Prologue
It is an ancient mariner, And he stoppeth one of three―― He held him with his glittering eye, The wedding guests stood still.
――――
The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop,―― I’d reported myself to the skipper bold, Of the tight little Humming Top.
Higher and higher every day, In the main top-mast at noon―― (The wedding guest here beat his breast), Sat the skipper’s pet baboon.
“Heaven help thee ancient mariner! How got you into the scrape?” “How did it occur? With my pea-shooter, I slaughtered the skipper’s ape.”
Shiver my spars, what looks had I From the skipper of whom I’ve sung; Oh, wasn’t he cross about his loss―― And had’nt he got a tongue!
Alone, alone: all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea, For they set me afloat in a little boat, With no one for company.
The ghost of the ape appeared in the stern, And uttered a ghostly chitter, It fixed on me its stony eyes That in the moon did glitter.
Oh, save me, save me, holy man, And the hermit opened his “brolly,” Which frightened the ape, and I did escape With the loss of a leg for my folly.
The mariner whose eye is bright, Whose pig-tail with age is hoar, Stole off, and now the wedding guest Gave a most portentious snore.
W. J. WIEGAND.
Tom Hood’s Comic Annual, 1870.
――――
THE RIME OF THE MODERN SHIPOWNER.
It is a drownèd mariner, And he stoppeth an M.P. “By thy dank grey beard like wet seal fur, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”
“The great Club’s doors are opened wide, And I would fare within:―― The members met, the House is set To spend the nation’s tin.”
* * * * *
Confound the modern shipowners―― The fiends that I came across! For a goodly bit she was underwrit―― And they wished the vessel’s loss.
* * * * *
The western wave was all a-blaze, The day was well-nigh done; Almost departed from our gaze, Faded the blood-red sun―― When a strange shape from out the haze Was seen by every one!
And lo! the sun was flecked with bars, Through which appeared he pale, As, through the dungeon-grate, the tars Who declined with us to sail.
Alas! cried I, and my teeth I ground, I see how their craft employed’s―― To send out a ship ill-found, unsound, Because she’s insured at Lloyd’s.
I saw her ribs, where redly through The sun shone like a fire. Is that shipowner all a do? And is that death, and can the two Against poor tars conspire?
His ships are sped――they’re booked at sea, He looks, that fellow, for gold. He’s on them a good insurance fee, And deuce a bit for the crew cares he And their dangers manifold.
The phantom bark made never a sound, And the twain were casting dice; “Let the crew be drowned――for the sum is round,” Said he, “and it’s worth the price.”
The night was calm, though no stars were out, The leak sprung in the dark―― ’Mid unheard horror, and hopeless shout, Down went the fated bark!
* * * * *
How many lives were that time lost I truly do not know;―― But the underwriters paid the cost,―― And the owner won that throw!
* * * * *
Farewell, farewell, but this I tell To thee, M.P. distressed, That you ought to hang one gambling swell To encourage all the rest!
He preyeth best, whose interest ’Tis to have his vessels founder; It doesn’t compass his ends to invest In making those vessels sounder!
* * * * *
The mariner, who had been drowned, Quitted that Senator;―― And our M.P. in thought profound He trod the House’s floor.
He backed-up Mr. Plimsoll’s plan To aid our tars forlorn:―― A better and a wiser man, He did the House adorn.
Fun. March, 1873.
――――
THE FIGHT OF THE FIFTH NOVEMBER. A Tale of the “Town and Gown.”
It is a Proctor’s awful form, ’Tis Undergraduates three; He marshalleth and doggeth them, He stops them suddenlie: He holds them with a ready hand, “Your names? your names?” quoth he, “Hold off! unhand us, saucy loon!” Eftsoons they turn to flee.
He holds them with his bull-dogs twain, The Undergrads stand still; Wild words are halting on their lips, The Proctor hath his will. “The Corn Market is all astir, We gownsmen won’t stop in; The town is met, the fight is set; Hear’st thou the merry din?”
The Proctor steps a pace aside, Red as a turkey he; Wagging their heads they back him up, His mongrel companie. Those Undergrads they turn to fly, But never flight is there; The Proctor tries to tear his locks, The few he hath to tear.
“Back to your College, gentlemen! ’Tis sad as sad can be, These heads to break, this row to make, In the nineteenth centurie!”
Alack! alack! the fight begins, Ah! whom may Proctor trust, With mighty whack his haughty back Is levelled with the dust; Though slightly blown, in solemn tone Those Undergrads he cussed.
With aching head, next morn from bed Those wretched wights uprist; At nine o’clock that evil flock To Proctor’s verdict list. “’Twas wrong,” said he, “to laugh at me, And wrong to strike with fist! Your pleasant homes, your parents all, To-morrow you must see; And never a don take pity on Your awful agonie!”
THE RUSTIC.
The Shotover Papers. November, 1874. J. Vincent, High Street, Oxford.
――――
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT PREMIER.
Fragment found in a copy of the New Government Unseaworthy Ships Bill, left in the House of Commons.
It is an Ancient Premier, And he stoppeth One of Three. By thy grey curls and sleepy eyes, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
“The Session hurries to its close, The innocents they slay; The House is met, and fast they get Through orders of the day.”
He holds him with his skinny hand, “There was a Bill,” quoth he; “If that is it suppose we sit,” Responded One of Three.
“The end we neared, the Bill we feared Merrily did we drop, To get away at an early day―― We had no minds to stop.
“A Bill was here, a Bill was there, Measures were all around! The House it growled, and roared and howled, But time for none we found, Except the Holdings Bill, and that To carry we were bound.
“At length to cross and bring us loss The Merchant Shipping came; As if it had had a Christian soul, Men hailed it in God’s name.
“It did what never Bill had done With villains to contend, Who for their gain our bravest men To sure destruction send.”
“Heav’n shield thee, Ancient Premier, From the fiends that wreak thee ill; Why look’st thou so?” With my soft “No,” I slew the Shipping Bill.
