Part II

Part II

Recitative.

With majick sounds, like these, did Orpheus’ lyre, Motion, Sense, and Life inspire; When, as he play’d, the list’ning flood Still’d its loquacious waves, and silent stood; The Trees swift-bounding danc’d with loosen’d stumps, And sluggish stones caper’d in active jumps.

Air.

Each ruddy-breasted Robin The concert bore a Bob in, And ev’ry hooting Owl around; The croaking Frogs, The grunting Hogs, All, all conspir’d to raise th’ enliv’ning Sound.

Recitative.

Now to Cecilia, heav’nly maid, Your loud united voices raise: With solemn hymns to celebrate her Praise, Each instrument shall lend it’s aid. The Salt Box with clattering and clapping shall sound, The Iron lyre Buzzing twang with wav’ring wire, With heavy hum The Sober Hurdy-Gurdy thrum, And the Merry Merry Marrow-Bones ring round.

Last Grand Chorus.

Such matchless strains Cecilia knew, When audience from their heavenly sphere, By Harmony’s Strong Power, she drew, Whilst list’ning angels gladly stoop’d to hear.

BONNELL THORNTON, 1749.

――――:o:――――

MOCK HEROIC POEMS.

Numerous imitations exist of Pope’s Dunciad, and the poets of the last century, and the early years of this, exercised considerable ingenuity in ringing the changes on the title, as will be seen from the following list. It must not, however, be concluded that the works mentioned are all parodies, except in the cases where the opening lines are quoted. One of the most scholarly of these productions was “The Scribleriad,” written by Richard Owen Cambridge, and published in 1751. In his preface he mentions Boileau’s Lutrin, Garth’s Dispensary, and Pope’s Rape of the Lock and Dunciad, each of which, he considers, have a thousand beauties, but neither of which comes up to the true idea of a Mock-Heroic Poem. In fact he does not believe it was the primary idea of either of the authors to write a Mock-Heroic, whereas that was the task he set himself in composing The Scribleriad. He gives the following apposite remarks on Parody:――

“The Athenians were so fond of Parody, that they eagerly applauded it, without examining with what propriety or connection it was introduced. Aristophanes showed no sort of regard to either, in his ridicule of Euripides; but brings in the characters as well as verses of his tragedies, in many of his plays, though they have no connection with the plot of the play, nor any relation to the scene in which they are introduced. This love of Parody is accounted for by an excellent French critic, from a certain malignity in mankind, which prompts them to laugh at what they most esteem, thinking they, in some measure, repay themselves for that involuntary tribute which is exacted from them by merit.”

The Baviad, a paraphrastic imitation of the First satire of Persius, by William Gifford. London, 1794. This was written to ridicule a certain clique of self-admirationists known as the “Della-Cruscan school,” and was very effectual in its object. It was followed by The Maeviad, by the same author, which completed the work The Baviad had commenced, and the spurious poetry of the Della-Cruscan school was laughed out of existence. The footnotes to these satires are delicious reading, as Gifford has selected the most amusing examples of bathos, and inflated nonsense, from the poems of Anna Matilda, Merry, Parsons, Jerningham, Bell, Mrs. Robinson, and Della-Crusca, to illustrate his points.

The Beeriad, or Progress of Drink. An Heroic Poem, in Two Cantos, the first being an imitation of The Dunciad, the second a description of a Ram Feast, held annually in a particular small district of Hampshire. By a Gentleman in the Navy. Gosport. J. Philpot. 1736.

The first canto of this poem is printed side by side with a reprint of the first book of Pope’s Dunciad.

The Beeriad commences thus:――

Beer and the men (a mighty theme!) I sing, Who to their mouths the brimming Pitcher bring. Say Sons of midnight! (since yourselves inspire, This drunken Work; so Jove and Drink require!) Say from what cause, in vain unquench’d the Thirst, Still reigns to-day as potent as at first. In eldest time ere mortals were so dry, E’er Bacchus issued from the Thund’rer’s Thigh, Strong Drink o’er some possess’d its native right,―― Lord of delusion, Sov’raign of the Night.

* * * * *

The Billiad, or how to criticise, a satire, with the Dirge of the Repeal (of the Irish Union) and other Jeux d’Esprit. By T. M. Hughes. Illustrated. 1846.

The Blueviad, a Satirical Poem, by E. Goulburn, Royal Horse Guards. London, 1805.

The author remarks, “The following ridiculous lines contain the description of some characters that once formed a Regiment of Volunteers.”

The Burniad; an Epistle to a Lady, in the manner of Burns, with Poetic Miscellanies, by J. H. Kenny. 1808.

The Consuliad. A Mock Heroic Poem, by Thomas Chatterton. This short poem is to be found amongst the works of the poor Bristol boy, he sold it to a Mr. Fell for ten shillings and sixpence at the time when he was slowly starving to death in London. It commenced thus:――

Of roaring constables and battles dire, Of geese uneaten, muse, awake the lyre! Where Campbell’s chimneys overlook the square, And Newton’s future prospects hang in air; Where counsellors dispute, and cockers match, And Caledonian earls in concert scratch,―― A group of heroes occupied the round, Long in the rolls of infamy renown’d. Circling the table, all in silence sat, Now tearing bloody lean, now champing fat; Now picking ortolans and chickens, slain To form the whimsies of an à la reine: Now storming castles of the newest taste, And granting articles to forts of paste; Now swallowing bitter draughts of Prussian beer; Now sucking tallow of salubrious deer. The god of Cabinets and senates saw His sons, like asses, to one centre draw.

* * * * *

There are passages in this satire of surprising power and originality for the work of a boy of seventeen years of age.

The Censoriad, a Poem, written originally by Martin Gulliver, illustrated with curious annotations. 1730.

The Chessiad, by C. Dibden the Younger. With other poems, by the same author, 1825.

The Christiad, a sacred heroic poem, translated by Cranwell from Vida. No date.

The Dapiad, a mock-heroic poem, by J. Randall. Barnstaple: printed by J. Avery, 1806.

The Diaboliad, a Poem dedicated to the Worst Man in His Majesty’s Dominions. London. G. Kearsley, 1677. The date given is evidently a misprint for 1777, as David Garrick, who is named in the Preface, was not born until 1716. This work has been ascribed to Combe.

Anti-Diabo-Lady. Respectfully dedicated to all the Women in Her Majesty’s Dominions in general; and to the Best of Them in Particular, calculated to expose the Malevolence of the Author of Diabo-Lady. London, 1777. Quarto 18 pp. (A satire in verse.)

The Dispensary. A poem in six Cantos, by Sir Samuel Garth. London, 1696.

The Druriad, or Strictures on the principal performers of Drury Lane Theatre. A Satirical Poem. Quarto. 1798.

The Electriad: A Tale of the Trojan War. “Homer down to Date,” by a G. O. M. London. The Pall Mall Electric Association. About 1885. Price sixpence. This anonymous advertising pamphlet was illustrated with portraits of the most eminent men of the day, represented as suffering from various ailments, and

Within his tent Achilles sat and swore; With pain the hero’s face was sicklied o’er, Gout in his feet, neuralgia in his jaws, Too weak, alas, to fight for Grecian cause; Bronchitis, rheumatism, lungs and liver, Hurried him fast towards the Stygian river.

* * * * *

The Fijiad, or English Nights Entertainments, by an author of The Siliad. Beeton’s Fifteenth Christmas Annual. Illustrated. London: Ward, Lock, and Tyler.

The Fribbleriad. This was first printed in 1761, and was afterwards included in The Repository, vol. 2. It was addressed to a certain individual “X. Y. Z.,” who had been guilty of publishing an Essay containing an unfavourable criticism of David Garrick.

Who is the scribbler X. Y. Z.? Who still writes on, though little read? Whose falsehood, malice, envy, spite, So often grin, yet seldom bite? Say, Garrick, does he write for bread, This friend of yours, this X. Y. Z.? For pleasure sure, not bread――’twere vain To write for that he ne’er could gain.

* * * * *

The Female Dunciad, containing:――I. A Faithful account of the Intrigues, Gallantries, and Amours of Alexander Pope, of Twickenham, Esq., written by Himself. II. A Satire upon the Court Lords and Ladies. Written also by him in the year 1717. III. A Single Instance of his Repentance. IV. The New Surprising Metamorphosis; or, Mr. Pope turn’d into a Stinging Nettle; being a Familiar Epistle from a Gentleman in Town to a Lady in the Country. Occasioned by reading the Dunciad. V. Irish Artifice; or, the History of Clarina. A Novel, by Mrs. Eliza Haywood. VI. Female Worthies, by the Bishop of Peterborough. The whole being a Continuation of the Twickenham Hotch-Potch. London. T. Read, White-Fryers. 1728.

The Hilliad: an Epic Poem by Christopher Smart, A.M., Fellow of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. 1753. This was a satire on a certain Dr. Hill, it commenced as follows:――

Thou God of Jest, who o’er th’ ambrosial bowl, Giv’st joy to Jove, while laughter shakes the pole; And thou, fair Justice, of immortal line, Hear, and assist the poet’s grand design, Who aims at triumphs by no common ways, But on the stem of dulness grafts the bays. O thou, whatever name delight thine ear. Pimp! Poet! Puffer! ’Pothecary! Play’r! Whose baseless fame by vanity is buoy’d, Like the huge earth self-center’d in the void, Accept one partner thy own worth t’explore, And in thy praise be singular no more.

* * * * *

The Lentiad; or, Peter the Pope and his Pioneers the Pusey men. Together with Anti-Pentateuchal Prelates, Broad-church and Balaam-ass-men, Pommelled and Pounded with a Hudibrastic cudgel.

_A Tale in Rhymes Fit for the Times_,

By a Beefeater, domestic chaplain to Fill-pots. Edited by Rev. John Allen. London: William Freeman, Fleet Street. 1863.

“John Chinaman, when fighting foes, At times holds stink-pots to their nose, For he believes――and he is right, That when in this way he can fight, And find thereby the battle won His stink-pots are as good’s a gun.”

More than 400 closely-printed pages of similar fustian to this are devoted to abuse of the Pope and his Church; coarse denunciations of the High Church party, and the Puseyites, Bishop Colenso and his works.

The Lousiad, an Heroi-Comic Poem, in five cantos. By Peter Pindar, Esq. (Dr. John Wolcott.) The introduction to this satire runs as follows: “It is necessary to inform thee, Gentle Reader, that His Majesty (George III.) actually discovered, some time ago, as he sat at table, a louse on his plate. An edict was, in consequence, passed for shaving the cooks, scullions, etc., and the unfortunate louse was condemned to die.”

Such is the foundation of The Lousiad, of which the ingenious author, who ought to be allowed to know somewhat of the matter, hath been heard privately to declare, that, in his opinion, the Batrachomyomachia of Homer, the Secchia Rapita of Tassoni, the Lutrin of Boileau, the Dispensary of Garth, and the Rape of the Lock of Pope, are not to be compared to it.

The Louse I sing, who, from some head unknown, Yet born and educated near a throne, Dropped down――(so willed the dread decree of fate!) With legs wide sprawling on the monarch’s plate: Far from the raptures of a wife’s embrace, Far from the gambols of a tender race, Whose little feet he taught with care to tread Amidst the wide dominions of the head; Led them to daily food with fond delight, And taught the tiny wanderers where to bite; To hide, to run, advance, or turn their tails, When hostile combs attacked, or vengeful nails: Far from those pleasing scenes ordained to roam, Like wise Ulysses, from his native home; Yet like that sage, though forced to roam and mourn, Like him, alas, not fated to return! Who, full of rags and glory, saw his boy And wife again, and dog that died for joy. Down dropped the luckless louse with fear appalled, And wept his wife and children as he sprawled.

* * * * *

The Mobiad, or battle of the Voices: an Heroi-Comic Poem, sportively satirical, being a briefly historical, natural and lively, free and humorous description of an Exeter Election, by Democritus Juvenal (A. Brice) with notes &c., Exeter, 1770.

The Modern Dunciad, a Satire; with notes, biographical and critical. London. Effingham Wilson, 1814. With a frontispiece by George Cruikshank. This anonymous work, written in imitation of the first satire of Persius, was devoted to the ridicule of the minor poets of the day, most of whom are now entirely forgotten:――

What can provoke thy muse? scarce thrice a year Matilda’s woeful Madrigals appear; Lewis no more the tender maid affrights With incantations, ravishments, and sprites; Crusca (to Gifford thanks!) is fairly fled, And Cottle’s epics sleep among the dead; E’en Wolcot’s impious blasphemies are o’er, And Andrews’ Prologues are the vogue no more.

* * * * *

Alluding to Rosa Matilda’s effusions; M. G. Lewis, author of “The Monk;” Gifford’s attack on the Della Cruscans; Amos Cottle’s poems, and the satirical works of Dr. John Wolcot, known as “Peter Pindar.”)

The Mæviad, by William Gifford, 1795. In imitation of a satire of Horace, and directed against the Della-Cruscan school of Poetry. See The Baviad.

The Moneiad: or The Power of Money. By the Rev. W. P. Macdonald, late Chaplain of the Regiment of Roll. London. James Harper, 46 Fleet Street. 1818.

It contains an early poem, entitled “Sir Penny, or the Power of Money.” The work was dedicated to the Duke of Kent.

The New Dunciad. Facts and anecdotes illustrative of the iniquitous practises of Anonymous Critics, 1806.

This is a prose commentary on the critics, published by Tegg, London, and has no relation to Pope’s Dunciad.

The New Dunciad, as it was found in the year 1741, with the Illustrations of Scriblerus, and Notes Variorum. London. J. H. Hubbard 1742.

Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of Light Indulge, dread Chaos and eternal Night! Of Darkness visible so much be lent, As half to show, half veil the deep intent. Ye Pow’rs! whose mysteries restor’d I sing, To whom Time bears me on his rapid wing, Suspend awhile your force inertly strong, Then take at once the Poet and the Song.

The New Dunciad. This appeared in parts in a London penny paper called The Jester, the first number of which was published February 23, 1889. It was a weak attempt to satirise some of the celebrities of the day, and was destitute of interest, or poetical merit.

The Obliviad: A Satire, with notes, together with additional Notes, Preface, and Supplement, by the American Editor. And the Perpetual Commentary of the Athenæum. New York. James Millar, Broadway. London, B. Quaritch, 15, Piccadilly. 1879.

This is a very remarkable book, it consists of about 350 pages in all, of which at least two thirds are occupied by Notes, critical, satirical, and biographical, dealing with the principal writers of the day, in a most unmerciful manner. Even The Saturday Review, which itself has a reputation for sharp speaking, remarked (June 28, 1879):――“The Obliviad is a laborious imitation of the Dunciad, somewhat more universally insolent in its treatment of contemporary authors than any other satire in prose or verse that we remember.”

Naturally a book which could speak with fearless truth of the writings of such men as Tennyson, Robert Browning, Swinburne, Dickens, Hepworth Dixon, and Robert Buchanan created a sensation, but unfortunately the author was almost too indiscriminate in his censures, for whilst everyone admits that the above named authors have occasionally written absurd and nonsensical works, it is equally certain that they did not, in the first place, make their names and fames in that manner.

The Obliviad has been attributed to Dr. William Leech of New York.

The Olympiad. A Satirical Poem.

The Puffiad, a Satire, with a dedication to “Those who don’t like it,” a Critique for their use, and copious Introductory Epistle to an Eminent Puffer. 1828.

The Rodiad, by George Coleman, 1813. This relates to Flagellation:

Delightful Sport! whose never failing charm Makes young blood tingle, and keeps old blood warm.

The Rosciad. By Charles Churchill. 1761.

The Rolliad, or more correctly, Criticisms on the Rolliad, for the poem itself (except in some disjointed extracts introduced as examples) existed only in the fertile brains of the authors of this satire on Mr. Rolle (afterwards Lord Rolle), who was elected M.P. for Devon in 1784, in the Tory interest. When The Rolliad first appeared it had a great success, and rapidly ran through many editions, but time has cast into oblivion most of its allusions, and the characters introduced are well nigh forgotten. The Rolliad was written by several authors, and parts have been ascribed to George Ellis, General Fitzpatrick, and Joseph Richardson M.P. Lord Rolle died in 1842.

The Rational Rosciad, in two parts, 1767.

The Rape of the Bucket, an Heroi-Comical Poem by Tassoni, translated with Notes, by J. Atkinson. 1825.

The Scribleriad: an Heroic Poem. In six books. London: R. Dodsley in Pall Mall 1751, quarto, with curious illustrations. This satire was written to ridicule the errors of false taste and false learning, and was pronounced, by a contemporary critic, to be a work of great fancy and poetical elegance. The author, Mr. Richard Owen Cambridge, is highly spoken of by Boswell, in his life of Dr. Johnson.

The much enduring Man, whose curious Soul Bore him, with ceaseless toil, from pole to pole, Insatiate, endless knowledge to obtain, Thro’ woes by land, thro’ dangers on the main, New woes, new dangers destin’d to engage By wrathful Saturn’s unrelenting rage, I sing. * * * * *

The Siliad, or the Siege of the Seats. Beeton’s Christmas Annual, fourteenth season. London. Ward, Lock and Tyler. An Illustrated Political Satire, by the authors of “The Coming K――.” 1873.

Bobilloe’s spleen, to whigs the direful spring Of votes ungiven, printed pages, sing! That spleen which made the ballot-boxes tell Of liberal candidates the funeral knell; Whose names, dishonoured in the morning sheet, Devouring scribes and hungry penmen greet:―― Since his bad-tempered way Bobilloe’s showed, And made ill use of place on him bestowed; Began to wane men’s confidence and trust Which, to succeed in warfare, hold chiefs must.

The Spiritual Dunciad; or, Oxford “Tracks” to Popery. A Satire with Notes and Appendix by Robert Dick, M.D., C.M. London, C. Westerton, 1859. This was a bitter attack on the Roman Catholic religion;

If by antiquity, we judge what’s true, Why halt a Roman? Why not turn a Jew? Our noble Luther――he did nothing more Than pristine pureness to Christ’s truth restore, By ignorance and lies long crusted o’er.

The Tauroboliad; or, the Sacrifice of the Constitution. A Satire. 1831.

The Thespiad; a Poem. 1809.

The Tommiad; a Biographical Fancy, written about the year 1842. London. Anonymous.

The Toriad; a Poem. By Eupolis. London. Wightman & Co., 1837. 18 pp. octavo, Price one shilling.

“War and the Debt I sing-the giant crimes Of Tories in the good old Tory Times.”

The Triad. By W. Wiekenden, 1855.

The Victoriad; or, New World, an Epic Poem. By E. Carrington. A curious work which the author modestly considered was written in the simple classic style of Dante.

――――:o:――――

There are many passages in Pope’s writings which might well be spared on account of their indelicacy, yet they are innocent and pure as compared with some of the satires launched at him by his enemies and rivals. The greater number of these are too gross to be republished in a work intended for general readers, as are also the three principal and most amusing parodies of his works.

Pope’s Essay on Man was the subject of a parody, entitled The Essay on Woman; his Eloisa to Abelard was burlesqued in Eloisa en Déshabille; and The Rape of the Lock was parodied in a poem entitled The Rape of the Smock.

In an article on John Wilkes published in The Athenæum in 1874, it was stated that the charge against him of having written the infamous Essay upon Woman must now be given up. “It is as clear as is any fact in history, that whoever wrote the Essay, Wilkes, at all events, did not. Wilkes was prosecuted for it, and was convicted, not however for being the author of the poem, but for having published it. All the statements on the trial go to show that the original Essay was printed in red letter, and with a frontispiece, and an engraved title.”

Much has been written about this parody, but its authorship is still shrouded in mystery. In 1763 The Rev. John Kidgell published “A Narrative of a scandalous, obscene, and exceedingly profane libel, entitled An Essay on Woman” to which an answer was printed in the same year. Both of these tracts are in the British Museum. The Essay on Woman has been recently re-published by private subscription, but is still what is called a scarce book.

Eloisa en Déshabille: Being a Parody of Mr. Pope’s celebrated Epistle of that young lady to Abelard. By a late celebrated Greek Professor, dedicated to the Loungers of Great Britain and Ireland. 1810.

This witty but indelicate poem has been generally ascribed to Professor Porson, the famous Greek scholar, who frequently quoted passages from it. But it seems more probable that it was written by Colonel J. Matthews, the brother of the author of “The Diary of an Invalid.”

Immur’d in this prison, so dull and so moping, Where vows and high walls bar all hopes of eloping; Where close-grated windows scarce show us the sun, What means this strange itch in the flesh of a nun? Why wander my thoughts in the midst of devotion Why feels my fond heart its long smother’d emotion? Still, still, love prevails! this unquenchable flame Blazes fresh at the sight of my Abelard’s name.

* * * * *

The Rape of the Smock. An Heroi-comical Poem. In Two Books. London. R. Burleigh, in Amen Corner. 1717. Price one shilling. With a quaint illustration.

I sing a Virgin’s Smock, the direful cause Of horrid Bloodshed, and of Breach of Laws; That Linnen Veil, which pendant Ruffles grace, Of Indian Muslin, or of Flanders Lace; Wide stretch’d, and falling down in many a Plait, From the fair Bosom, to the snowy Feet; White as the Lilly, or the Skin it hides, Where charming Nature shines, and Love resides. Let Ozell sing the Bucket,[45] Pope the Lock, My daring Muse prefers the Rape of Smock. * * * * *

This poem, which is by no means difficult to obtain, is generally ascribed to Lady Mary Wortley Montague, the friend and correspondent of Pope. The most remarkable feature about it is that it could have been written and published by a lady of rank and fashion.

An Elegy written in an Empty Assembly Room Published (anonymously) by R. & J. Dodsley, London, 1766, was a parody on some of the most remarkable passages in Pope’s Epistle of Eloisa to Abelard, but the subject does not inspire interest, and the parody has little humour.

In scenes where Hallet’s genius has combin’d With Bromwich to amuse and chear the mind; Amid this Pomp of Cost, this Pride of Art, What mean these sorrows in a Female Heart? Ye crowded Walls, whose well enlighten’d Round With Lover’s Sighs and Protestations sound, Ye pictures flatter’d by the learn’d and wise, Ye glasses, ogled by the brightest eyes, Ye cards, whom Beauties by their touch have blest, Ye chairs, which Peers and Ministers have prest, How are ye chang’d! like you my fate I moan, Like you, alas! neglected and alone―― For ah! to me alone no card is come, I must not go abroad――and cannot Be at Home.

* * * * *

A French parody of this famous poem by Pope also exists, entitled “Histoire des amours et des infortunes d’Abelard et d’Eloise mise en vers satiré-comi-burlesques,” par M. Armand. Cologne, Pierre Marteau, 1724.

From AN ESSAY ON MAN. Epistle I.

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor’d mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul, proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topp’d hill, an humbler heaven; Some safer world, in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold: To be, contents his natural desire, He asks no angel’s wing, no seraph’s fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.

A. POPE.

Lo! the poor toper whose untutor’d sense Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense, ――But sees, admitted to an equal share, Each faithful swain the heady portion bear.

From Crabbe’s Inebriety.

A NEW READING OF POPE.

Lo, the lean Indian, whose bewildered mind Sees naught of God, either in cloud or wind; His soul, proud science never taught to stray, It strayed itself, and now has lost its way. Simple nature to his hope has given, Beyond some cloud-capped hill, a sensual heaven, Some place where science cannot grope its way, Nor learning cast one single feeble ray; No whites disturb. No Christian ’stablish laws. But he can rest while work is done by squaws. To loaf contents his natural desire; He asks no angel’s wings to get up higher, And if he did, no angel from the sky Would think of taking Lo up very high. But grant the burden of his Indian song―― Do as he likes, and take his dorg along.

ANONYMOUS.

Another parody of the same passage is given “after a bad dinner” in “Anecdotes, Historical and Literary,” published in London by Vernor and Hood in 1796.

An imitation of Pope’s Universal Prayer will be found on page 115 of The Pleasures of Nature by D. Carey. 1803.

――――

A PARODY OF ACHILLES’ SPEECH, Pope’s Homer, Book I, line 309.

(Occasioned by the author hearing of a Clergyman who, in a violent fit of anger, threw his wig into the fire, and turned his son out of doors.)

“Now by this sacred perriwig I swear, Which never more shall locks or ringlets bear, Which never more shall form the smart toupee, Forced from its parent head,――(as thou from me); Once ’twas live hair; now form’d by th’ artist’s hand, It aids the labours of the sacred band; Adds to the vicar’s brow a decent grace, And pours a glory round his rev’rend face. By this I swear, when thou shalt ask again My doors to enter, thou shalt ask in vain.” He spoke, and furious with indignant ire Hurl’d the vast hairy texture on the fire; Then sternly silent sate――the active flame Remorseless wastes the soft and tender frame: Writhed to and fro consumes the tortured hair, And lost in smoke attenuates to air.

From The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge. London. Cadell and Davies, 1803.

――――

It is sometimes objected to parodies, that they tend to bring into ridicule the finest productions of genius; but this is an imaginary, rather than a real ground of complaint. Who does not admire the Mantuan Poet though Cotton has burlesqued his Æneid? And though the Iliad has been more than once travestied, do we not still dwell with enthusiastic pleasure on every line attributed to Homer? We see therefore no need of apology in submitting to our readers a parody of the following beautiful lines of Pope:――

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, O’er heaven’s pure azure sheds her sacred light; When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene; Around her throne the vivid planets roll; And stars unnumber’d gild the glowing pole. O’er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, And tip with silver every mountain’s head; Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies; The conscious swains rejoicing in the sight, Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

PARODY

As when an alderman just dubb’d a knight, Doth his fat comrades to a feast invite; His eager hand uplifts the deep tureen, Beneath whose lid the smoking turtle’s seen; Around the chair the ready waiters roll, To fill the plate of every hungry soul. O’er all the room the grateful odours spread, And nods with pleasure every civic head; Then shine their cheeks ne’er ting’d with deeper dyes, The well made punch stands sparkling ’fore their eyes. The aldermen rejoicing in the sight Eye the rich treat, and bless the bounteous knight.

From The British Minerva, printed in Hamburgh, 1818.

In Posthumous Parodies (1814) there is a paraphrase of a passage in Pope’s “Temple of Fame,” it commences thus:

But lo! amidst the oratoric choir, Six gorgeous columns o’er the rest aspire: Around the chair itself of fame they stand, Hold her chief honours, and her house command. High on the first the son of Chatham shone, (The British lion couching by his throne,) Master of speech! His potent eloquence Seems still to echo on the wond’ring sense: Anxious, but firm, his lofty look appears, And young he seems, with all the skill of years.

* * * * *

George Canning, C. J. Fox, R. B. Sheridan, Warren Hastings, Burke and Windham are the other politicians alluded to in this poem.

――――:o:――――

AN ESSAY ON PLAY.

By A――――r P――――e.

I.

“Who shall decide,” I asked some time ago, “When doctors disagree?” None seemed to know, But change one word, and let the question be, “Who shall decide, when critics disagree?” We all are critics, not alone the men Who fail to make a living by their pen. And though there’s nought,――at least so poets deem,―― “That’s half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,” There’s nought, I think, for which one so much cares As talking over other folks’ affairs. And so we meet with those who sometimes say, That men have too much work, too little play: Others assert that men their duties shirk, Have too much play, and do too little work. What is the truth? Some men find life full sore, Work fifteen hours of the twenty-four; They say that work does nothing else but vex, And vow the collar’s never off their necks. Others declare the ancient precept stuff, And say one day in seven’s not enough; So half another day is, so to speak, Transferred from work to pleasure every week, While now we have, our hard-worked lives to cheer, Four extra holidays in every year. Truth is, to neither party should we lean, But ’twixt them both essay to hit the mean; Some of hard work get far too large a share, And ere they’ve learned to live, they die of care. Some do themselves as well as others too, And still declare they’ve not enough to do, Saunter through Life, and vow it is a gem, And say they’re killing Time, while Time kills them.

II.

Pleasure just now indeed is quite the rage, No matter sex or station, rank or age. The child, we know, is tickled with a straw, The boy is happy with his hoop or taw; The girl at first with dolls enjoys a span, But, older grown, the doll becomes a man; And, in her quest for what can life enhance, She gives her time to flirting and the dance. Youth growing up assume a manly tone, And seem to think the world is all their own, And while at school imagine they are men, And take to smoking and to billiards then; At college, too, of classics seldom speak, Think more of Cricket than they do of Greek; Rowing and Football take up half their time, Lawn-tennis too is voted “quite sublime.” Thus time is spent in learning, it is true, But not in learning what they ought to do. Life is a game, so many people say, And they win easiest who have learned to play.

III.

I’ve said before, and won’t my words forsake, That “every woman is at heart a rake”; Perhaps, I may with greater justice say, Both man and woman dearly love to play. A curious problem to the world they give: Some live to play while others play to live; And this phenomenon is seen to-day, A whole profession given up to play. Men its attractions cannot well refuse, Their P’s neglect, but cultivate their cues; While ladies, who in Fortune’s favours bask, Make the pursuit of pleasure quite a task. For what with concerts, and “four o’clock tea,” With pictures that they “really ought to see,” With conversaziones, routs, and balls, And what so dear to women’s hearts, their “calls,” With flower shows, and riding in the “Row.” With dinners, drives, and all that’s “comme il faut,” Worn out, half dead, when Saturday arrives They meekly vow they’re tired of their lives, But wake on Monday morning free from pain, And vow they’re ready to begin again.

IV.

Then Sunday comes and, it must be confessed, They wonder how to pass the “Day of Rest.” Many, with wearied limbs and aching head, Resolve to spend it cosily in bed; Some drive to Richmond, if the weather’s fine, And at the Star and Garter go to dine; Some, as I’ve said before, to church repair, “Not for the doctrine but the music there;” While others, and indeed they’re not a few, Resolve to spend some hours at the Zoo. These seem to think Religion is displayed In noting how their fellow Creature’s made: They throng the walks, but oft so queerly dressed, Although ’tis true they wear their “Sunday best,” That e’en the animals opine, no doubt, Their relatives have got a “Sunday out.” The monkeys at each other grin and wink, And whisper in Ape-language, “missing link!” The grissly bear himself, with outstretched claw Politely asks a passer for “his paw;” The loving seal oft thinks he sees his kin, But quite as often finds he’s taken in, For now-a-days folks do not seem to feel That seal-skin jackets are not always seal. They see the lions feed, which call to mind The fact that they themselves have not yet dined; So home to dine, and pass with mis-timed jest The rest of Sunday, not the Sunday’s rest, Well-satisfied, howe’er, to feel and know They’ve shown themselves, as well as seen the show.

A. W. MACKENZIE. (Author of “The Idylls of the Rink.”)

From Pastime September 28, 1883.

――――

Pope’s prologue to Addison’s tragedy of Cato is justly considered one of the finest prologues in the language. The following parody of it is taken from a little tract entitled “A Succinct Description of that Elaborate Pile of Art, called the Microcosm. With a short account of the Solar System.” Coventry. Printed for the Proprietor Mr. Edward Davis, 1763. The Microcosm was constructed by Mr. Henry Bridges of Waltham Abbey, architect, it was in the form of a Roman Temple, ten feet high by six feet broad in the basis, and was designed to give the spectator instruction in architecture, sculpture and astronomy.

“The following parody (on Pope’s prologue to Cato) was addressed to Mr. Henry Bridges, constructor of that elaborate piece of mechanism. The Microcosm, by Dr. Burton, of Yarmouth.”

To sooth the Soul by tender Strokes of art, To raise the Genius and to rouse the Heart, To make Mankind by Harmony elate, Soften the Breast and banish direful Hate, The ruffled Passions potent to asswage, To conquer Fear and to enervate Rage, Was music’s Power, by Orpheus first ordain’d; Fierce Beasts were tam’d, and fiercer Tyrants Chain’d. Th’ enchanting Sounds through their whole Fabrick crept, And Savage Mortals wonder’d why they wept. Our Artist shuns by vulgar Springs to move His mimic Race below, or Orbs above, Here Pleasure flows from Scientific Cause, Whilst Ingenuity extorts applause: He bids your breast with Emulation rise, And tho’ you’re e’er so learn’d, e’er so wise, By Arts Mechanick you will here be taught More than Rome knew, or Grecian Sages thought. Those Objects to your Senses he displays, Which the Spectator of our Globe surveys; The various Movements and the changing State. Of Beings active and inanimate. Whilst Bridges gives his Microcosm Laws, What Bosom beats not in Invention’s Cause? Who sees him work, but envies every Deed? Who hears him lecture hears e’en Newton read. Britons attend, be Worth like his approv’d, And shew you have the Virtue to be mov’d. With honest Scorn our wond’rous Artist view’d Meer Machinations on the World obtrude: French and Italian Puppets pleas’d too long, And British sense was barter’d for a Song. Dare to invent yourselves, to Fame aspire, Be justly warm’d with your own native Fire. Bridges! those Sounds must ravish every Ear, Which Handel’s Self did not disdain to hear.

――――

THE RAPE OF THE CAKE. A COVENT-GARDEN ECLOQUE.

Inscribed to the Musical Band of Covent-garden theatre, on account of the recent theft of their twelfth-cake.

“Quid Rapuisti?”

The night was dark! fast clos’d the plunderer’s hand! And idle Jehu’s slept upon the stand! The lone Piazza, erst the gay resort Of flash and fun, and meritricious sport, Then only echo’d to th’ unvarying sound Of drowsy watchmen, pacing their dull round, Kiddies no more at Glue or Brilliant sup, And e’en the far-fam’d Finish was done up. All rest in sleep! save――those who were awake―― The wicked wags who stole the fiddlers’ cake. Not in more silence did Ulysses tread, When he relentless struck king Rhesus dead; Not with more caution did the invading Gaul Attempt to storm the Capitolian wall; Not with more care did valorous Smith advance To burn the navy of insulting France; Not with more ease did Belcher beat poor Burke, Then those vile plunderers did the dreadful work!!! But say, my muse, what prodigies appear’d? The rain fast pour’d, and horrid screams were heard! Loud thunder shook the gay theatric pile, And Kemble first relax’d into a smile! The theft announc’d, the band were in dismay, And nought were heard, but ‘Oh!’ and ‘Well-a-day!’ The leader Ware, with anger in his soul, While his limbs tremble, and his eyeballs roll, “D――n!” cried, “this insults too imposing, Shall we bear this, ye scraping sons of Rosin?” The puffy Parke, who never was a starter, Said, “In this cause I wish to die a Martyr!” Hawtin, with face inflated like a crumpet, “Lord bless us,” said, and dropp’d his brazen trumpet. And smirking Davy, with his powder’d pate, Plump’d snug upon his seat and grinn’d in state. While feeble Woodcock let his anger loose, And fix’d the theft on harmless Mother Goose!!! But say, my muse, and then I’ll cry farewell! Who stole the cake?――“Indeed I cannot tell! And this I swear, in accents strong and slow, I cannot tell!――because I do not know!”

――――

A volume of poems by T. Flatman, published in 1674, contains a poem entitled A Thought on Death from which Pope must have borrowed his ode “The Dying Christian to his Soul:”――

“Vital spark of heavenly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!”

* * * * *

“Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister spirit, come away!”

So far Pope, compare Flatman:――

“When on my sick bed I languish, Full of sorrow, full of anguish―― Fainting, grasping, trembling, crying, Panting, groaning, speechless, dying.”

* * * * *

“Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say, Be not fearful――come away!”

Pope was the author of numerous imitations of other Poets, such as Chaucer, Spenser, Waller, Abraham Cowley, the Earl of Rochester, the Earl of Dorset, and Dean Swift. The poem in imitation of Chaucer is somewhat coarse, that after Dr. Swift will be quoted later on, under that author’s name.

COLIN’S COMPLAINT.

NICHOLAS ROWE, Born 1673, Died 1718.

Poet Laureate 1715 to 1718.

Despairing beside a clear stream, A shepherd forsaken was laid; And while a false nymph was his theme. A willow supported his head: The wind that blew over the plain, To his sighs with a sigh did reply, And the brook, in return to his pain, Ran mournfully murmuring by.

Alas! silly swain that I was, Thus sadly complaining, he cried; When first I beheld that fair face, ’Twere better by far I had died: She talk’d, and I bless’d her dear tongue; When she smil’d, ’twas a pleasure too great; I listen’d and cry’d when she sung, Was nightingale ever so sweet!

How foolish was I to believe She could doat on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve, To forsake the fine folk of the town: To think that a beauty so gay, So kind and so constant would prove, Or go clad like our maidens in grey, Or live in a cottage on love?

What though I have skill to complain, Tho’ the muses my temples have crown’d; What tho’ when they hear my soft strain, The virgins sit weeping around? Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain, Thy pipe and thy laurel resign, Thy false one inclines to a swain, Whose music is sweeter than thine.

All you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betray’d, Whatever I suffer, forbear, Forbear to accuse the false maid. Tho’ thro’ the wide world I should range, ’Tis in vain for my fortune to fly, ’Twas her’s to be false and to change,―― ’Tis mine to be constant and die.

If while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found, Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, And see me laid low in the ground: The last humble boon that I crave, Is to shade me with cypress and yew And when she looks down on my grave Let her own that her shepherd was true.

Then to her new love let her go, And deck her in golden array; Be finest at every fine show, And frolic it all the long day: While Colin, forgotten and gone, No more shall be talked of or seen, Unless when beneath the pale moon, His ghost shall glide over the green.

Nicholas Rowe wrote several tragedies and some poems, but the above is almost the only specimen which has any life in it. A Latin version, entitled “Corydon Querens” will be found in Vincent Bourne’s works.

A PARODY. (Ascribed to George Canning.)

By the side of a murmuring stream An elderly gentleman sat; On the top of his head was his wig, On the top of his wig was his hat. The wind it blew high and blew strong Where this elderly gentleman sat, And took from his head in a trice, And plunged in the river his hat.

The gentleman then took his cane, Which lay by his side as he sat, But he dropp’d in the river his wig In attempting to get out his hat. And now in the depth of despair, Though still from the place where he sat, He flung in the river his cane, To swim with his wig and his hat.

But cooler reflection at length, As this elderly gentleman sat, Said “Jump up and follow the stream, And look for your wig and your hat.” But, alas for the thought! for so soon As he rose from the place where he sat, He slipp’d and fell plump over head, To swim with his wig and his hat.

――――

BOW BELLS.

At the brink of a murmuring brook A contemplative Cockney reclined; And his face wore a sad sort of look, As if care were at work on his mind. He sigh’d now and then as we sigh When the heart with soft sentiments wells; And a tear came and moisten’d each eye As he mournfully thought of Bow Bells.

I am monarch of all I survey! (Thus he vented his feelings in words)―― But my kingdom, it grieves me to say, Is inhabited chiefly by birds. In this brook that flows lazily by I believe that one tittlebat dwells, For I saw something jump at a fly As I lay here and long’d for Bow Bells.

I am partial to trees, as a rule; And the rose is a beautiful flower. (Yes, I once read a ballad at school Of a rose that was wash’d in a shower.) But, although I may doat on the rose, I can scarcely believe that it smells Quite so sweet in the bed where it grows As when sold within sound of Bow Bells.

No; I’ve tried it in vain once or twice, And I’ve thoroughly made up my mind That the country is all very nice―― But I’d much rather mix with my kind. Yes; to-day――if I meet with a train―― I will fly from these hills and these dells; And to-night I will sleep once again (Happy thought!) within sound of Bow Bells.

From Carols of Cockayne, by Henry S. Leigh. London, Chatto and Windus, 1874.

LORD LYTTLETON.

A BURLESQUE ODE BY TOBIAS SMOLLETT.

Lord Lyttleton was not only the patron of poets, but was also a minor poet himself. He married, in 1741, Miss Lucy Fortescue, whose death five years afterwards gave him a theme for a monody which contained the following lines:――

In vain I look around O’er all the well-known ground, My Lucy’s wonted footsteps to descry; Where oft we used to walk, Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer sun go down the sky; Nor by yon fountain’s side, Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found: In all the wide-stretched prospect’s ample bound, No more my mournful eye Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns, By your delighted mother’s side: Who now your infant steps shall guide?

* * * * *

Smollett, who considered that his merits had been neglected by Lord Lyttleton, wrote the following parody on this monody:――

Where wast thou, wittol Ward, when hapless fate, From these weak arms mine aged grannam tore: These pious arms essay’d too late, To drive the dismal phantom from the door. Could not thy healing drop, illustrious Quack, Could not thy salutary pill prolong her days; For whom, so oft, to Marybone, alack! Thy sorrels dragg’d thee, thro’ the worst of ways!

Oil-dropping Twick’nham did not then detain Thy steps, tho’ tended by the Cambrian maids; Nor the sweet environs of Drury Lane; Nor dusty Pimlico’s embow’ring shades; Nor Whitehall, by the river’s bank, Beset with rowers dank Nor where th’ Exchange pours forth its tawny sons; Nor where to mix with offal, soil and blood, Steep Snow Hill rolls the sable flood; Nor where the Mint’s contaminated kennel runs; Ill doth it now beseem, That thou should’st doze and dream, When death in mortal armour came, And struck with ruthless dart the gentle dame. Her lib’ral hand and sympathising breast, The brute creation kindly bless’d: Where’er she trod grimalkin purr’d around, The squeaking pigs her bounty own’d; Nor to the waddling duck or gabbling goose, Did she glad sustenance refuse; The strutting cock she daily fed, And turkey with his snout so red; Of chickens careful as the pious hen, Nor did she overlook the tomtit or the wren; While redbreast hopp’d before her in the hall, As if the common mother of them all. For my distracted mind; What comfort can I find; O best of grannams! thou art dead and gone, And I am left behind to weep and moan, To sing thy dirge in sad funereal lay, Oh! woe is me! alack! and well-a-day!

――――:o:――――

IT IS NOT THAT MY LOT IS LOW. (After Henry Kirke White.)

It is not that my “place” was low, That bids my foolish tear to flow; It is not that that makes me moan, But ’tis, that all my money’s gone.

Thro’ slummy back-streets now I roam, Whene’er I venture out from home; To luckier souls I leave the rest, The streets that once I knew the best.

Yet when the plates, of varied size, With hunger-stirring symphonies Resound, I think――“A nice grilled bone!” And sigh that all my money’s gone.

My friends now pass me, cut me dead; I’m only happy when in bed; I cannot get more “whisker-dye” Without committing felony.

My creditors, with angry wail, Tell all the same relentless tale. I’ve none to smile with, or make free Or, when I want it, lend to me

Yet in my dreams a cheque I view, That’s meant for me――a large one too. I start, and when the vision’s flown, I weep that all my money’s gone.

From The Lays of the Mocking Sprite. Cambridge. W. Metcalfe & Sons.

――――:o:――――

ODE, (In the Manner of Dr. Samuel Johnson.) Addressed to a Girl in the Temple, 1777.

While the calescent, sanguine flood, By vile Vulgarity call’d Blood, Pervades this mortal frame; Amaz’d at your translucid charms, You I solicit to these arms, Tho’ of procacious name!

When in your dim nocturnal rounds, Erratic from the Temple’s bounds Thro’ devious lanes you stray; With friendly auscultation deign To audit amatorial pain Subvected in this lay.

Satellite of the Paphian dame, Whose rays, tho’ darken’d by thy fame, Illuminate my mind: Desert the street, resume the plain, Rejoin your derelicted swain―― Be prudent, as you’re kind.

My brows, obumbrated with age, Hang scowling o’er life’s latter-page―― But you, like Lunar beam, Thro’ my nimbosity arise; Dispensing, from your lucid eyes, Refocillating gleam.

From The Wiccamical Chaplet. Edited by George Huddesford. London, Leigh, Sotheby & Son, 1804.

――――

Dr. Johnson wrote the following lines as a skit on the style of Dr. Warton, then Poet-Laureate:――

Hermit hoar, in solemn cell Wearing out life’s evening grey; Strike thy bosom sage, and tell What is bliss, and which the way.

Thus I spoke, and speaking sighed, Scarce repress’d the starting tear, When the hoary sage replied, “Come, my lad, and drink some beer.”

Imitation of the Above.

“Crested warrior, on whose helm Nodding plumes encircling bind, Tell me in what happy realm Valour such as thine to find?”

Thus I said, and envious sighed. He, who ne’er from battle run, The mighty warrior, eager cried,―― “Show me how to hold my gun!”

――――

Dr. Johnson wrote the Prologue for the opening of Drury Lane Theatre, in 1747, which was spoken by David Garrick, it commenced with the well known lines:――

“When Learning’s triumph o’er her barbarous foes First rear’d the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose; Each change of many colour’d life he drew, Exhausted Worlds, and then imagined new: Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting time toil’d after him in vain,”

* * * * *

This was the subject of a political parody in Posthumous Parodies (London, 1814) of which it is only necessary to quote a few lines:――

When Europe’s peril from her Gallic foes First roused the age, immortal Pitt arose, Each plot of many colour’d France o’erthrew, Saved the old world, and overawed the new. Commerce beheld him stretch her golden reign, And jealous Whigs toil’d after him in vain: His lofty thoughts his lofty phrase impress’d, And admiration throbb’d in ev’ry breast.

* * * * *

EDMUND SPENSER.

BORN 1553. | DIED January 16, 1599. Appointed Poet-Laureate 1590.

Although there are not many parodies extant of Spenser’s poetry, yet the beautiful metre which he invented, and used with such success in The Faerie Queene, has been since imitated, or adopted by many of our leading poets. This will be seen by the following list of works, written in the Spenserian stanza, which has been compiled with great care, by Mr. Jonathan Bouchier, of Ropley.

Allan’s ‘Bridal of Caolchaiarn’ and ‘Last Deer of Brenn Doran’ (or Dran).

Beattie’s ‘Minstrel.’

Bedingfield ‘The Education of Achilles.’

William Lisle Bowles ‘Childe Harold’s Last Pilgrimage,’ six stanzas.

Burns’s ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night.’

W. C. Bryant ‘The Ages.’

Byron’s ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.’

Campbell’s ‘Gertrude of Wyoming.’

Campbell’s ‘Chaucer and Windsor.’

Cooper’s ‘Purgatory of Suicides.’

Edward’s ‘Tour of the Dove.’

Hood’s ‘Irish Schoolmaster.’

Howitt’s ‘Desolation of Eyam.’

Keats’s ‘Imitation of Spenser’ (his first, or nearly his first verses).

Keats’s ‘Eve of St. Agnes.’

Keats’s ‘The Cap and Bells.’

Keble’s ‘Mourners following the Cross.’

William Julius Mickle ‘The Concubine’ (title afterwards altered to ‘Sir Martyne’), a poem in two cantos.

Neale’s ‘Edom.’

Read’s (American) ‘New Village.’

Miss Frances Rolleston, ‘The Pilgrimage of Harmonia,’ 1874.

Sir W. Scott, Fitztraver’s Song in ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel,’ canto vi.

‘Vision of Don Roderick,’ and introductory stanzas to each canto of the ‘Lady of the Lake,’ and the ‘Lord of the Isles.’

Shelley’s ‘Revolt of Islam’ (sometimes called ‘Laon and Cythna’), and ‘Adonais.’

Shenstone’s ‘Schoolmistress.’

Smith, Alexander ‘Lady Barbara.’

Edmund Neale Smith, obiit 1710: ‘Thales: a Monody, sacred to the memory of Dr. Pococke. In imitation of Spenser.’――First published in 1751, forty years after Smith’s death.

‘Psyche, or the Great Metamorphosis’ (query author), in Dodsley’s ‘Collection of Poems by Several Hands,’ ed. 1775, vol. iii.

Southey ‘A Tale of Paraguay.’

Tennyson’s ‘Lotos-Eaters’ (introduction).

Thomson’s ‘Castle of Indolence.’

Mrs. Tighe’s ‘Psyche.’

Walker, William Sidney: ‘Wandering Thoughts.’

West, Gilbert ‘Education’ and ‘On the Abuse of Travelling.’

White, Kirke ‘Christiad.’

Wiffen’s Translation of Tasso’s ‘Jerusalem Delivered.’

Isaac William’s, ‘Rule of Faith’ (‘Lyra Apostolica’).

Wilson’s ‘Children’s Dance’ and ‘Scholar’s Funeral.’

Wordsworth’s ‘Guilt and Sorrow,’ an imitation of Thomson, written in 1802.

Worsley’s Homer’s ‘Iliad.’

Worsley’s Homer’s ‘Odyssey.’

――――

THE ALLEY. (A Burlesque imitation of Spenser.)

In every town, where Thamis rolls his tyde, A narrow pass there is, with houses low; Where, ever and anon, the stream is eyed, And many a boat soft sliding to and fro. There oft are heard the notes of infant woe, The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall: How can ye, mothers, vex your children so? Some play, some eat, some lean against the wall, And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.

And on the broken pavement, here and there, Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie: A brandy and tobacco shop is near, And hens, and hogs, and dogs are feeding by; And here a sailor’s jacket hangs to dry. At every door are sun-burnt matrons seen, Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry; Now singing shrill, and scolding oft between; Scolds answer foul-mouth’d scolds; bad neighbourhood I ween.

The snappish cur (the passengers’ annoy) Close at my heel with yelping treble flies; The whimpering girl, and hoarser-screaming boy, Join to the yelping treble, shrilling cries; The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise, And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound; To her full pipes the grunting hog replies; The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round, And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep bass are drown’d.

Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch, Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch, Cod, Whiting, oyster, mackarel, sprat or plaice; There learn’d the speech from tongues that never cease. Slander beside her, like a magpie, chatters, With Envy, (spitting cat) dread foe to peace; Like a cursed cur, Malice before her clatters, And vexing every wight, tears clothes and all to tatters.

(One very coarse verse omitted.)

Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town, Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch; