faces of Peregrine’s backers were seen; Like the leaves of the autumn when autumn is red, Flushed the cheeks of the Yanks as their champion led. Iroquois!!!――then the shoutings shook heaven’s blue dome, As the legs of the Tinman safe lifted him home. Oh! A was an Archer, A 1 at this fun. And A was America, too,――and A won! And B was the Briton who, ready to melt, A sort of a je ne sais (Iro)-quois felt, To see his Blue Riband to Yankeeland go, B too, none the less, was the hearty “Bravo!” Which, per Punch, he despatched to “our kin o’er the sea,” Who, for not the first time, get the pull of J. B. The Brokers of Wall Street are loud in delight, And the belles of New York grow more beamingly bright; Fizz creams like the foam of the storm-beaten surf, To Jonathan’s triumph on John’s native turf, And Punch brims his beaker in Sparkling Champagne, Your health Brother J.! Come and beat us again! And cold grudge at a victory honestly scored Melts away like the snow when the wine is outpoured.

Punch, June 11, 1881.

――――

THE MELTING OF THE IRON DUKE.

“The effect produced by the erection of a life-size silhouette of the statue of the Iron Duke and his war-steed opposite the St. James’s Park front of the Horse Guards has quickly resulted in a decision to melt down Mr. Wyatt’s equestrian effort, and to shape the materials into another, and, it is hoped, a better statue.”――Weekly Paper.

All the papers came down, like a wolf on the fold, And their leaders were trenchant, and fearlessly bold; And their cynical sneers were as lively and free As the shrimps on the foreshore of Gravesend-on-Sea.

Thick as leaves of the Forest, when Epping is green, Had the jokes and the jeers of the “comics” been seen; Thick as leaves in the Park when the season has flown Had the jibes of the critics been ruthlessly thrown.

For the chosen Committee an effort had made, And put up a Duke on the Horse Guards Parade; But one sight of this model more ludicrous still, Made those who passed by feel dejected and ill.

For there stood the steed with his nostril all wide, And his nose all turned up in his evident pride, And his tail that seemed dressed with the stiffest of starch, Stood out ’midst the trees, as it had on the Arch.

And there sat the rider, distorted and stern, That long years of scoffing had failed to o’erturn, And his hat was still cocked at the angle of yore, And the same scrubby cape on his shoulders he wore.

And those that passed by gave one shuddering look, And vowed such a Duke they no longer would brook. They cried, “Take him off to some near melting-pot!” And hastened forthwith from the terrible spot.

And the chosen Committee itself had to own That nought could the horse’s appearance condone; Whilst as to the rider, they had to confess That melting alone could his failings redress.

So it straightway decided no site could be found For this effigy vile of a warrior renowned; And ere very long they put forth a decree That the Duke and his charger both melted should be!

* * * * *

And the Statues of London were loud in their wail, And the Griffin, in agony, waggled his tail, Exclaiming, “Alas! if the Duke’s melted thus, What chance can there be, then, for eyesores like us?”

Truth, August 16, 1883.

――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TORY (NOT SENNACHERIB’S) ARMY.

The Tories came forth in their pride and their strength, And flooded the land through its breadth and its length With speeches whose burden no varying knew―― “Down with Gladstone the traitor and all his base crew!”

Like leaves of the forest when summer is green, The hosts of the Tories in August were seen; Like leaves of the forest when autumn has blown, These hosts in September were withered and strown.

For “Gladstone the traitor” went up to the North, And tackled the foe on the banks of the Forth; And the hopes of the Tories waxed deadly and chill, And their tongues wagged but once, and for ever were still.

And the Tory old women are loud in their whines, For their idols are broke, both at Hatfield and Pynes; And their army, unsmote by the sword or the lance, Has melted like snow at old Gladstone’s advance.

ALICK SINCLAIR. The Weekly Dispatch, September 14, 1884.

――――

MR. GLADSTONE’S HOME RULE BILL.

The Premier came down to the House as of old, With a smile on his face and a step light and bold, And the cheers of the Parnellites smote on the air As he rose in his place and saluted the Chair.

And the senators sat like men under a spell While the rythmical tones of his voice rose and fell. Like sleepers who wake from their dreams at the dawn, Sober reason returned when the glamour was gone.

For the false light that blinded has vanished at last, Revealing the pitfalls all round as it passed; The Magician has failed in his task, and the wand Has dropped from the “old parliamentary hand.”

And intriguers and Leaguers are loud in their wail, And Coercion has carried the day o’er “Repale”; For till whittled away into Councils and Boards The scheme of Home Rule has no chance in the Lords.

C. RENZ. The Weekly Dispatch, April 18, 1886.

――――

THE CUTTING OF THE KNOT.

Great Gladstone came down his new Bill to unfold, And his cohorts awaited their Leader so bold, And the noise of their cheers was like tars of the sea, When they’re given the toast of old England’s nav_ee_.

Like the geese of the farm-yard when summer is green, The Cock-a-Hoop Tories at noon-day were seen, Like the geese of the farm-yard when autumn has come, Those Tories at midnight were nerveless and dumb.

For the King of Debate his opponents did blast, And glared in the face of each foeman aghast, And the hopes of the Tories waxed presently chill; And their groans but once rose, then for ever grew still.

And the sturdy Home Rulers are loud in their cheers, And the faces are blank in the House of the Peers. And the knot of the hour, uncut by the sword; Dissolves at the touch of the Cabinet’s Lord!

F. B. D., 1886.

――――:o:――――

The two parodies following are written partly in imitation of Byron’s The Dream, and partly after Darkness, which commences thus:――

DARKNESS.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went――and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light; And they did live by watchfires――and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings――the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons.

* * * * *

MY OLD HAT.

I had a hat――it was not all a hat, Part of the brim was gone――yet still I wore It on, and people wondered as I passed. Some turned to gaze――others just cast an eye And soon withdrew it, as ’twere in contempt. But still my hat, although so fashionless In complement extern, had that within Surpassing show――my head continued warm; Being sheltered from the weather, spite of all The want (as has been said before) of brim.

A change came o’er the colour of my hat. That which was black grew brown――and then men stared With both their eyes (they stared with one before) The wonder now was twofold; and it seemed Strange that a thing so torn and old should still Be worn by one who might――――but let that pass! I had my reasons, which might be revealed But for some counter-reasons, far more strong, Which tied my tongue to silence. Time passed on.

Green spring, and flowery summer, autumn brown. And frosty winter came,――and went and came, And still through all the seasons of two years, In park and city, yea at parties――balls―― The hat was worn and borne. Then folks grew wild With curiosity, and whispers rose, And questions passed about――how one so trim In coats, boots, ties, gloves, trousers, could insconce His caput in a covering so vile.

A change came o’er the nature of my hat. Grease spots appeared――but, still in silence, on I wore it, and then family, and friends Glared madly at each other. There was one Who said――but hold――no matter what was said; A time may come when I――away, away―― Not till the season’s ripe can I reveal Thoughts that do lie too deep for common minds―― Till then the world shall not pluck out the heart Of this my mystery. When I will, I will! The hat was now greasy, and old, and torn, But torn, old greasy, still I wore it on.

A change came o’er the business of this hat. Women, and men, and children scowled on me―― My company was shunned――I was alone! None would associate with such a hat―― Friendship itself proved faithless for a hat. She that I loved, within whose gentle breast I treasured up my heart, looked cold as death―― Love’s fires went out――extinguished by a hat, Of those who knew me best, some turned aside, And scudded down dark lanes; one man did place His finger on his nose’s side, and jeered; Others in horrid mockery laughed outright; Yea, dogs, deceived by instinct’s dubious ray, Fixing their swart glare on my ragged hat, Mistook me for a beggar, and they barked. Thus women, men, friends, strangers, lovers, dogs, One thought pervaded all――it was my hat.

A change, it was the last, came o’er this hat, For lo! at length the circling months went round: The period was accomplished――and one day This tattered, brown old greasy coverture (Time had endeared its vileness) was transferred To the possession of a wandering son Of Israel’s fated race――and friends once more Greeted my digits with the wonted squeeze: Once more I went my way, along, along, And plucked no wondering gaze; the hand of scorn With its annoying finger, men, and dogs, Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughless, growlless―― And at last, not least of rescued blessings, love! Love smiled on me again, when I assumed A brand new chapeau of the Melton build; And then the laugh was mine, for, then out came The secret of this strangeness――’twas a bet,―― A friend had laid me fifty pounds to ten, Three years I would not wear it――and I did!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE GENIUS OF SMOKING.

[We have been favored with the following defence of smoking, by an intimate literary friend of Lord Byron, who assures us it is selected from several unpublished juvenile trifles, written at various times in his album by the noble bard.]

I had a dream――it was not all a dream; Methought I sat beneath the silver beam Of the sweet moon, and you were with me there, And everything around was free and fair; And from our mouths upcurled the fragrant smoke, Whose light blue wreaths can all our pleasures yoke, In sweetest union to young Fancy’s car, And waft the soul out thro’ a good cigar. There as we sat and puff’d the hours away, And talked and laughed about life’s little day, And built our golden castles in the air, And sigh’d to think what transient things they were, As the light smoke around our heads was thrown, Amidst its folds a little figure shone, An elfin sprite, who held within her hand A small cigar, her sceptre of command.

Her hair above her brow was twisted tight off, Like a cigar’s end, which you must bite off; Her eyes were red, and twinkling like the light Of Eastern Hookah, or Meerchaum, by night; A green tobacco leaf her shoulders graced, And dried tobacco hung about her waist; Her voice breathed softly, like the easy puffing Of an old smoker, after he’s been stuffing. Thus as she rolled aside the wanton smoke, To us, her awe-struck votaries she spoke,―― “Hail, faithful slaves! my choicest joys descend On him who joins the smoker to the friend, Yours is a pleasure that shall never vanish Provided that you smoke the best of Spanish; Puff forth your clouds”――(with that we puff’d amain) “Sweet is their fragrance”――(then we puff’d again) “How have I hung, with most intense delight, Over your heads when you have smoked at night, And gratefully imparted all my powers To bless and consecrate those happy hours; Smoke on,” she said. I started and awoke, And with my dream she vanished into smoke.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.

Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824.

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it has ceased to move; Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf, The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone!

* * * * *

Seek out――less often sought than found―― A soldier’s grave, for thee the best, Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest.

BYRON.

――――

A LEAF FROM THE ALBUM OF MR. BRIEFLESS.

The following stanzas have no other heading than the pathetic words: “On this day I complete my forty-sixth year.” A friend who was with him at the time, made the following entry in his Dunn and Duncan’s diary: “This morning Mr. Briefless came from his bedroom into the apartment where Mr. Dunup and some other friends were sitting, and said, with a smile, ‘You were remarking the other day that I never draw any pleadings now. This is my birthday, and I have just finished something which I think is better than I usually write.’ He then produced these noble and affecting verses;――

’Tis time that I should be removed, And the position I can prove. For since by me there’s nothing moved, I’d better move.

My gown is in the yellow leaf, The curls from out my wig are gone, The bands, the stock, the dummy brief, Are mine alone.

The debts that on my bosom prey, Have hopeless been this long, long while; The bills which I can never pay Are on that file.

The stamp’d receipt――the quittance fair, The exacted portion of debts’ ills, I never am allowed to share, But keep the bills,

But ’tis not thus――and ’tis not here, I should succumb to maddening thought, At Westminster I will appear This day in Court.

The wig, the bands, the stock, the gown, All, all around me still I see; To Westminster I’ll hurry down―― I will be free!

Awake! (not law, that’s wide awake,) Awake myself! this very day, The Exchequer’s roof my voice shall shake, Yes――fire away.

Talk each opposing counsel down. Unworthy Briefless――unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of Judges be.

If thou regret’st thy youth――why pause, The way to occupation’s short, There stands the place to find a cause; The County Court.

Start not――less often sought than found, A little fish will always please; Sure shillings beat the uncertain pound, Take lower fees.

Punch’s Pocket Book, 1856.

――――:o:――――

Lord Byron was married in January, 1815, and about the middle of January, 1816, Lady Byron left London for her father’s house in Leicestershire, on the understanding that Lord Byron was shortly to follow her. But her father immediately wrote to acquaint Lord Byron that she would never return to him. The reasons for this conduct have never been satisfactorily explained, and though Lord Byron, and his friends, tried their utmost to bring about a reconciliation, all attempts to alter Lady Byron’s decision were in vain. This domestic misfortune supplied the enemies of Lord Byron with a pretext for the gratification of their envious and malignant feelings towards him. The press teemed with slanderous and abominable insinuations in explanation of the conjugal feud. The majority of his acquaintances declared against him; and the proud spirit of the noble poet, stung to the quick, impelled him to leave his country. On the 25th of April, 1816, Lord Byron left England, never to return.

A short time prior to his final departure from his native land, he published the “Siege of Corinth” and “Parisina.” He also wrote two short poems, which were highly popular, and which first appeared in the public papers――“Fare Thee Well,” and “A Sketch from Private Life.”

In “Fare thee Well,” Byron pathetically alludes to his daughter, Augusta Ada, the only child of his unfortunate marriage, who was born on December 10, 1815.

FARE THEE WELL.

Fare thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well; Even though unforgiving, never ’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o’er thee Which thou ne’er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover ’Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee―― Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another’s woe:

Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found, Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not: Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away;

Still thine own its life retaineth―― Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is――that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow’d bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child’s first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say “Father!” Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had bless’d!

Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where’er thou goest, Wither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee――by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now:

But ’tis done――all words are idle―― Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well!――thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Sear’d in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die.

BYRON.

――――

LADY BYRON’S REPLY TO LORD BYRON’S “FARE THEE WELL.”

“As to the author of the reply, I have for years been trying to find out, but unsuccessfully. One or two gentlemen, whose opinions on this subject are well worthy of attention, have said in a joking way that the author must be Byron himself, as the lines are so very beautiful and appropriate. I certainly do not think Lady Byron was the author. From all that I can glean from the oldest inhabitants in this neighbourhood she was always held in the highest respect, a good, kind, domestic lady; but no one seems to give her credit for much poetic taste, let alone faculty.”

Yes, farewell; farewell for ever; Thou thyself hast fixed our doom; Bade hope’s fairest blossom wither, Never more for me to bloom!

Unforgiving thou hast called me; Didst thou ever say forgive? For the wretch whose wiles enthralled thee, Thou didst seem alone to live.

Short the space which Time had given To complete thy love’s decay! By unhallowed passion driven, Soon thy wishes wildly stray.

Lived for me that feeling tender, Which thy verse so well can show? From my arms why didst thou wander―― My endearments why forego?

Rapt in dreams of joy abiding, On thy breast my head hath lain, In thy love and truth confiding―― Bliss I ne’er can know again!

When thy heart, by me glanced over, First displayed the guilty stain, Would these eyes had closed for ever, Not to weep thy crimes again!

But by Heaven’s recording spirit May that wish forgotten be! Life, though now a load, I’d bear it For the babe I’ve born to thee――

In whose lovely features (let me All my weakness here confess), While the struggling tears permit me, All her father’s I can trace;

His, whose image never leaves me, Whose remembrance yet I prize; Who this bitterest feeling gives me―― Loving where I most despise.

With regret and sorrow, rather, When our child’s first accents flow, I shall teach her to say “Father”―― But his guilt she ne’er shall know.

Whilst to-morrow, and to-morrow, Wake me to a widowed bed; In another’s arms no sorrow Wilt thou feel, no tears wilt shed.

For the world’s applause I sought not When I tore myself from thee; Of its praise or blame I thought not―― What is blame or praise to me?

He in whom my soul delighted, From his breast my image drove; With contempt my truth requited, And preferred a wanton love.

Thou art proud――and mark me, Byron! Proud is my soul as thine own; Soft to love――but hard as iron When despite is on me thrown.

But, ’tis past!――I’ll not upbraid thee, Nor shall ever wish thee ill; Wretched though thy crimes have made me, If thou canst, be happy still!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

Another reply was published entitled――

LADY BYRON’S RESPONSE TO “FARE THEE WELL.”

“What reader of Pope’s celebrated Eloise ever thought that poem really the work of its heroine? or who for a moment will conceive the following to be the production of Lady Byron’s pen?”

And fare Thee well, too――if, for ever―― How dread the thought!――still fare thee well! Yet think not time or space can sever The heart that wont on thine to dwell!

O cherish not the sad illusion, All thy high-wrought hopes deceiving, Which whispers thee, that heart’s profusion Of love can end in “unforgiving!”

Too well I know thy conscious breast, That form’d, how brief! my “placid” pillow, Hath wandered from its ark of rest, Far stretching o’er life’s cheerless billow.

(This is dated April 29, 1816, and consists of twenty-three verses in all. It is unnecessary to quote the remainder, but the poem can be found in the British Museum Library, 11642 b.b.b. 58.)

――――

ANOTHER REPLY TO “FARE THEE WELL.”

Fare thee well, and if for ever, Then for ever let it be; For again, false Byron, never Canst thou be beloved by me.

If thy breast were bared before me, What a cruel heart ’twould show; False to her who did adore thee―― Cold as Russia’s wastes of snow.

’Twas not I who rent asunder Ties which should have lived till death. Thou hast been a wide world’s wonder For thy scorn of love and faith.

Vain are now thy magic verses, None to pity can they move; Better far to send me curses Than the mockery of love.

Though the world to soothe endeavour, Though it sorrow for my pain Can it, Byron, can it ever Make thy false heart true again?

No! a heart once dead to feeling True again can never prove, And the wound that knows no healing Is a woman’s trampled love.

Oh! to banish recollection Of that early love of mine, When my young heart’s deep affection Thought it met the same in thine.

When in tones of gentle kindness That false tongue love’s accents pour’d Could I think my love was blindness? Could I doubt I was adored?

Still there is a tie that binds me To respect thy once loved name, Though each passing morrow finds thee Deeper still in guilt and shame.

Yes――our little infant smiling As she climbs upon my knee, Lisping with her voice beguiling, Teaches me to think of thee.

When, as twilight’s shadows gather She repeats her ev’ning prayer, Then she prays for thee, her father, Tho’ she sees no father there.

Thus it is, though love has vanished From this torn and bleeding heart, That the feeling is not banished That thou still my husband art.

Fare thee well, and, if for ever In this world of grief and pain, I will hope that those who sever Here, will meet elsewhere again.

Lyrics and Lays, by Pips. Wyman Bros., Hare Street, Calcutta, 1867.

――――

Whatever were the causes of the separation of Lady Byron from her husband (and many reasons have been assigned) will probably never be known, nor do they concern us here, except in so far as regards the statements made by Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. In 1869 it pleased this American authoress to contribute an article to a London magazine, in which she deliberately accused Lord Byron of having committed the foulest crimes imaginable, and stated that although Lady Byron was aware of his depravity from their very wedding day, she yet continued to reside with him until after the birth of their daughter. A violent controversy ensued, many old scandals were revived, and whilst Mrs. Stowe’s statements were generally disbelieved, Byron’s reputation suffered considerably. For this result Thomas Moore was mainly to blame, he having destroyed the memoirs entrusted to him by Lord Byron. Had these memoirs been published, it is very improbable that Mrs. Stowe’s article would have ever have been written. Moore was imprudent enough to show these memoirs to several people, as well as the concluding five Cantos of Don Juan, before he destroyed them, and it is said that Lady Burghersh made copies of them. It is possible, therefore that Byron’s view of the circumstances may yet be given to the world, but however that may be, nothing can excuse the action of Mrs. Stowe, whose article could serve no other purpose than that of blackening the memory of a great but ill-used and unfortunate man:――

THE UN-TRUE STORY. Dedicated to Mrs. Stowe.

Know ye the land where the novelists blurt all The family secrets they learn in our clime; Where skill in romance will contrive to convert all The deeds of our bard to the blackest of crime? Know ye the land of the dollar divine, Where Beecher’s considered a speaker sublime; Where the dark wings of scandle will even presume To flap o’er the great, long at rest in the tomb; Where writers and editors all “high falute,” And the voice of the slanderer never is mute, Where all, who as authors or speakers stand high, Though varied in views, in “tall-talking” may vie, And the principal journal can stoop to a lie; While lucre and puffs to support it combine (Though Low and Macmillan adopt the same line)? ’Tis the clime of the west, ’tis the land of a STOWE: Can ye marvel her libels have angered us so? Oh! false as all things merely written to sell Are the statements they make, and the tales which they tell!

Punch and Judy (London) February 12, 1870.

――――:o:――――

TO THOMAS MOORE.

My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea: But before I go Tom Moore. Here’s a double health to thee!

Here’s a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky’s above me, Here’s a heart for every fate.

Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won.

Were’t the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, ’Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be――peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

LORD BYRON.

――――

A NOBLE LORD TO HIS CREDITORS.

My cab is at the door, Thou must raise the wind for me, But ere you go, Tom Moore, Here’s a snug douceur for thee!

Here’s a bond for those who’ll lend me, And a bill at six month’s date―― I’ll sign whate’er you send me―― Get the cash at any rate!

Though boring duns surround me, They still must trust me on, Till you the cash have found me―― “Call again,” to every one!

Each knock I know full well, And my fainting spirits sink When they pull the area bell, So be off, and fetch the chink!

Mind and bring me back by one, Of thousands half a score,―― Hark! there’s another dun,―― Adieu! adieu! Tom Moore!

The National Omnibus, December 9, 1831.

――――

LES ADIEUX DU PREMIER.[106]

My cab is at the door, Of my red-box here’s the key, But before I go John Russell, Here’s some good advice for thee,

Act, that honest hearts may love thee; Act, that party knaves may hate; And from office when they shove thee, Have a heart to meet thy fate.

Tho’ Protection roar around thee, As loud as roar it can, Tho’ they set on to confound thee, “Young Ben,” that “nice young man.――”

Tho’ county members yell, Tho’ you sever Party’s link, Tho’ Bedchamber Lords rebel, Speak out boldly what you think.

Tho’ for shorter term than mine, Quite sufficient of a bore You’ll find office, I opine, And be glad when it is o’er.

Punch, 1846.

――――

WARD HUNT AFTER BYRON.

My boat has run ashore, And my barque’s beneath the sea And I’m told I never more Must rule the Admiraltee.

There’s a sigh from those who love me, And a smile from those who hate; And the man who’s put above me Will tremble at my fate.

But though Commons rail around me, They still shall hear me on; Though the Upper House confound me, It hath seats that may be won.

My boat has run ashore, And my barque’s beneath the sea, And I fear I never more Shall rule the Admiraltee!

Punch, November, 1875.

――――:o:――――

THE CATHOLIC CANDIDATE.

Dan O’Connell came down like a wolf on the fold, And his priest-ridden voters look’d bloody and bold; And the noise of their cheering resembled the roar Of galley-slaves plying the criminal oar.

Like the fell rebel Orr, in his livery of green, O’Connell and Catholic Clergy were seen; And their hopes and their actions, ’tis very well known, Are to level our Church, and to hurl down the Throne.

But the Protestant voice came strong on the blast, And O’Connell and Treason grew sick as it passed, And the hopes of his traitorous party grew chill, And their hearts quaked with sorrow, their voices were still.

* * * * *

And the precious Cat.Ass. were loud in their wail, And mute was the Corn-Exchange temple of Baal; For the might of the party, in spite of big words, Must melt like the snow before Protestant Lords.

From “Spirit of the Age Newspaper” for 1828.

――――:o:――――

CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE.

Canto I.

“Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o’er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight: Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land――Good Night! * * * * * “With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear’st me to, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! My native land――Good Night!”

BYRON.

AS SUNG BY LORD GREY.

Adieu, adieu! place once so sure, Sounds through the house I see, The Whigs must sigh, the Tories roar, And shrieks the new M.P. Yon tax they’ve taken off the malt, We follow in its flight, Farewell! ’twere vain to try and halt, My premiership, good night.

With thee, my Brough’m, I’ll swiftly go And some new scheme design, Nor care what shifts they put us to, So ’tis not to resign. Welcome, welcome, ye Whiggish slaves, But should you fail to fight, Welcome, ye ratting Tory knaves, My premiership, good night.

Figaro in London, May 4, 1833.

――――

THE FLIGHT OF THE ALDERMEN.

A! doo, A! doo, my fav’rite scheme Low in the market falls; The lawyers sigh, the brokers scream, They ask in vain for calls. Yon bubble, bursting on the sea, We follow in his flight: Farewell! my simple allottee; My engineer! good night.

With thee, my cash, I’ll swiftly go, Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care should fortune take me to The equinoctial line. Welcome, welcome! ye bulls and bears; And when I’m out of sight, You’re welcome to my worthless shares, My Capel Court, good night!

Punch, 1846.

(The above refers to the Railway Panic in 1846.)

――――:o:――――

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell[107] But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?――No; ’twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined, No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet―― But, hark!――that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is――it is――the cannon’s opening roar!

Within a window’d niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick’s fated Chieftain: he did hear That sound, the first amid’st the festival, And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deem’d it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch’d his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush’d into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush’d at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne’er might be repeated: who would guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise.

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war: And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips――“The foe! they come! they come!”

* * * * *

CHILDE HAROLD, Canto III.

――――

THE RAILWAY PANIC.

There was a sound that ceased not day or night, Of Speculation. London gathered then Unwonted crowds and moved by promise bright, To Capel Court rushed women, boys and, men, All seeking railway shares and scrip; and when The market rose, how many a lad could tell, With joyous glance, and eyes that spake again, ’Twas e’en more lucrative than marrying well;―― When, hark! that warning voice strikes like a rising knell.

Nay, it is nothing, empty as the wind, But a ‘bear’ whisper down Throgmorton street; Wild enterprise shall still be unconfined; No rest for us, when rising premiums greet The morn, to pour their treasures at our feet; When, hark; that solemn sound is heard once more, The gathering “bears” its echoes yet repeat―― ’Tis but too true, is now the general roar, The Bank has raised her rate, as she has done before,

And then and there were hurryings to and fro, And anxious thoughts and signs of sad distress, Faces all pale, that but an hour ago Smiled at the thought of their own craftiness. And there were sudden partings, such as press The coin from hungry pockets,――mutual sighs Of brokers and their clients. Who can guess How many a “stag” already panting flies, When upon times so bright such awful panics rise?

(This alludes to the panic subsequent on the Railway Mania of 1845-6)

From “Our Iron Roads,” by F. S Williams. London: Bemrose and Sons.

――――

WATERLOO AT ASTLEY’S THEATRE.

“According to the latest Astley authorities, dated last June, the Battle of Waterloo occupied six minutes exactly. Several French soldiers walked undisguisedly into the quarters of the English army before the fight commenced; and some, at the extreme back of the scene, fought indiscriminately on either side, as occasion required. But the gravest circumstance is, that in the heat of the action the Duke of Wellington, approaching Marshall Soult, said to him, ‘Don’t let your fellows fire until mine have’! a course which must have led them to destruction, had not General Widdicombe roared, with a voice of thunder, ‘what the devil are you doing there, you stupid asses?’ which produced the last grand charge. The following beautiful lines are but little known, and well deserve a place in this report. They are the production of Lord Byron, and were written at the request of the late Andrew Ducrow, Esq., describing the scene immediately before the commencement of the battle.”

There was a sound of revelry by night; And Astley’s Manager had gathered then His supers and his cavalry; and bright The gas blazed o’er tall women and loud men. The audience waited happily, and when The orchestra broke forth with brazen swell, Apples were sold for most extensive gain; And ginger beer popped merrily as well!―― But hush! hark! what’s that noise, just like our parlour bell?

Did ye not hear it?――No, sir!――Never mind, P’haps it was the Atlas bus to Oxford Street. Strike up, you fiddlers! Now, young feller, mind! Don’t scrouge, or you shall go where police meet, To chase the knowing thieves with flying feet!―― But hark! that sound is heard again――once more! And boys, with whistle shrill, its note repeat; And nearer, clearer, queerer than before! Hats off!――It is, it is――the bell from prompter’s door!

Ah! then was hurry-skurry, to and fro; And authors’ oaths, and symptoms of a mess; And men as soldiers, who, two nights ago, Went round the circus in a Chinese dress! And there were rapid paintings, such as press On those who ply the arts, with choking size, Which ne’er might be completed! Who could guess How all would look before the public eyes, When on that “Street in Brussels” the act drop would rise!

From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack, 1846.

――――

A Farewell to Jenny Lind, after the Farewell to Thomas Moore, in five verses, appeared in Punch, September, 1848, and a long parody entitled “The Battle of the Opera,” in Punch, May 19, 1849, commenced thus:――

“There was a sound――’tis JENNY LIND’S last night! And England’s capital had gathered then, Her beauty, rank, fashion and wealth――and bright The gas shone o’er fair women and spruce men.”

* * * * *

――――

THE CHINESE WAR, 1856-7.[108]

There was a sound of orat’ry by night, And Britain’s capital had gathered then Her parliament’ry chivalry, and bright The gas shone o’er these intellectual men; Six hundred hearts beat hopefully; and when Cobden arose, that slaughter-hating swell, Dark eyes flash’d fire at eyes which flash’d again, And Cobden felt a second William Tell, Obsequious Hayter paled, and Pam’s bold visage fell!

Had’st thou but heard, O gentle reader mine, The whispering talk, the noise of shuffling feet―― But mark’d the looks of men who wished to dine, And dared not, for their lives, move from their seat, Chafing within, without, with fervent heat, Thou would’st have envied orators no more―― Thou would’st have owned no eyes could ever meet A sight suggesting stronger the word “bore,” And turned thee to thy bed contentedly to snore.

Ah! then and there were hurryings to and fro, And notes delivered in a shocking mess, And gents grew pale who, but a week ago, Esteemed themselves “the cheese,” and nothing less; And there were sudden partings――I confess These coalitions, ruptures, did surprise The public gen’rally. Could any guess That villain Yeh would break old English ties, And British statesmen stoop to puff his Chinese lies?

Then ye might see cabs hurrying in hot haste To Paddington, and Shoreditch, Euston-square, And all the other stations――for no waste Of time made Pam, nor did he even spare His co-mates; for the ripen’d wheat and tare Must grow and bloom together here, until The reck’ning comes, and men’s hearts are laid bare. And well did Ministers their own plots till, And sway the supple country at their lordly will!

Within a niche of Romulus’s halls Sat Manchester’s sick member. He did hear The news by telegraph, and loud he calls For ink and paper; and he dropt a tear (Of course well’d up by sentiment, not fear) Upon the sheet which stated he would stand Once more for that great town he loved so dear. Ungrateful Manchester, I say――for it Saw its sick member stand, and would not bid him sit![109]

And Thames’ waves murmur as the members leave, And sigh beneath its bridges as they pass, Grieving (if aught so muddy e’er can grieve) Over the unreturning brave――alas! So shortly to be stript of all their brass As well as tin, and, friendless, left to go O’er the wide, gloomy world――consigned, en masse, To vile obscurity by heartless foe, Shorn of their proud “M.P.” by base elector’s “No!”

Last session found them full of lusty strife, Last month in House of Commons blythe and gay―― The guns of Canton signall’d forth the strife And called ’em all to arms. And “Gov’nor Yeh!” The war-cry was which led them on that day; The husting’s mob closed round them――forth they went Their hopes all wither’d, crush’d, in dust low lay―― To mourn their factious folly and repent Were Gibson, Cobden, Bright, by angry England sent.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

BILLIARDS AT OXFORD.

There was a clash of billiard balls by night, And University had gathered then Her members for a handicap, and bright The lamps shone o’er fair tables and dark men; A hundred went up rapidly; and when The clock struck nine a wild tumultuous yell Bade them play on until the hour of ten Brought into sound the evening chapel bell; But hush! hark! a deep voice strikes like a rising knell.

Did ye not hear it? No; ’twas but a moke, Or a cad yelling from the distant street; On with the game! don’t interrupt the stroke; No one should budge when two such players meet To give us all an exhibition treat―― But hark! that fatal sound breaks in once more, Alas! no pen its terrors could repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Fly! fly! it is-it is――the Proctor at the door!

Within a windowed niche of those low walls Sate Univ.’s famous dandy; he did hear That sound the first amidst the billiard balls, And caught its tones with sad, prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that sound too well Which cost his father several pounds a year, And roused the instinct flight alone could quell He rushed into the street, and foremost victim fell.

A. HASKETT SMITH, Univ. Coll: Oxford.

――――

THE FIRST NIGHT OF “OTHELLO.”

I.

Stop: for your tread is on a Poet’s dust! ’Tis Shakespeare, mangled, feels the dreadful blow! The bubble of that overrated fame has bust! No critics sing the praises of the slow:―― None; presumptuous player! why don’t you go Back to the “Bells” or “Diddler”? Can’t you see The Moor is not your form? ask Mrs. Crowe, And all true friends; they will agree That in this role you’re more than ever up a tree.

II.

There was a sound of smother’d glee that night, And at the Lyceum was gathered then A crowd expecting something rich and bright The gas shone o’er stalls filled with first-night men; The pitites coughed impatiently, and when Music beneath the stage was heard, the swells Began to fidget in their seats again, And many wished the play had been the “Bells,” For this, ’twas feared, would prove the most grotesque of sells.

* * * * *

IV.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, To leave the place, and murmurs of distress, And some, who should have gone two hours ago, Had only stayed because the dreadful mess Must be reported in the daily press; And these regretfully, with choking sighs, Sat the performance through, for who could guess If ever more, before the critics’ eyes, The curtain on such cruel sacrilege would rise?

The Figaro, February 26, 1876.

These lines refer to the first appearance of Mr. Henry Irving in the Character of “Othello.” The success he met with then, induced him to revive it some time afterward, and proves how reliable these verses were as a criticism. But at that time The Figaro persistently and indiscriminately ran down all Mr. Irving’s impersonations.

――――

LONDON’S INFERNO.

There is a sound of revelry by night, For England’s capital has gathered then Her lowest and her foulest and too bright The gas shines o’er frail women and fast men! A thousand tongues wag noisily, and when The music-halls the shameless concourse swells, And drunken wretches reel from many a den, The scene grows yet more like an earthly hell!―― But hush! Big Ben booms midnight, like some solemn knell!

Do they not hear it sounding on the wind, These reckless haunters of the crowded street? Nay, on they course, their laughter unconfined, Prepared in all their brazen shame to greet The ribald roysterers they haply meet! But hark! that bell of doom breaks in once more, And some lone hearts its echoes now repeat; But louder, shriller, ghastlier than before, Rises that hideous midnight Market’s odious roar!

Ah! now there’s eager hurrying to and fro, And frightful oaths and tears of deep distress And cheeks are drabbled which an hour ago Were brave with artificial loveliness. And there are sudden quarrels as the press Of desperate women swirls and surges by, With laughter forced and words of bitterness, Which overwhelms the outcasts deep-drawn sigh, As the pale moon breaks through the sombre-clouded sky.

And this in London! in the very street Which speaks the grandeur of the wealthy west! ’Tis here debauchery and riot meet; ’Tis here each night, when purity’s at rest, There rages rampantly that moral pest That saps our city’s health and blasts her name, And steals the reputation she posses’t, Leaving her rifled of her once fair fame, A bye-word for the nations, and all Europe’s shame.

Truth, Christmas Number, 1884.

――――

A parody entitled Childe Snobson’s Pilgrimage, in several parts, appeared in volume III. of Punch 1842; and again, in 1883, another long parody of Childe Harold ran through several numbers of the same periodical. This was called Childe Chappie’s Pilgrimage, and, when complete, was issued in book form by Bradbury Agnew & Co., with the Author’s name, E. J. Milliken, on the title page, and some illustrations by E. J. Wheeler.

This work is at once a parody of Childe Harold, and a satire on the typical young “Masher” of the period, who, having exhausted all modern forms of dissipation, finally “comes an awful cropper” in the slang of his tribe.

“Childe Chappie” bids farewell to the haunts of his boyhood in the following verses, sung to the accompaniment of a banjo.

I.

Adieu! adieu! Home life’s a bore When one is twenty-two; Nights were, not given to snooze and snore, Days, hours are all too few. When the sun sets o’er land and sea, Life’s beacon blazes high. Farewell, domestic fiddle-de-dee! My Early Home――good-bye!

II.

A few short hours, and Sol will rise To give grey morning birth; We shall be prone with sleep-crowned eyes, Dreaming of night’s mad mirth, Whilst yonder, round my father’s hall, My sisters, dear, but dull, Will toss the early tennis-ball, Or pull the morning scull.

III.

Let love be hot, let wine run high, I fear not love or wine. From tame delights of home I fly, Life’s fiery press be mine! I mean to do the whole mad round, Turf, Stage, Sport, Fun, light Love; For in these things do joys abound Home’s doldrums far above.

IV.

My sire will “row” me vigorously, My Mother sore complain, But, o’er life’s wildest waves I’ll fly E’er I touch shore again, Let sermons scare the goody good From Stage, or Bar, or Ring; But I, who am of gayer mood, Intend to have my fling.

V.

With ye, my bonny boys, I’ll go The fastest pace that’s set; With hopes to lead the field, you know, And cut all record yet, Welcome, the riskiest game that’s on! Brim, brim the beaker high! Life’s fizz till the last bubble’s gone! My early Home-good-bye!

Canto the First.

――――

CANTO THE SEVENTH.

I stood in London, on the bridge which lies Tall tower and swelling dome on either hand. From out the stream Saint Stephen’s spires arise, St. Paul’s huge summit dominates the land; Between them runs the noisy, wheel-worn Strand, Hushed now awhile, for early morning smiles O’er the swift river, and the grey, yet grand Wide-winged old city of Titanic piles, Huge capital of our little, lordliest of all isles.

She looks a sprawling Mammoth from the river Risen, with unspanned bulk and ungauged powers, O’er league on league the silver morn-mists quiver Upon her mighty maze of roofs and towers. And what brings she, what are her dearest dowers To wealth-spoilt golden youth? The Comus feast, The Rahab lap piled high with gems and flowers, The Circe draught proffered by Pleasure’s priest, Which lures the eager lip, and leaves the man――a beast,

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, Who ’midst this city lived the life called “fast”? Doth he upon his pillow tarry long? He comes no more――those flutterings were his last; The butterfly is stricken, netted, cast, Wing-bruised, bloom-robbed aside, a thing that was; To-day a phantasy, not to be classed With “form” maintainers――these must let him pass, Vanish in Limbo’s gloom, sink in Despair’s morass.

Scattered his substance, linked life, honour, all With――what? A thing that silence fain must shroud, “Gone to the bad, poor beggar! What a fall!” “Under the very dingiest kind of cloud.” “Thought he was ’cuter, or at least more proud.” “Yes――regular church and ring affair, a craze Most melancholy,――can’t be squared, too loud!” So cackle they, in vague slang-garnished phrase, The “other Johnnies,”――chums of his exuberant days.

What profits prying into the abyss Where plunge the witless dupes of flaunting shame, Of vulgar Mélusines who writhe and hiss, Too late detected? Chappie’s lost to fame. Who’ll wipe the dirt from the dishonoured name Society no more hears? For never more Shall he who’s siren-mated be the same, Unless high genius hush the social roar―― Genius whose spell to miss were “quite too great a bore.”

But I must end. My Pilgrim’s shrine is won, And he and I must part――so let it be. His task in life was the pursuit of “Fun;” In Babylon there are thousands such as he; Each year breaks hundreds, and the wrecks few see. That venturous Muse were voted all too bold Who golden youth in their gregarious glee Should paint, or the veracious tale unfold Of dull esurient lives in gilded styes outrolled.

* * * * *

Roll on, thou shallow stream of Pleasure!――roll! Ten thousand skiffs float over thee in vain, Prows prone to rapids, helms beyond control; Awhile they dance upon thy watery plain, Then fleet to wreck, and nothing doth remain Save a sad memory of the bitter groan When one more struggler, slackening the fierce strain, Sinks wave-choked, weed-encumbered, stark, alone, Gone to the dogs, unstayed, unfriended, and unknown.

――――

TO INEZ.

Nay, smile not at my garments now; Alas! I cannot smile again: Yet Heaven avert that ever thou Should’st dress, and haply dress so plain.

And dost thou ask, why should I be The jest of every foe and friend? And wilt thou vainly seek to see A garb, even thou must fail to mend?

It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low Ambitions’ honors lost That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all I loved the most.

It is the contrast which will spring From all I meet, or hear, or see, To me no garments tailors bring,―― Their shops have scarce a charm for me.

It is a something all who rub Would know the owner long had wore; That may not look beyond the tub, And cannot hope for help before.

What fellow from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where’er I be, The blight of life,――the ragged Coat.

Yet others wrapt in broadcloth seem, And taste of all that I forsake! O, may they still of transport dream, And ne’er, at least like me, awake!

Through many a clime ’tis mine to go, With many a retrospection curst, And all my solace is to know, Whate’er I wear, I’ve worn the worst.

What is the worst? Nay, do not ask,―― In pity from the search forbear: Smile on,――nor venture to unclasp My vest, and view the shirt that’s there.

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

――――:o:――――

CHILDE HAROLD.

Canto IV.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O’er the far times, when many a subject land Look’d to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles, Where Venice sat in state, throned on her hundred isles!

She looks a sea Cybele fresh from ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour’d in her lap all gems in sparkling showers, In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deem’d their dignity increased.

In Venice Tasso’s echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear: Those days are gone――but Beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade――but nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.

BYRON.

――――

VENICE UNPRESERVED.

“Steamers have been started on the Grand Canal at Venice.” ――Globe.

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand. I saw from out the wave black funnels rise Whence clouds of densest smoke I saw expand, And common steamboats, at a penny a mile, O’er the canal――saw many a person land Upon the piers. O Anguish! it does rile The Bard to see all this――and what a smell of ile!

Punch, November 12, 1881.

――――

PRACTICAL VENICE. (By a Commercial Childe Harold.)

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs; A factory, a mill on either hand, I saw from out the wave tall chimneys rise, And wharves and busy steam-cranes edge the strand, And palaces to warehouses expand: A murky air, where sunshine never smiles, As black as Bradford. This was once the land Where poets sang its countless marble piles, And RUSKIN wrote and revelled in its sunny isles!

In Venice RUSKIN’S echoes are no more, And steam has stopped the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crammed with goods galore, And barcarolles no longer meet the ear; Those days are past――but Enterprise is here. Shares fall, Stocks fade, but Commerce doth not die But reckons dodges more than Doges dear, And gain above artistic sanctity; Accounting best on earth, the Trade of Italy.

Punch, December 9, 1882.

――――:o:――――

ON SEEING AN INTOXICATED POLICEMAN.

Roll on thou drunk and dark blue peeler――roll! Thy bâton now thou wieldest quite in vain; Thou’rt conquered by blue ruin――self controul Hath ceased with thee; the gin and watery bane Doth mar thy course, nor dost thou now retain One sign of human reason save alone, When for a moment with thy might and main Thou cling’st unto some lamp-post with a groan, Without a hat, and luckily, unseen, unknown. His steps shake on the path――the hat he wears Is but a sport for him――he doth arise, And kick it from him; the vile nap it bears, For four and ninepence, he doth all despise, Spurning it from the pavement towards the skies, And sends it shivering in his playful way Into the gutter, where perchance it lies Till, stumbling over it as well he may, He falls beside it; there together let them lay.

The Puppet Show, March 25, 1848.

――――

ADDRESS TO A WINE BARREL. (By a Poetical Butler.)

There is pleasure in cask of wood, There is a rapture on a stony floor, There is society where none intrude, The vaulted roof above and nothing more! I love not master less, but more his store, From these our interviews in which I steal, From all I may be, or have been before To mingle two good brews and feel, What I can ne’er express, yet cannot (hic) all conceal!――

From Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley. (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.)

――――:o:――――

ARCADES AMBO.

The “Childe Harold” metre is comically reproduced and ridiculed in “Arcades Ambo,” where Mr. C. S. Calverley thus addresses the beadles of the Burlington Arcade:――

Why are ye wandering aye ’twixt porch and porch, Thou and thy fellow――when the pale stars fade At dawn, and when the glow-worm lights her torch, O Beadle of the Burlington Arcade? ――Who asketh why the Beautiful was made? A wan cloud drifting o’er the waste of blue, The thistledown that floats above the glade, The lilac blooms of April――fair to view, And naught but fair are these; and such, I ween, are you.

Yes, ye are beautiful. The young street boys Joy in your beauty. Are ye there to bar Their pathway to that paradise of toys, Ribbons, and rings? Who’ll blame ye if ye are? Surely no shrill and clattering crowd should mar The dim aisle’s stillness, where in noon’s mid-glow Trip fair-haired girls to boot-shop or bazaar; Where, at soft eve, serenely to and fro The sweet boy-graduates walk, nor deem the pastime slow

And O! forgive me, Beadles, if I paid Scant tribute to your worth, when first ye stood Before me, robed in broadcloth and brocade, And all the nameless grace of Beadle-hood! I would not smile at ye――if smile I could, Now as erewhile, ere I had learned to sigh; Ah, no! I know ye beautiful and good, And evermore will pause as I pass by, And gaze, and gazing think, how base a thing am I.

From Fly Leaves, by C. S. Calverley. Bell and Sons, London, 1878.

Mr. Calverley also wrote, when quite a young man, some most amusing Byronic stanzas (in Don Juan style), in praise of

BEER.

In those old days which poets say were golden―― (Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves: And, if they did, I’m all the more beholden To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves, Who talk to me “in language quaint and olden” Of gods and demigods, and fawns and elves, Pan with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards, And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)

In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette (Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born, They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet, No fashions varying as the hues of morn. Just as they pleased they dressed, and drank, and ate, Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn), And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked, And were, no doubt, extremely incorrect.

Yet do I think their theory was pleasant: And oft, I own, my “wayward fancy roams” Back to those times, so different from the present; When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes, Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant, Nor “did” her hair by means of long-tailed combs, Nor migrated to Brighton once a year, Nor――most astonishing of all――drank Beer.

* * * * *

So to proceed. That abstinence from Malt Has always struck me as extremely curious. The Greek mind must have had some vital fault, That they should stick to liquors so injurious―― (Wine, Water, tempered p’raps with Attic salt)―― And not at once invent that mild, luxurious, And artful beverage Beer. How the digestion Got on without it, is a startling question.

* * * * *

O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass! Names that should be on every infant’s tongue! Shall days, and months, and years, and centuries pass, And still your merits be unrecked, unsung? Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass, And wished that lyre could yet again be strung Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her Misguided sons that the best drink was water.

* * * * *

Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa; Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen: When “Dulce est desipere in loco” Was written, real Falernian winged the pen. When a rapt audience has encored “Fra Poco” Or “Casta Diva,” I have heard that then The Prima Donna, smiling herself out, Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry, Born to keep used-up Londoners awake? What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache? Nay, stout itself――(though good with oysters, very)―― Is not a thing your reading man should take. He that would shine, and petrify his tutor Should drink draught Allsop in its “native pewter.”

But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear―― A soft and silvery sound――I know it well, Its tinkling tells me that a time is near Precious to me――it is the Dinner Bell. O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and Beer, Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell: Seared is, of course, my heart――but unsubdued Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.

I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen: But on one statement I may safely venture: That few of our most highly gifted men Have more appreciation of the trencher. I go. One pound of British beef, and then What Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher;” That home-returning, I may “soothly say,” “Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”[110]

Verses and Translations, by C. S. C.――London, George Bell and Sons.

――――:o:――――

In “The Poetic Mirror, or The Living Bards of Britain,” written by James Hogg, there is a poem entitled The Guerilla, written in the Spenserian stanza adopted by Lord Byron in his Childe Harold. As The Guerilla is a serious poem, not a parody, it would be out of place here. It consists of 47 stanzas, and is the first poem in The Poetic Mirror, of which volume a full account will be found on page 96.

A parody, entitled The Last Canto of Childe Harold, by Lamartine, was published in London in 1827, but is now difficult to find.

――――:o:――――

THE GIAOUR.

He who hath bent him o’er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay’s effacing fingers, Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), And mark’d the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that’s there, The fix’d yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And――but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, And but for that chill, changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction’s apathy Appals the gazing mourner’s heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Yes, but for these and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant’s power; So fair, so calm, so softly seal’d, The first, last look by death reveal’d!

Such is the aspect of this shore; ’Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression’s last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling pass’d away! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish’d earth!

BYRON.

――――

LINES WRITTEN ON SEEING A “CALF’S HEAD” HANGING UP IN BENE’T STREET.

He that had gazed upon this head Ere yet the spark of life was fled, Before the butcher’s cursed fingers “Had swept the lines where beauty lingers,” Had playful seen in Nature’s pride The offspring at its mother’s side―― Oh! who could think that tyrant man Could e’er curtail its narrow span―― In fetters drag it helpless thence, And slay it in its innocence! E’en now methinks its looks implore, Tho’ fixed in death, tho’ stain’d with gore; “And but for that sad shrouded eye,” That gives the rising thought the lie, One yet might think it breath’d with life, And gaz’d upon the threat’ning knife!

The sturdy ox falls in his prime, The sheep is happy for a time, This only feels man’s ceaseless hate;―― I mused――and pond’ring o’er its fate, And on the butcher’s cruel steel, I vow’d I’d never eat of veal! Alas! our best resolves are vain, Repentance leads to sin again! That selfsame minute――callous sinner! I hastened to my friend and dinner; And, as a mistress at her lover, Impatient eyed each envious cover: Which, lo! disclosed――that Fate should will it! Calf’s head, mock turtle, and a fillet! What could I do? To end my story, I acted like a modern Tory; For after all my long debate On justice, cruelty and fate. Like him I took the loaves and fishes, And paid my court to all the dishes!

ANONYMOUS.

From The Gownsman, (Cambridge) December 31, 1830.

――――

Another Parody appeared in The Gossip (London,) June 9, 1821, commencing:

He that hath bent him o’er a goose, When the first slice of breast is loose―― The first prime slice for tenderness, The last for grateful savouriness; (Before the glutton’s eager fingers Have swept the dish where gravy lingers) And mark’d the brown inviting air, The harvest of fine cuts that’s there, The firm yet greasy lumps that deck The roundness of its luscious neck.

He who hath bent him o’er the bed On which some dreamer rests his head, Before the housemaid’s tapping fingers Disturb the room where slumber lingers, May possibly have pondered o’er The fitful start and vacant snore; And wondered, as his vision caught The working of the slumberer’s thought, How different a turn ’twould take When he should be once more awake.

From Beauty and the Beast, by Albert Smith, 1843.

――――

THE BLIND NUISANCE.

He that don’t always bend his head When London streets he fain would tread, But with a mild and stately air, From left to right doth idly stare, Or looking round him, slightly lingers, Twirling his guard-chain round his fingers, Will, as he gives a look behind, Not seeing where he means to go, Receive from a tremendous blind, An almost stupifying blow. So darkly low, so lowly dim, It breaks the hat from crown to rim. The taller victim as he goes, Receives the blind below his nose; While the less loftier passer-by, Sheathes the fierce ledge-point in his eye. A cry of vengeance fills the air―― ’Tis vain, police are wanting there.

Punch, 1847.

――――

THE NEXT MORNING. (Desecrated from Byron.)

HE who hath looked with aching head Where pipes and glasses still are spread, In the first hour of seediness, The last of seeing such a mess (Before the housemaid’s clumsy fingers Have swept the rooms where smoke still lingers) And marked the rank unwholesome air, The evidence of gin that’s there, The upset trays that plainly speak Of what has caused that pallid cheek; And but for that strong stale cheroot Which sickens now his very soul, And but for that half-empty bowl, Where sugar, limes, and rum to boot, Appal the seedy gazers heart, As if they ne’er had formed a part Of what he’d lavished praise upon―― Yes, but for these, and these alone Some moments, aye, till office hour, He still might doubt false whiskey’s power. But no, to bed he faintly reels, So sad the sight that room reveals.

The Puppet Show, April 8, 1848.

(The above lines were reproduced, without the slightest acknowledgment, in the Summer Number of “The Chiel,” 1885.)

――――

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime! Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress’d with perfume, Wax faint o’er the Gardens of Gul in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute: Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? ’Tis the clime of the East; ’tis the land of the Sun―― Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers’ farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

BYRON.

This will remind those who have read Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister of some verses sung by Mignon, which also form the theme of one of the gems of the beautiful opera founded on that tale. In Carlyle’s translation the poem opens thus:――

Know’st thou the land where lemon-trees do bloom, And oranges like gold in leafy gloom; A gentle wind from deep blue heaven blows, The myrtle thick, and high the laurel grows? Know’st thou it, then? ’Tis there! ’tis there O my belov’d one, I with thee would go!

――――

INSCRIBED TO AN ALDERMAN.

Know ye the land where the leaf of the myrtle Is bestowed on good livers in eating sublime? Where the rage for fat ven’son and love of the turtle Preside o’er the realms of an epicure clime? Know ye the land where the juice of the vine Makes Aldermen learned, and Bishops divine? Where each Corporation, deep flushed with its bloom, Waxes fat o’er the eyes of the claret’s perfume? Thick spread is the table with choicest of fruit, And the voice of the reveller never is mute: Their rich robes, though varied, in beauty may vie. Yet the purple of BACCHUS is deepest in dye:―― ’Tis the clime of the EAST――the return of the sun Looks down on the deeds which his children have done: Then wild is the note, and discordant the yell, When, reeling and staggering, they hiccup――Farewell.

From Hone’s Year Book, Vol. I., p. 1337――38.

――――

FIFTY YEARS AGO.

Know ye the town of the turkey and turtle? Fit emblems of tales that are told in their clime, Where stems of the laurel and leaves of the myrtle Grow broad in balconies and glorious in rhyme! Where the tongue of the news-seller never is mute, And the orange-stands glow with their yellow cheek’d fruit, Where the stains of the street and the smoke of the sky And the purple of faces are darkest in dye? Where statesmen are pure as the papers they sign. And even the cloth of their coats superfine?―― O large as the sigh at a lover’s farewell Are the fees which they take, and the fibs which they tell!

* * * * *

The Theatrical Journal, 1816.

――――

“Know ye the house in which Vestris and Nisbett Are sparkling and bright as the pieces they act, Where the wretch who wants money may safely make this bet Five to one on Madame ’gainst the world――that’s a fact.”

This parody proceeded to describe the various members of the Covent Garden Theatre Company.

Punch, Volume 2, 1842.

Another parody, of the same original, appeared in Punch, December 16, 1848, describing the advantages of emigration to Australia:――

Know’st thou the land where the kangaroos bound, And the queer looking ornithorhynci are found? The land of the south, that lies under our feet, Deficient in mouths, overburdened with meat, Know’st thou that land, JOHN BULL, my friend? Thither, oh! thither, poor people should wend!

(Four verses omitted.)

――――

KNOW YE THE HOUSE.

Know ye the House where the Whigs and the Tories Are emblems of deeds that are constantly done; Where the prosing of Peel, when in candour he glories, Now sinks into twaddle, now rises to fun? Know ye the house, of the benches all green, Where dozing at night many members are seen; Where the dull words of Borthwick,――the figures of Hume Wax faint, e’en to those whom to gull they assume; Where parties but squabble for place and its fruit, Where the voice of self-interest never is mute; Where the Minister’s speech, and opponent’s reply, In phrases though varied, in falsehood may vie, And the strongest assertion’s the cleverest lie; Where the heads are as soft as the yarns that they spin, And all wish for change save the few that are in! ’Tis the House of the Commons――and Peel is its sun; Can he smile when he thinks how the country is done? Oh! vile as the votes which at Ipswich they sell, Are the measures they pass, and the lies that they tell.

Punch, Volume 2, 1842.

――――

THE VAUXHALL MASQUERADE.

Know ye the scene where the clerks and the tailors Are deck’d out in costume both dirty and fine; Where till-robbing shop boys, as soldiers and sailors, Now stoop down to beer――now ascend up to wine? ’Tis the place for a feast: not the region of fun. Can we smile on the jokes that are made there?――not one. Oh, pointless and dull, as Ojibbeway yell, Are the tricks which they play, and the bon mots they tell.

There a bevy of noodles, by puffing extreme,[111] Are tempted to muster in numerous throng; They’re off to Vauxhall, where they drink, dance, and scream, And fancy they come it exceedingly strong. Vauxhall’s Great Bal Masqué I ne’er can forget; And oft when alone, at the close of the year, I think, are the vagabonds dancing there yet? Are they still at their brandy and water, and beer?

Punch, 1844.

――――

THE MAYOR’S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF THE TURTLES.

“Several hundred lively turtles were thrown overboard a little while ago from a ship bound for Liverpool. The Mayor of that town, who is remarkable for hospitality, has been, ever since the sad event, in a state of fearful despondency. The following touching lament has been heard to issue from his windows at fitful and feverish intervals――

Know ye the loss of the beautiful turtles, The emblems of soup, had they lived to this time? Oh bind up my brows with the leaves of some myrtles, Let me mourn for the loss of a feast so sublime. Did they do it from fear?――did they do it in fun? Sure no one could smile at the mischief they’ve done. Had shipwreck been threaten’d, and had it been known, That everything must have been overboard thrown. Though the whole of the freight in the ocean were cast, The turtles should always be kept till the last. Oh, had I been there in that terrible hour, As Mayor I’d at once have exerted my power, And made the most active endeavours to save The turtle alive, from a watery grave, I envy thee, NEPTUNE――for thou art possess’d Of a treasure by which I had hoped to be blessed; I’m almost disposed to make one of thy group, And drown myself, just to come in for the soup.”

Punch, 1846.

――――

REFLECTIONS ON A TEA TABLE.

Know ye the land where the hot toast and muffin Are emblems of deeds that are done in their spheres; Where scandalous stories and hints about nuffin, Now melt into whispers, now rise into sneers? Know ye the land where the liquids and cake Their circumvolutions consecutive make; Where POMPEY’S strong arms are oppressed with Pekoe, And the air waxes faint with the scent of the sloe; Where malice produces its bitterest fruit, And the voice of detraction can never be mute; Where the tints of the story, the shades of the lie In number though varied, in falsehood may vie, And the venom of scandal is deepest in dye; Where virgins of fifty strange ringlets entwine, In the fond misconception of looking divine? ’Tis the land of the teapot, the realm of the tray. Can we smile when we know what their votaries say? Oh! false as the curls of their ancientest belle, Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

Punch, December, 1846.

――――

THE FOREIGNER’S LAY OF LONDON.

Know ye the town where policemen and navvies, Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime! Where the noise of the clocks, and the cries of the tabbies, E’er rouse you to madness o’er roofs as they climb? Know ye that Smithfield, abounding in kine, Where the dirt ever blossoms, and beams never shine? Know ye the land where their coffee is beans? Their milk chalk and brains, and their tea is but greens, Where they polish their apples and all other fruit, And the voice of the muffin-man never is mute? Where the tints of your nose and the chimney-pot high, In colour not varied with blackness may vie, And the soot that falls on you is deepest in dye? ’Tis the town of the North, and of great Exhibitions, Of pickpockets, thieves, and of base impositions! Can you smile as you ride and you know all the while, That the cabman will charge you five shillings a mile? Oh, false as the bills of an actor’s “farewell,” Are the hearts that they bear, and the lies that they tell.

The Month, by Albert Smith and John Leech, October, 1851.

――――

THE PRIDE OF LONDON.

Know ye the stream where the cesspool and sewer Are emptied of all their foul slushes and slimes, Where the feculent tide of rich liquid manure Now sickens the City, now maddens the Times? Know ye the filth of that great open sink, Which no filter can sweeten, no “navvy” can drink; Where in boats overcrowded the Cockney is borne To the mud-bounded gardens of joyous Cremorne; Where the gas-works rain down the blackest of soot, And the oath of the coal-whipper never is mute: Where the liquified mud, which as “water” we buy, With the richest of pea-soup in colour may vie, And deodorisation completely defy; Where the air’s fill’d with smells that no nose can define, And the banks teem prolific with corpses canine? ’Tis the stream of the Thames! ’tis the Pride of the Town! Can a nuisance so dear to us e’er be put down? Oh! fouler than words can in decency tell Are the sights we see there, and the scents which we smell!

Punch, September 11, 1852.

――――

A BYRONIC VALENTINE. A City Article.

Know’st thou the spot where the venison and turtle Meet best, from the heather and tropical clime; Where the fat of the latter is green as the myrtle, And the former as pink as the rose in her prime? Know’st thou the hall where old Magog and Gog Laugh a-sly at the centuries onward that jog? The spots where the markets dispense the cane fruit, Where Manilla has brokers to sell her cheroot? Where the “Bulls” ever raise, and the “Bears” e’er depress Consols to a quarter the more or the less? Where the rumours of earth, and the clouds of the sky Bid the sellers to hold, or the knowing ones buy, (Which the public in general thinks, “All my eye”)? ’Tis the place of the swain, ’tis the haunt of the one Who thy beauty unceasingly ponders upon; Whose passion for thee can ne’er suffer decline, And till further advice is Thine Own Valentine.

Diogenes, February, 1853.

――――

THE PRIDE OF ENGLAND.

Know ye the Inn where the laurel and myrtle Well emblem the green who are done ’neath its sign? Where they serve you on plate which is mock as their turtle, Now fleecing the tourist, now maddening the Times? Know ye the shams of that ill-managed house, Where the host ever bows, and the bills ever chouse; Where the “wax-lights” that don’t half illumine your room Give a muttonish rather than waxy perfume; Where although you don’t see half a waiter all day, For “attendance” as much as a lawyer’s you pay, And find even then there’s an extra for “Boots.” Nor the porters in asking for liquids are mutes; Where your “bottle of sherry” (Cape under disguise,) Scarce equals the vinegar-cruet in size, And analysation completely defies; Where the sofas are soft as yourself if you dine At eight shillings a head――perchance even nine, With the heaviest price for the lightest of wine?―― ’Tis the English Hotel: and ’tis twenty to one That, where’er you may enter it, brown you’ll be done. For more than e’en Punch in a volume could tell, Are the shams they serve there, and the victims they sell.

Punch, 1853.

――――

GENERAL VIEW OF GREECE.

“Greece sided with Russia until France and England sent troops to the Piræus, whereupon King Otho promised to observe strict neutrality.”

Knows’t thou the land were a sly press’s dirt’ll Be flung upon all that won’t pay for it’s slime, When the merchant’s a Doo, and the soldier’s a Thurtell, And the lawyer’s their trusty accomplice in crime? Knows’t thou the land once beloved of the Nine, More lately the scene of Pacifico’s shine, Where a soft head like Otho’s the crown could assume, A King――with the mien of an underbred groom―― Where the traders in feats of rascality vie } Where they cheat if you sell, and they cheat if you buy, } And to list to a native’s to list to a lie. } Where, if trees (as we say) may be known by their fruit, One’s certain that Honesty never struck root. Where their dastardly banner wears Christendom’s sign, In type that each fight is a Cross, we opine? ’Tis the fair land of Greece, whose demoralised son Exults in the hope that the Russians have won. Oh! wild are his accents, when telegraphs tell That our soldiers are doing their duty right well.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1854.

――――

A LESSON FOR LADIES.

“While the Lord Mayor elect and some friends were inspecting the preparations for the Guildhall feast, the Lady Mayoress unhesitatingly declared with reference to the turtle, that ‘she did not like the nasty stuff!’”――Daily News.

Know you the Lady who doesn’t like turtle, And had the fine courage to speak out her mind; Though Aldermen round her stood scowling like Thurtell, And even her Chaplain lisped, “Rather unkyind,” Long life to the woman who dared to declare it, Be her gay Lady-Mayoralty marked by good luck: Her robe fit divinely――her health last to wear it―― We don’t share her taste, but we honour her pluck.

The good City Queen sets a lesson to ladies Who haven’t got minds, or have minds they don’t know: Who don’t care if wine comes from China or Cadiz, And simper alike over venison and veau! We like a companion who knows what she’s eating, (What chance for your tastes if she’s none of her own?) So hip, hip, hurrah, for November that’s seating A Sovereign like this on the Mansion House throne.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1856.

――――

JAMAICA.

(Written in 1866, when Governor Eyre was being prosecuted for his excessive severity in suppressing the negro insurrection in Jamaica.)

Know ye the land of molasses, and rum Emblems of deeds that are done in their clime Where the cant of the nigger or the beat of his drum Now melts into humbug, now maddens to crime―― Know ye the land of the cocoa and pine, Where the trees that would blossom are left to decline Where those who would toil must bear the attacks Of those blood-thirsty vipers, Liberty’s Blacks? Where murder and treason are the fairest of fruit, And the voice of sedition never is mute Where the sloth of the negro, cries aloud to the sky And his vices tho’ varied, in horror may vie With those crimes of man that are deepest in dye. Where whites must bow down, if the negroes combine For is not a nigger a spirit divine? ’Tis the land of the negro who once was a slave How has he deserved the freedom we gave? ’Tis the clime of the west, ’tis the land of the sun Can he smile on the deeds that these darkies have done? Oh! fierce as the accents of foemen’s farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the lies which they tell.

W.H.

――――

DESCRIPTION OF THE MURTLE LECTURE DELIVERED IN OUR PUBLIC SCHOOL.

Know ye the Hall where the birch and the myrtle Are emblems of things half profane, half divine, Where the hiss of the serpent, the coo of the turtle, Are counted cheap fun at a sixpenny fine? Know ye the Hall of the pulpit and form, With its air ever mouldy, its stove never warm; Where the chill blasts of Eurus, oppressed with the stench Wax faint at the window, and strong at the bench; Where Tertian and Semi are hot in dispute, And the voice of the Magistrand never is mute; Where the scrape of the foot and the audible sigh In nature though varied, in discord may vie, Till the accents of Wisdom are stifled and die; Where the Bajuns are dense as the cookies they chew, And all save the Regents have something to do:―― ’Tis our Hall of Assembly, our high moral School, Must its walls never rest from the bray of the fool? Oh, vain as the prospect of summer in May Are the lessons they learn and the fines that they pay.

All the public discipline, fines, &c., are arranged and levied at the Public School. The Bajuns, Semis, Tertians, and Magistrands are the four years of men. The Regents are the four Professors――Greek, Nat. Hist., Nat. Phil., and Mor. Phil.

From “Life of Professor James Clerk Maxwell” by Lewis Campbell and William Garrett, 1882.

――――

A LUNATIC’S LOVE SONG.

O, know you the land where the cheese tree grows, And the unicorn spins on the end of his nose; Where the sea-mew scowls on the circling bat, And the elephant hunts in an opera hat?

’Tis there that I lie with my head in a pond, And play with a valueless Tichborne bond; ’Tis there that I sip pure Horniman’s tea To the sound of the gong and the howling sea.

’Tis there that I revel in soapsuds and rum, And wait till my creditors choose to come; ’Tis there that I dream of the days when I Shall soar to the moon through the red-hot sky.

Then come, oh! come to that happy land! And don’t forget your galvanic band; We will play at cards in the lions den, And go to bed when the clock strikes ten.

――――

AN ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON.

Know’st thou the land where the hardy green thistle, The red-blooming heather and harebell abound? Where oft o’er the mountains the shepherd’s shrill whistle Is heard in the gloaming so sweetly to sound? Know’st thou the land of the mountain and flood, Where the pine of the forest for ages has stood, Where the eagle comes forth on the wings of the storm, And her young ones are rocked on high Cairngorm? Know’st thou the land where the cold Celtic wave Encircles the hills which its blue waters lave? Where the virgins are pure as the gems of the sea, And their spirits are light as their actions are free? Know’st thou the land where the sun’s lingering ray Streaks with gold the horizon, till dawns the new day, Whilst the cold feeble beam which he sheds on the sight Scarce breaks through the gloom of the cold winter’s night? ’Tis the land of thy sires!――’tis the land of thy youth, Where first thy young heart glowed with honour and truth; Where the wild fire of genius first caught thy young soul, And thy feet and thy fancy roamed free from control! Ah, why does that fancy still dwell on a clime Where Love leads to Madness, and Madness to Crime: Where courage itself is more savage than brave;―― Where man is a despot, and woman a slave? Though soft are the breezes, and sweet the perfume, And fair are the “gardens of Gul” in their bloom; Can the roses they twine, or the vines which they bear, Speak peace to the heart of suspicion and fear? Let Phœbus’ bright ray the Egean wave, But say, can it lighten the lot of a slave―― Or all that is beauteous in nature impart One virtue to soften the Moslem’s proud heart? Ah, no! ’tis the magic that glows in thy strain, Gives life to the action and soul to the scene! And the deeds which they do, and the tales which they tell, Enchant us alone by the power of thy spell! And is there no charm in thine own native earth? Does no talisman rest in the place of thy birth? Are the daughters of Albion less worthy thy care, Less soft than Zuleika, less bright than Gulnare? Are her sons less renowned, or her warriors less brave, Than the slaves of a Prince who himself is a slave? Then strike thy wild lyre, let it swell with the strain, Let the mighty in arms live and conquer again; Their past deeds of valour thy lays shall rehearse, And the fame of thy country revive in thy verse. The proud wreath of victory round heroes may twine, ’Tis the poet who crowns them with honour divine; And thy laurels, Pelides, had sunk in the tomb, Had the bard not preserved them immortal in bloom!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

JON DUAN’S TALE. A STORY OF THE CONFESSIONAL.

Know ye the place where they press and they hurtle, And do daring deeds for greed and for gain, Where the mellow milk-punch and the green-fatted turtle Now mildly digest, and now madden with pain? Know ye the land of Stone and of Vine, Where mayors ever banquet and aldermen dine; Where Emma[112] was wooed, and Abbott laid low, And they fly paper kites and big bubbles blow; Where Gold is a god unassail’d in his might, And neck-ties are loosened when stocks get too tight? If this district you know――it is E.C. to guess, And you go up a street which the Hebrews possess, And turn to the right,――why, then, for a wager, You come to the Church of St. Wackslite the Major; And list, as o’er noises that constantly swell, Comes the soul-stirring sound of its evensong bell.

From Jon Duan. London: Weldon and Co., 1874.

――――

THE COLORADO BEETLE.

A “Native of the Great American Desert” writes from Rosario on Colorado and its bug:――“We knew that potato bug before he was introduced into polite society and world-wide fame; he was then called the ‘camote spoiler,’ a name derived from a sweet tuber that grows wild all over Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona. Generations would have died ignorant of the very name of our newest State had it not been for the potato bug; newspapers wrote, orators eulogized, and poets sang about the advantages of Colorado, but all combined they could not command the attention of anybody east of the Mississippi river until that bug went booming across the Atlantic States and Ocean, and actually entered the House of Lords and the Privy Councils of various European monarchs. Since that day Colorado has become universally known, and one of its mountain poets something in ideas like Goethe, but in style after Byron, has chanted――

Is it where the cabbage grows so fast That it bursts with a noise like a thunder’s blast, Is it where thro’ the rich deep mellow soil The beet strikes down as if digging for oil, Is it where each irrigating sluice Is fed with water-melon juice, Where tatoes and onions are hard to beat And the cattle get fat on nothing to eat, Where everything grows to such a wondrous size That the simplest stories appear like lies, Tell me in sooth I’d like to know―― Is this the land they call Colorado? “You bet! old hoss, it is!”

――――

PARODY. BY AN OLD SOLDIER.

Know ye the land of reeds and of rushes, Emblems of dampness innate in the clime, Where the toad and the viper to show itself blushes, And the damp air comes heavy impregnate with crime; Where landlords in daylight like woodcocks they shoot And the voice of the mendicant never is mute. ’Tis a land of the West, fair, glorious, and free, First flower of the land, first gem of the sea; I would we poor soldiers some method could learn, To the depths of its bosom, this gem to return.

――――:o:――――

OVERWORKED.

They stood upon his nose’s bridge of size―― His spectacles; a book in either hand. I saw a queer expression in his eyes, As if a sunstroke in some tropic land Had made his too colossal brain expand More than it ought; and on his face odd smiles Would come sometimes, and then he’d laughing stand, Clutching his gown, and talking loud meanwhiles. He wore a college cap, the mouldiest of tiles.

Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon, 1874.

――――:o:――――

CABUL――SEPTEMBER, 1879.

The following poem obtained the first prize in a parody competition in The World. Subject: “Cabul in September, 1879,” treated in the style of Lord Byron’s Siege of Corinth.

’Tis done――the murd’rous work complete, The turbaned hordes acclaim the feat: Had fallen to a craven shot The chiefest victim of a plot: Brave leader! all too brave to date A warning from Macnaughten’s fate. His gallant comrades round him strown, An English youth stands――stands alone.[113] His gallant comrades round him lie Dead; it remains for one to die. Forth on the foe the soldier leapt; And, as his blade a circle swept, Five traitors felt the avenging brand, Ere dropped it from the lifeless hand―― A glorious tale indeed to tell―― ’Neath thousand blows one hero fell.

’Tis done――the slaughtered guests are spread Under a hecatomb of dead. No need of marble pile to show Where sleep the illustrious slain below; No need of graver’s art to trace In lettered brass their resting place, Their own right arms, in death still feared, Eternal monument have reared: Where, ere they fell, these warriors stood, They wrote their epitaph in blood.

These devotees of Islam’s creed Shrink not to violate at need The laws they worship; the behest Of reverence due to hallowed guest. Ah, but it were a goodly boast―― A stranger murdered by his host! Yet think not, dastards, England slow To recompense so foul a blow, If payment meet could deal the sword To miscreants honoured by the cord. Where to the skies their summits push The giant Alps of Hindu Kush; Where Cabul’s river hastes to hide His shame beneath a mightier tide; Where, with a scorn of time, proclaim The records of a bygone fame The ravished fanes, whose ruins trace The march of Timour’s conquering race And, mid her oft-beleagured towers, Dark Ghuzni’s fortress sternly lowers; Where many mouthèd Helmund makes His briny home in Seistan’s lakes―― Not long delayed, the cannon’s boom Shall sound the knell of Cabul’s doom.

MERTON. The World, October 1, 1879.

――――:o:――――

THE CIVIC MAZEPPA.

“The disappearance of GIBBS from the civic procession created some little astonishment, and many were the inquiries as to what had become of him. The following Poem gives a bold, but very probable, notion of how the Alderman was really occupied on the day of the opening of the Royal Exchange. It is supposed that some of his fellow parishioners, meeting with him in a back street, caught hold of him, and tied him on to a horse, which got dreadfully into a-rear, and was then suffered to run on without the smallest check――thus typifying the state of the accounts of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook. The Poem begins at the period when the Alderman is about to undergo his equestrian martyrdom.”

“Bring forth the horse!” the horse was brought; In truth he was a noble steed―― A creature of the hackney sort, Dash’d slightly with the dray-horse breed, His sire had drawn a fly, Into which six would often cram; His mother was of lineage high, Himself was worth――well worth his dam. He plunged, he kick’d, he reared, he snorted, With ears erect and eye distorted; He switched his tail, he show’d his hoof―― E’en WIDDICOMB had kept aloof At sight of such a noble steed, He was a precious beast indeed. They seized me fiercely by the daddle; They thrust me down into the saddle; They tied me strongly by the bridle: The horrid brute began to shy, To kick, to amble, and to sidle, And then away they let him fly; Away, away! my breath is gone; Still gallop, gallop, gallop on, Down, down the street, and up the Strand, Over the woman’s apple-stand. We pass the cabs, and here we are, Plunged at one bound through Temple Bar. The courser’s fleetness seems to mock The slowness of St. Dunstan’s Clock. Away, away, we madly whisk Along! past Waithman’s Obelisk! On, on we go, we gallop still Up Ludgate’s gently rising hill. A moment now our way seems barr’d, Oh! shall we stop at last? ’Tis the barrier at St. Paul’s Church Yard―― No, no, he gallops past. I pull’d the bridle, but in vain, The horse refused my will to heed; Each motion of the useless rein But madden’d him to wilder speed. I tried my voice; but nonsense, pooh! Onwards the brute contemptuous flew: At times I thought he must have stopp’d, When ’gainst an omnibus he whopp’d; But vain my hopes! the sudden blow Served but to make him faster go. Away, away, we turn and wind, Leaving the city far behind. He tears away, hock touching hock, Swift up the hill of Haverstock: Until, with just exhausted breath, At last he reaches Hampstead Heath. The brute has only strength to bound Into the well remembered Pound; Where in the morning we were found By a policeman going his round.

Punch 1844.

The above poem was accompanied by a spirited, and very comical illustration, showing the worthy Alderman strapped on the bare-backed steed, which is urging on his wild career, followed by astonished beadles and policemen.)

――――

DON JUAN.

Bob Southey! You’re a poet――Poet-laureate, And representative of all the race; Although ’tis true that you turn’d out a Tory at Last,――yours has lately been a common case; And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at? With all the Lakers, in and out of place? A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye Like “four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye.”

* * * * * BYRON.

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