II.
“And I had done a hellish thing, To work the seamen woe; Thousands of living men through me To certain death would go,
“So one averred, so all who heard―― The thought my bosom rives―― ‘Ah! wretch,’ said they, ‘the Bill to slay That saves the sailors’ lives―― The Bill that spares a nation’s shame―― Orphans and widowed wives.’”
* * * * *
That night I dreamed when every voice Was still, and closed each eye―― The western wave was all aflame, And as I stood thereby, A coffin-ship drave suddenly Betwixt me and the sky. And strait the sun was flecked with bars, Where the timbers shrank apace; As if through a dungeon grate it peered, It looked through that disgrace.
And soon the rotten ship began To founder on the wave; “She will go down with every hand, And none have power to save!”
One after one I saw them go, Too quick for groan or sigh; Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye.
I looked beneath the eddying sea, And drew my eyes away―― I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay;
“The many men so beautiful! And they all dead did lie; And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on――and so did I.”
* * * * *
Funny Folks. August 14, 1875.
――――
YE RIME OF YE ANCIENT DOWAGER.
It is an ancient dowager, And she stoppeth one of three―― By thy kid-gloved hand, and gold rimmed glass, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
“The Albion’s doors are opened wide, Its board I would not miss, Taylor’s forewarn’d, my chop is on, Dost hear its merry hiss?”
She holds him with her kid-gloved hand: “There was a man,” quoth she―― “Oh, don’t detain me, dowager!” Eftsoons her hand dropt she.
She held him with her glittering eye, Seen through her pince-nez glass; He listens, like a three-years’ child, Although he feels an ass.
He leans upon her brougham door, He cannot choose but hear, And this she said, with bended head―― That ancient dowager!――
“The house was packed, it is a fact, No space there could I see, ’Twas full in boxes and in stalls, In pit and gallerie.
“The music done, two scenes did run, Then from the wings came he; His face was brown, his hair hung down―― ’Twas beautiful to see.
“His robes were red-dy, very red; The scenery was grand; But, when he spoke, it was no joke His words to understand.
“Scene after scene, speech after speech, He spoke; and I’ve a notion He wished to show the House that he’d Found out Perpetual Motion.
“Motion, motion, all the time, Till I began to blink―― Motion, motion, all the time, And much too much, I think.
“His very eyebrows moved; O fie! But, ’tis no empty gag,―― Nay, ’tis a fact, in the last act, I thought his ears would wag
“Above, below, and to and fro, Down, up, and round about, His body and his limbs did go As he did mouth and spout.
“Higher and higher rose his voice, Till it was like to stun――” The one of three, loud groanèd he―― He knew his chop was done.
The one of three, loud groanèd he, Yet could not choose but hear, For he had dined, and eke had wined, With the ancient dowager.
“It seemed at last (three acts were past) As though his tongue was dry; I never heard a single word, Though his voice was pitched so high.
“But higher yet his voice did get, His movements quicker still―― Now Heaven send, said I to a friend, He be not taken ill!
“O sleep, it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole, His monotone no longer mocks, For slumber flies down to my box, And slides into my soul.
“I dream’t that, wearied with his task, The actor, feeling bad, Had ceased to act, it was a fact, For, when I woke he had!
“The curtain dropt, but few had stopt, And I was one of these; A girl did come, who lookèd glum, And said, ‘it’s over please.’
“‘Thanks girl,’ said I, and checked a sigh, The news thou bring’st is sweet; ‘’Tis o’er you said’? She wagged her head, And showed me to the street.
“Farewell, farewell, but this I tell To thee, thou one of three, He doeth well who reads ‘Othell- O’[83] in his librarie.”
The dowager drew up the glass, The interview was o’er, And hungrilie, the one of three, Doth slam the brougham-door
He went like one that had been done, For his chop was cold, he knew; And, a sadder and a wiser man, He ordered Irish stew.
The Figaro. February 23, 1876.
――――
THE ANCIENT MARINER.
The Wedding Guest’s Version of the Affair from his Point of View.
It is an Ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three―― In fact he coolly took my arm―― “There was a ship,” quoth he.
“Bother your ships!” said I. “Is this The time a yarn to spin? This is a wedding, don’t you see, And I am next of kin.
“The wedding-breakfast has begun, We’re hungry as can be―― Hold off! Unhand me, longshore man!” With that his hand dropt he.
But there was something in his eye That made me sick and ill, Yet forced to listen to his yarn―― The Mariner’d had his swill.
While Tom and Harry went their way I sat upon a stone―― So queer on Fanny’s wedding-day Me sitting there alone!
Then he began, that Mariner, To rove from pole to pole, In one long-winded, lengthened-out, Eternal rigmarole,
About a ship in which he’d sailed, Though whither, goodness knows, Where “ice will split with a thunder-fit,” And every day it snows.
And then about a precious bird Of some sort or another, That――was such nonsence ever heard?―― Used to control the weather!
Now, at this bird the Mariner Resolved to have a shy, And laid it low with his cross-bow―― And then the larks! My eye!
For loss of that uncommon fowl They couldn’t get a breeze; And there they stuck, all out of luck, And rotted on the seas.
The crew all died, or seemed to die, And he was left alone With that queer bird. You never heard What games were carried on!
At last one day he stood and watched The fishes in the sea, And said, “I’m blest!” and so the ship Was from the spell set free!
And it began to rain and blow, And as it rained and blew, The dead got up and worked the ship―― That was a likely crew!
However, somehow he escaped, And got again to land; But mad as any hatter, say, From Cornhill to the Strand.
For he believes that certain folks Are singled out by fate, To whom this cock-and-bull affair Of his he must relate.
Describing all the incidents, And painting all the scenes, As sailors will do in the tales They tell to the Marines.
Confound the Ancient Mariner! I knew I should be late; And so it was: the wedding guests Had all declined to wait.
Another had my place, and gave My toast; and sister Fan Said, “’Twas a shame. What could you want With that seafaring man?”
I felt like one that had been stunned Through all this wrong and scorn; A sadder and a later man I rose the morrow morn.
Funny Folks. 1878.
――――
THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT BLUE.
It is an ancient Blue-coat boy, And he stoppeth one of three. “By thine old Blue-coat and tawdry hose, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
“The Hall, its doors are opened wide, And I am going up, Step up the stairs, and walk inside, And see the Public sup!”
He holds him with his horny hand, “There was a time,” quoth he; “Leave go, unhand me, Shabby Blue,” Eftsoons his hand dropped he.
He holds him with his glittering eye, The Supper Guest stood still, He listened like a three-years child, The Blue-coat hath his will.
The Supper Guest sat on a stone, He cannot choose but hear, And thus, forsooth, that seedy youth Spake, whispering in his ear:――
“The Hall was packed, it is a fact, Merrily did we eat, The Mayor was there, and ladies fair, The Blue-coat Boys were neat.
“The music played, it was arranged, And shining was my head, And I was bound for taking round The basket with the bread.
“The band had stopt their noisy din, Painful it was to hear, And rising up, we left our seats Ere bowing to the Chair.
“My robes were blue, ay, very blue, My legs like golden sands, To make a bob it was a job So starchèd were my bands.
“Pair after pair, pair after pair We bowed, all tramp, all motion, Just like a string of tiny scrubs Receiving chilblain lotion.
“Bowing, bowing, all the time Till I began to blink; Bowing, bowing all the time, And more to bow――I shrink.
“About, about each pair stepped out, And still they bowed that night The crowd went on, and on, and on, All yellow, blue, and white.
“Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide space, And never a thing to think upon, Save nodding to that face.
“I looked it o’er, I tried to bow, But or ever my head had bent The basket filled with bread tipped up Right off my head it went.
“The bread it hit the Chairman’s head, And left a mark, they say, The look with which he looked at me Has never passed away.”
The Blue-coat Boy, whose eye was bright, Whose coat was torn and poor, Is gone, and now the Supper Guest Turns from that ancient door.
He went like one who has been stunned, And is of sense unsound, They haunt his dreams, those crowds of Blues All bowing, bowing round.
Gleanings from “The Blue.” 1881.
The Blue was a small journal published by, and for, the Blue-coat School Boys, at Christ’s Hospital, London.
――――
THE RIME OF THE POTENT MINISTER.
It is a potent Minister, And he stoppeth an M.P. “By the ancient rules of Parliament, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
The Speaker rises in his chair; Eftsoons debate will close. Ere it be late, I fain would state Why I this Bill oppose.”
“Let Speaker rise; let bell ring out; Division lobbies fill. Vote mayst thou quick; thou shalt not speak.” The Minister hath his will,
The Member mutely gave his vote; Still as a stone was he; And thus spake on that potent man, Head of the Ministry:
“My followers press, the Tories talk; And thus our course is slow. But with my Clôture, I have made sure It shall no more be so.
“So then attend, my Tory friend, Or Irish if thou be, Or Independent Liberal, Or Radical M.P.
“He speaketh well who loveth well My measures great and small; But he who favoureth them not, He should not speak at all.
“He speaketh best who speaketh least, Whate’er his views may be. A silent vote be yours, my friend; The speaking leave to me.”
That Member paired him with a friend, Of different views be sure; And as no more his voice was heard, So never more himself appeared In the dumb-show of Clôture.
Punch. March 18, 1882.
――――
OUR REGIMENTAL MESS.
The baccy blew; the cocktails flew, The whisky followed free. I was the first whose buttons burst From too much S and B.
Down dropt the cap’n; the colonel dropt down, ’Twas as droll as droll could be; And they did fall only to bawl An oath with a big big D.
All in a hot and smoky room A noisy “sub” at nine, Right on the dinner board did stand, And upset half the wine.
Man after man, man after man, We fell, not one was able; As idle as a painted corpse Beneath a painted table.
Sherry, sherry everywhere And all my throat did shrink; Sherry, sherry everywhere But not a soul could drink!
My very hair did steam. The deuce! That ever this should be; Yea, drunken subs did crawl on knees, Fit subjects for D. T.
About, about, in reel and rout, The mess room danced at sight; The bottles, like a witch’s oils, Burnt green, and red, and white.
And both my eyes from too much “fizz,” Were red as in some trouble; And everything I looked at seemed To me reflected double.
Then past a hazy time――each one Left at the hour of four; When nearing homewards I beheld A something at my door.
At first it seemed a battered post, And then it seemed a blot; It turned and turned and took at last A certain shape I wot.
With looks aghast, with eyes set fast I could not speak for life; Through utter fright quite mad I looked; I bit my lips, my fate was booked―― I saw my wife! MY WIFE!!
From Squibs, by Edwin Oliver.
――――
YE ANCIENT MARINER. By a Modern Sharp.
It was an ancient mariner, Who rang the front-door bell; With gold-laced cap and rolling gait, His part he acted well.
It was the lady of the house Who opened wide the door; “My lady, I am steward of The gallant Singapore.
“She’s lying at East Boston now, Where all the gallant Cu- Narders land their passengers; I’m steward of her crew.
“And I have here a case of knives―― Real plate and nary sham; They’ve come ashore without the form Of seeing Uncle Sam.[84]
“They cost me just five dollars, mum; They’re marked real triple plate; I bought ’em for a party which Have skipped from out the State.”
Then up the subtle lady spoke; “I know the Singapore; And on her voyage to Liverpool She’s six days out or more.
“An’ if ye be the steward bold, She’s given you the slip; I pray thee, gentle steward, go And join another ship.
“These triple-plated knives have ne’er Paid Uncle Sam the dues; They make ’em in Connecticut―― They’re just the sort I use.
“So, gentle mariner, sheer off!” He beat a quick retreat, But sold his “smuggled” knives and spoons A few doors down the street.
Detroit Free Press. January 31, 1885.
――――
THE ADMIRALTY GOOSE; OR, THE MODERN MARINER.
It is a Modern Mariner, Who hath never been to sea. “Come Northbrook, with that winking eye, What wouldst thou have of me?
The Commons’ doors are opened wide, They’re waiting to begin; The Opposition fume and fret: Mayst hear the nasty din.”
He holds him with official grip. “We’ve built a ship,” quoth he. “Hold off! Unhand me, naval loon! A ship! It cannot be.”
He holds him with his winking eye―― The Premier he stood still, And listens like some new M.P. In charge of his first Bill.
The Premier sat him on a chair; He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that curious man, The Whitehall Mariner:
“The ship, once built, was found to float Without a single prop! And then she tried her measured mile Midst many a cheery stop.
“Her armament, ten ‘sixty-fours,’ Marked ‘Eighteen-fifty-three,’ Of not the very slightest use: Still, thus we went to sea!
“It wasn’t quite the sort of thing We felt we should provide――――” The Premier here looked t’ward the House: There seemed some row inside.
The Speaker sits within his chair; Red as a rose is he, With effort to restrain in bounds The Merry Irishry.
The Premier, when he noteth this, Prefers the tale to hear; So thus spake on that curious man, The Whitehall Mariner.
“And now the Press-blast came, and it Was critical and strong; It noted all the various things That somehow would go wrong.
“The shaft would halt, and bend, and break; The guns seemed all accurst; For, loaded slowly, one by one, They, one by one, did burst.
“And then there came of gibes and sneers An overwhelming swarm: And such a row got up, we found The situation warm!
“For Reed wrote letters columns long, And panic filled the air; We didn’t know which way to turn The row was everywhere!
The row was there, the row was here, The row was all around. Eftsoons up went the Income-tax To ninepence in the pound!
“At length an Admiralty Goose,―― The brute you’ll know at sight,―― Wheeled on the scene, and vowed that soon ’Twould set all matters right.
“’Tis ever thus that brute doth boast, And will,――till some commotion Make plain we’ve but a paper fleet Wherewith to rule the Ocean.
“It eateth up the Estimates, By threats ’tis ne’er deterred; It blundereth and plundereth,―― A most ill-omened bird!
“And as it swalloweth each sum Without remorse or shame, And question shuns,――that shaft and guns Keep up the same old game.
“Not one, but scores on scores, while I, Poor minion of the Board, From its foul wake, my flight to take, At present can’t afford.
“And so the Admiralty Goose Soars on; and men may hollo, And call me any names they like,―― Alas! I’m bound to follow!
“But from red-tape and jobbery, I feel at times nigh stirred Away to break!――Perdition take That most ill-omened bird!”
* * * * *
“Good gracious, Whitehall Mariner, Why not from bonds break loose? Strike branch and root, by Jove! and shoot That Admiralty Goose!”
Punch. May 23, 1885.
――――
THE RIME OF THE ANTIENT MISSIONERE.
It was an antient missionere, And he stoppeth one of three, The other two had trains to catch; So the missionere caught me.
“Now, the saints thee save, thou missionere, Gramercy; Zooks. Gadso! Thy haviour sure is somewhat queer. What would’st thou with me moe?”
He fixed me with his glittering eye―― Of course, I knew he would―― And with his tale began to try To freeze my youthful blood.
He said, “When I meet such as thou, To such my tale I teach; And watch the symptoms of a row While on myself I peach.
“I have a gruesome tale to tell―― Saint Anne my guardian be! I’ve had a bare escape from――well, I’ve reached mine own countree.”
I took him to a neighbouring inn, And gave him cups of wine, He drank them loth, as ’twere a sin―― And took sly swigs at mine.
“Now, pitch thy tale, thou missionere, Or no more wine thou’lt see.” He answered, with a boozy leer, “Old crusted might it be!
“I’ve come from far-off seas and lands, That own a pagan rule; And I have blood upon these hands―― ’Tis of an infant school.
“And this was how it came to be; I went out to convert Folks in the South Pacific Sea; And to compel a spurt
“On my part――getting every black From heathendom to cease―― Those who had sent me out――good lack! They paid me by the piece.
“If I could get none to encase His lower limbs in breeches, Or use Pears’ soap on hands and face, My boss sent me no riches.
“But ev’ry little pagan boy, Who clothed and washed himself, If certified by me with joy, Produced me certain pelf.
“So, ’twas not strange, thou wedding guest”―― His playful name for me―― “That my parishioners were pressed Half civilised to be.
“I thought to make a handsome sum With ev’ry new recruit; But black men all go wrong on rum; And women follow soot.
“My only hope was in the young; Their tender minds and backs, I influenced with rod and tongue―― With homilies and whacks.
“I had a school. Just half a score Th’ establishment contained; And ev’ry little blackamoor Was preached to――also caned.
“I preached and caned, and caned and preached, Those children to despair. I thrashed them, though they all were breeched, For t’others who went bare,
“They all committed suicide, While drinking sherry wine One swallowed glass and all, and died. For him needs must I pine,
“One drowned himself while out to skate―― I pray you help my case―― I will recount each infant’s fate――” “Now, out upon thy face.
“‘Ten little niggers!’ ’Tis too late That well-worn tale to try,” I cried, and on his hoary pate Full lustily fell I.
I smote that antient missionere―― I smote him swift and sore, I smote his glittering nose and ear Full twenty times and more.
I slew that antient missionere, And forth his body cast; And happy school girls, void of fear, Jumped o’er him as they passed.
’Twas in the busiest street of Leeds―― I’ve suffered for my act―― But he still lies there ’mongst the weeds, Because the attention of the Sanitary Committee has not yet been called to the fact.
JAMES BAILEY.
The Yorkshire Weekly Post. December 24, 1886.
――――
In 1884 there was a parody competition in the columns of Truth on portions of The Ancient Mariner, the topic selected by the Puzzle Editor being the filthy state of the River Thames. Nine of these parodies were printed in Truth, September 11 and 18, 1884; being somewhat monotonous, it will be sufficient to quote one only:――
THE RIVER THAMES.
It is an aged lighterman, And he quick accosteth me. “By thy thirsty mouth and bleary eye, Why makest thou so free?
“The street front door stands open wide, And I have bought the gin; My guests all wait my coming, mate, So I must hasten in.”
He takes me by the button-hole, “There was a stream,” quoth he. “Be off, you maudlin fool!” I cried. “Just list a while,” said he.
“This stream so near was always clear, And hardly ’een a drop Of ‘Father Thames’ was foul afore Them barges plied atop.
“Night after night, day after day, They drift with noiseless motion, As deadly as a tainted ship Upon a tainted ocean.
“Water, water everywhere; But offal foul can stink The sweetest water anywhere, And poison it for drink.
“For though there come both cats and dogs, And corpses young and old, The filth breast-high that’s floating by Is from some barge’s hold.”
“God bless me! honest waterman, You’ve told me quite enough. Why look’st thou so?” “From my barge know I shot the putrid stuff!”
The aged man, who seemed half tight, And proved a shocking bore, Is gone; and I, the City clerk, Turn towards my lodging’s door.
And on the way I make this vow, With good “Old Tom” or “Lorne” I’ll never more Thames water mix, As sure as I was born.
CRYSTAL PALACE.
__Truth._ September 11, 1884.
Another, and a very long parody dealing with the same topic, and in a very similar manner, appeared in Truth, July 30, 1885.
YE ANCIENT FATHER THAMES.
It is the ancient Father Thames, And he stoppeth one of two. “By thy weedy beard, and fevered eye, What’s this thou dar’st to do?”
* * * * *
――――
THE LAY OF THE MODERN MILLINERE.
It is a mild Man-Millinere, And he stoppeth one of three; “By thy tumbled tie and tearful eye, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
“St. Stephen’s doors are opened wide, I’m a newly-fledged M.P., The House is met, so kindly let Me take my seat,” saith he.
He holds him with his trembling hand. “There was a bird――” quoth he. “I say, hold hard! Just drop my guard!” He droppeth it instantlee.
He holds him with his watery eye, The new M.P. stands still, And listens like a man much bored; The Millinere hath his will.
* * * * *
“Trade brisk appeared, good profits we cleared, Merrily went the shop, For feather trimmings were all the go With dames who dressed tip-top.
“Bonnets and hats with tiny plumes, From songsters pluckt were dight――――” The new M.P. slipped out a D., Big Ben boomed through the night.
And W. G. was on his legs, One might catch the loud “Hear, hear!” But still prosed on that woeful man, That moist-eyed Millinere.
“Anon the claims of the Fashion-fiend Grew tyrannously strong; We did not dare so much as spare The prettiest pets of song.”
“Good gracious, man, what ails you now? Why this hysteric sobbin’? Compose yourself!” “For sake of pelf I WENT AND SLEW A ROBIN!!!
“Since then I’ve had an awful time, Such horrid dreams o’ night! There is a WOMAN doth haunt me much, And fill me with affright.
“Her lips are red, her looks are free, Her locks are yellow as gold, The Nightmare Feminine Cruelty, she, Who makes men’s blood run cold.
“Dyspepsia sure, thou Millinere――” “Hush! hush! O rash M. P., _I vowed that another singing fowle Should never be slain by me_!
“And then I heard two Voices speak, As I lay like one that’s dead; Two Voices sweet, yet sternly sad, And this is what they said:――
FIRST VOICE.
“This is the man, the barbarous man, Who slew my favourite bird, And all to pander to Fashion’s freaks, As cruel as eke absurd.”
SECOND VOICE.
“True! But the man hath penance done, And taken a holy vow. Moreover, _the Women who wear such spoil Are more to blame, I trow_.
* * * * *
“I woke. My ghostly tale is told; But the heart within me yearns For something done to stay the shame Whereat gentle blood yet burns.
“Oh, young M.P.! canst move the House With the Fashion fiend to fight, That this crime no longer our women may stain In all humanity’s sight?
“He prayeth best――――” “Ah! I know the rest,” Quoth that button-holed M.P. “Damp Millinere, you are right, I fear. Good bye! ’Twere a ticklish task and queer.
But, at any rate we’ll see!” That Millinere, whose eye is damp, Whose tie is tumbled sore, Is gone, and the newly-fledged M.P. Enters St. Stephen’s door.
Punch. January 30, 1885.
This cruel and senseless fashion has, at last, been declared “bad form.” No longer are birds to be worn in bonnets or hats; and the edict has gone forth, both in London and Paris, that those who wear them after this ukase are to be regarded as provincials who know no better. This resolution has been taken only just in time to save some small remnant of the race of Humming Bird, that “living flower,” and the Bird of Paradise.
―――
Tom Hood’s “Comic Annual” for 1868 contained “The Spiritual Parnassus” by a Literary Medium. This consists of parodies on Lord Byron, Thomas Moore, and S. T. Coleridge, written by the late Mr. William Jeffery Prowse. The parody, or rather imitation of Coleridge’s style is admitted to be the best of its kind ever written, especially for its humorous description of the failings of the “Old man eloquent.”
“Did you ever hear me preach, Charles?” asked Coleridge of Lamb one day.
“I n-n-n-never heard you do anything else,” stammered Lamb in reply.
“Coleridge was a marvellous talker,” said Samuel Rogers. “Wordsworth and I walked to Highgate to call on him, when he was living at Gillman’s. We sat with him two hours, he talking the whole time without intermission. When we left the house, we walked for some time without speaking. ‘What a wonderful man he is!’ exclaimed Wordsworth. ‘Wonderful indeed,’ said I. ‘What a depth of thought, what richness of expression,’ continued Wordsworth. ‘There’s nothing like him that I ever heard!’ rejoined I. Another pause. ‘Pray,’ inquired Wordsworth, ‘did you precisely understand what he said about the Kantian philosophy?’ R. ‘Not precisely.’ W. ‘Or about the plurality of worlds?’ R. ‘I can’t say I did. In fact, if the truth must out, I did not understand a syllable from one end of his monologue to the other.’ W. ‘No more did I.’”――Table Talk of Samuel Rogers.
THE ANCIENT PHILOSOPHER. By a Literary Medium.
It is an old philosopher, He stoppeth one of three:―― “By thy gleaming face and snowy hair, Now, wherefore stop’st thou me?” He held aloft a mystic scroll With the letters “S. T. C.!”
“Subjectively, the Logos,” said, The aged man, says he, Explains the supra-sensual base Of all philosophee! “No doubt you’re right.” his friend replied, “But what is that to me?”
“I shot the Albatross!” pursued The chatty veteran. “The deuce you did!” exclaimed his friend; “It was a daring plan! Who was this Albert Ross? and who Are you, you rum old man?”
“Your curiosity, young friend, It would be harsh to baulk, So you had better sit you down, Unless you’d rather walk, And I will read you passages From my own Table Talk!”
He read to him for several hours, Concerning Church and Schism; Explained the spiritual sense Of the shorter Catechism; Revealed the esoteric truths Of Neo-Platonism;
Of Jacob Böhme largely spoke, And German mysticism, With hints on Madame Guyon’s life, And Gallic Quietism; And notions about Swedenborg, And Swedenborgianism; He showed that Truth, the Light, must pass Through Error as its prism.
“Old man, you must be dry,” exclaimed The adolescent here; “And there’s a look about your eyes That makes me think you’re queer; Suppose we send a little boy To fetch a pint of beer?”
“I drink not beer,” the sage replied, “Gin, brandy, wine, nor rum: The only liquor that I touch, It is the laudanum; So send the little boy unto The chemist’s shop for some!”
He drew a phial from his pouch, And drained it at a draught. “Hold, madman, hold!” the youth exclaimed, “I thought you only chaffed!” The aged man, regarding him, Satirically laughed.
Big drops of perspiration gleamed About his fine old nose; “The laudanum stirs my brain,” he said, “My conversation flows; I drink an awful quantity, As Mr. Gillman knows!
“All thoughts, all passions, all delights”―― To wander he began; He talked of Abyssinian maids, And then of Kubla Khan; The youth observed, “He is a most Remarkable old man!
“I only wish that he would talk To some one else,” said he “I cannot stand him any more, I will arise and flee!” He was the first that ever burst From the never silent C.!
Mr. William Jeffery Prowse was born at Torquay on May 6, 1836, and died of consumption at Nice, on Easter Sunday, 1870. He was a journalist by profession, being more particularly connected with The Daily Telegraph as a leader writer, and with Fun. He had a great fund of humour, and a singular faculty of imitation, witness his “Prize Essays,” and a series of papers he contributed to The Porcupine, in which he adopted the modes of thought and expression of eminent writers of the day, without descending to mere parody of subject or language. In this he rivalled the success achieved by the brothers Smith in Rejected Addresses. The “Nicholas Notes” in Fun were also from his pen. They cleverly burlesque the prophets of the sporting papers, whose ambiguous utterances can be always afterwards explained to be in perfect accordance with what has come to pass. Nicholas is addicted to the bottle, is always impecunious, and is always just about to bring out a history of Knurr and Spell.
The Rime of the Ancient Waggonere, in four parts. This parody first appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, February, 1819, it was republished in vol. 2 of J. S. Moore’s Pictorial Book of Ballad Poetry (London, 1849), and again in William Maginn’s Miscellanies (London, 1885.)
The Cockney Mariner, in seven parts, by Gilbert Abbott à Beckett. This appeared in The Almanack of the Month. Vol. 1, 1846.
It is a Cockney Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three; “By thy dreadnought coat, button’d up to the throat, Now what do you want with me?”
* * * * *
The Rime of the New-made Baccalere, in seven parts. Oxford: J. Vincent. This clever parody (31 pages 8vo.) was first published, anonymously, in 1841, it has since been reprinted, and may be obtained from Mr. Vincent, High Street, Oxford. Like the original poem, which it follows very closely, it consists of seven parts, and commences thus:
It was a new-made Baccalere, One freshman stops of three, “By thy long sleev’d gown, and hood of down, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
“The bursary doors are open’d wide, And I must next go in: The men are met, the papers set, May’st hear the freshman-din.”
He holds him with his inky hand, “There was GREAT GO,” quoth he, “Hold off! unhand me, Baccalere! Eftsoons his hand dropp’d he.
* * * * *
In the third volume of The Works of Thomas Love Peacock (London. Richard Bentley and Son, 1875), will be found a series of poems entitled “Paper Money Lyrics,” these consist of imitations of favourite poets, amongst them is a long parody on Coleridge, called The Wise Men of Gotham.
In a bowl to sea went wise men three, On a brilliant night of June: They carried a net, and their hearts were set On fishing up the moon.
* * * * *
The Christmas number of The World for 1885 contained a burlesque report of the libel suit, Adams v. Coleridge, in which the witnesses on both sides of the quarrel are indiscriminately ridiculed, but more especially Lord Coleridge, whose treatment of his daughter was the subject of much hostile comment. The report is in prose, but it contains a parody of The Ancient Mariner, commencing thus:
It was an Ancient Marriager, And he stoppeth one at three: “By thy smile veneered and ironic eye, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
The “Rime of the Ancient Statesman.” A Relic of the Past, not by S. T. Coleridge. Cambridge. Henry W. Wallis, Sidney Street, 1874. This is an anonymous political parody, consisting of seventy-nine verses, all strongly condemning the measures passed by the Liberal party under Mr. Gladstone’s leadership.
The “ancient statesman” (Mr. Gladstone), meets Mr. Disraeli (then Prime Minister), at the entrance to the House of Commons:
It is an ancient statesman, And he stoppeth one of three; “By thy whiskers grey and frowning face Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?” The Palace doors are opened wide, They’re waiting there within; And as I am Prime Minister In sooth I must go in.
* * * * *
THE BIRMINGHAM SPEECH.
It was a statesman old and grey Went forth to tell his deeds, And he dined with a country Mayor At one of his sumptuous feeds.
“Now, Heaven thee save, thou worthy Mayor, I pray thee tell to me, If thou art able to divine Return of pow’r to me?”
And how should I thy search assist, Thou very reverend man? Since thou would’st serve her Majesty, And I’m Republican!”[85]
From “They are Five” by W. E. G. London. David Bogue, 1880.
The Rime of the Ancient Rinking Man, is the title of the first parody contained in Idylls of the Rink, by A. W. Mackenzie. London. 1876.
It is an ancient beggar man, And he stoppeth one of three. By thy tattered clothes, and battered nose, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
* * * * *
The Meeting of the Justices, relating to the water supply in Calcutta, appears in Lyrics and Lays, by “Pips,” published in Calcutta, in 1867. It possesses little merit as a parody, and the topic was one of purely local interest:――
It was an ancient gentleman, And he talk’d for hours three, “By thy long lean form, and dismal drone We fain must list to thee.”
* * * * *
Three long parodies are also to be found in Truth, February 1, 1877; May 16, 1878; and November 2, 1882.
Unfortunately, all the parodies here enumerated are very long. To give them complete would fill a volume, and it must be confessed that few of them are sufficiently clever, or amusing, to repay perusal. Most of the best parodies have been here reprinted in full; disjointed extracts from the others would convey little idea of their literary merit, or general interest.
――――:o:――――
LOVE.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o’er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.
The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!
She lean’d against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own. My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene’er I sing The songs that make her grieve.
I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story―― An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.
She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another’s love, Interpreted my own.
She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face!
But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;
That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade,――
There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend. This miserable Knight!
And that unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;――
And how she wept, and clasped his knees; And how she tended him in vain―― And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;――
And that she nursed him in a cave; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay;――
His dying words――but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity!
All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued. Subdued and cherished long!
She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love, and virgin shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved――she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stept―― Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face.
’Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly ’twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart.
I calmed her fears, and she was calm. And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
The original poem, by Coleridge, is here printed in full, with a very clever parody, which will be better appreciated after comparison with the original. The little Volume of Miscellaneous Poems from which the parody is taken, is now very scarce, although only published as recently as 1880. The author has gone to Australia, taking with him all the unsold copies of his book.
THE POWER OF SCIENCE.
“All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame,” Are but the legacies of apes, With interest on the same,
How oft in studious hours do I Recall those moments, gone too soon, When midway in the hall I stood, Beside the Dichobune.
Through the Museum windows played The light on fossil, cast, and chart, And she was there, my Gwendoline, The mammal of my heart.
She leaned against the Glyptodon; The monster of the sculptured tooth; She looked a fossil specimen Herself, to tell the truth.
She leaned against the Glyptodon; She fixed her glasses on her nose; One Pallas-foot drawn back displayed The azure of her hose.
Few virtues had she of her own―― She borrowed them from time and space; Her age was eocene, although Post-tertiary her place.
The Irish Elk that near us stood, (Megaceros Hibernicus), Scarce dwarfed her; while I bowed beneath Her stately overplus.
I prized her pre-diluvian height, Her palaeozoic date of birth, For these to scientific eye Had scientific worth.
She had some crochets of her own, My sweet viviparous Gwendoline, She loved me best when I would sing Her ape descent and mine.
I raised a wild pansophic lay; (The public fled the dismal tones); I struck a chord that suited well That entourage of bones.
I sang the very dawn of life, Cleared at a bound the infinite chasm That sunders inorganic dust From sly-born protoplasm.
I smote the stiffest chords of song, I showed her in a glorious burst How universal unity Was dual from the first.
How primal germs contained in one The beau-ideal and the belle; And how the “mystery of life” Is just a perfect cell.
I showed how sense itself began In senseless gropings after sense:―― She seemed to find it so herself (Her gaze was so intense).
And how the very need of light Conceived, and visual organs bore; Until an optic want evolved The spectacles she wore.
How headless molluscs making head Against the fashions of their line, On pulpy maxims turned their backs, And specialized a spine.
How landward longings seized on fish, Fretted the type within their eggs, And in amphibian issue dif- Ferentiated legs.
I hopped the quaint marsupials, And into higher mammals ran, And through a subtle fugue I stole From Lemurs up to Man.
How tails were lost――but when I reached This saddest part of all my lay, She dropped the corners of her mouth, And turned her face away.
And proud to see my lofty love So sweetly wince, so coyly shrink, I woke a moving threnody―― I sang the missing link.
And when I spake of vanished kin Of Simian races dead and gone, The wave of sorrow from her eyes Half-drowned the Glyptodon.
I turned to other, brighter themes, And glancing at our different scales, I showed how lady beetles are Robuster than the males.
I sang the Hymenoptera; How insect-brides are sought and got; How stridulation of the male First hinted what was what.
And when――perchance too fervently―― I smote upon the chord of sex, I saw the tardy spark of love Blaze up behind her specs.
She listened with a heightened grace, She blushed a blush like ruby wine, Then bent her stately head, and clinked Her spectacles on mine.
A mighty impulse rattled through Her well articulated frame; And into one delighted ear She breathed my Christian name.
And whispered that my song had given Her secret thought substantial shape, For she had long considered me The offshoot of an ape.
She raised me from the enchanted floor, And, as my lips her shoulder met, Between two asthmas of embrace She called me marmosette.
I strove to calm her down; she grew Serener and serener; And so I won my Gwendoline, My vertebrate congener.
J. BRUNTON STEPHENS.
――――:o:――――
PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS.
“Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim Credebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquam Decurrens alio, neque si bene.” HOR.
My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad? I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey To carry to the mart her crockery-ware, And when that donkey look’d me in the face, His face was sad! and you are sad, my Public!
Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October Again assembles us in Drury Lane. Long wept my eye to see the timber planks That hid our ruins; many a day I cried, Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it! Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve, As along Charles Street I prepared to walk, Just at the corner, by the pastrycook’s, I heard a trowel tick against a brick. I look’d me up, and straight a parapet Uprose at least seven inches o’er the planks. Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said: [86]He of Blackfriars Road, who hymned thy downfall In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied That Flames, like those from prostrate Solyma, Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee, Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour, As leisure offer’d, close to Mr. Spring’s Box-office door, I’ve stood and eyed the builders. They had a plan to render less their labours; Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder With hodded heads, but these stretch’d forth a pole From the wall’s pinnacle, they placed a pulley Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley; To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks Thus freighted, swung securely to the top, And in the empty basket workmen twain Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.
Oh! ’twas a goodly sound, to hear the people Who watch’d the work express their various thoughts While some believed it never would be finish’d Some, on the contrary believed it would.
I’ve heard our front that faces Drury Lane Much criticised; they say ’tis vulgar brick-work, A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth. One of the morning papers wish’d that front Cemented like the front in Brydges Street; As it now looks, they call it Wyatt’s Mermaid, A handsome woman with a fish’s tail.
White is the steeple of St. Bride’s in Fleet Street: The Albion (as its name denotes) is white; Morgan and Saunders’ shop for chairs and tables Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun; White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride’s in Fleet Street, The Spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders, Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury’s face.
Oh, Mr. Whitbread! fie upon you, sir! I think you should have built a colonnade; When tender Beauty, looking for her coach, Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower And draws the tippet closer round her throat, Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off, And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud Soaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow, She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa Cries, “There you go! this comes of playhouses!” To build no portico is penny wise: Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish!
Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theatres! What is the Regency in Tottenham Street, The Royal Amphitheatre of Arts, Astley’s, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil, Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee push’d Back from the narrow street that christened thee, I know not why they call thee Drury Lane.
Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions, It grieves me much to see live animals Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit, Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig; Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist Of former Drury, imitated life Quite to the life. The Elephant in Blue Beard, Stuff’d by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis, As spruce as he who roar’d in Padmanaba.[87] Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands I reverence the coachman who cries “Gee,” And spares the lash. When I behold a spider Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm, Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton, Indeed, indeed, I’m very, very sick! [Exit hastily.
JAMES SMITH.
The Rejected Addresses. 1812.
This imitation of Coleridge cannot be considered one of the best of the Rejected Addresses. Lord Jeffrey remarked that, although it was unquestionably “Lakish,” he was unable to recognise in it any of the peculiar traits of the powerful genius whose name it bore. Smith probably had in his mind the following lines written by Coleridge in 1794:――
TO A YOUNG ASS. Its mother being tethered near it.
Poor little Foal of an oppressed Race! I love the languid Patience of thy face: And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head. But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismayed, That never thou dost sport along the glade? And (most unlike the nature of things young) That earthward still thy moveless head is hung? Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate, Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate? The starving meal, and all the thousand aches “Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes?” Innocent Foal! thou poor despised Forlorn! I hail thee Brother――spite of the fool’s scorn! And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell, Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride, And Laughter tickle Plenty’s ribless side! How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play, And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay! Yea! and more musically sweet to me Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be, Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest The aching of pale Fashion’s vacant breast!
――――:o:――――
KUBLA KHAN.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves, It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
* * * * * S. T. COLERIDGE.
――――
A FRAGMENT――COMPOSED IN A DREAM.
In Hungerford did some wise man[88] A stately bridge of wire decree, Where Thames, the muddy river, ran, Down to a muddier sea.
Above the people rose its piers, Their shadows on the waters fell; Year after year, for many years, All unapproachable!
And filmy wires through æther spread, From such proud piers’ unfinished head, Kept up a mild communication, Worthy of their exalted station; And many gazers far below, Wafted by the waveless tide, Which ’neath those slender wires did flow, Upturned their eyes and sighed―― “If that air bridge,” they whispered low, “Vos broad enough to let us pass, Ve’d not av so much round to go, As now ve av――alas!”
In vain their sighs, in vain their tears, May blow and flow for many years! No mortal man may cross the cord That crosses Thames at Hungerford. Its wondrous span to me doth seem The bridge described in Mirza’s dream, On which the good alone might tread, Whilst others fell and perished.
Alas, in modern Babylon, There’s not a soul that can pass over; No, not a single holy one, Endowed with virtue to discover The step by which to tread the ridge Of Hungerford’s aërial Bridge!
Punch. July 6, 1844.
――――:o:――――
CHRISTABEL.
This most exquisite fragment of a poem, Coleridge’s masterpiece, was commenced in 1797, the second part was written in 1800, leaving the mystery of the plot still unsolved.
For this Coleridge blamed his indolence, but possibly he gave up the task in despair, he must have felt how inferior the second part was in interest, in diablerie, and in poetical fancy to the first, and that no ending was preferable to a tame ending of a work which had aroused such intense admiration and curiosity. Others have attempted to complete the poem, in sober earnest, but their efforts have been unsuccessful, and not one sequel has achieved even a temporary popularity.
In the first edition of the poem Coleridge, after describing Geraldine added:
“A sight to dream of, not to tell:―― And she is to sleep with Christabel!”
He afterwards omitted these lines possibly because he heard it reported that Geraldine was to prove to be a man, and not as Christabel supposes, a forlorn maiden in distress. Be this as it may some of the parodies dwell particularly upon the equivocal situation of Christabel with her stranger guest. Principal amongst these parodies is one written by Dr. Maginn which appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine as far back as June 1819. In order to appreciate this, a few extracts from the narrative portion of Part I. of the original must be given. Want of space alone is the reason for mutilating the poem, enough is left to trace the story to where Dr. Maginn takes up the thread.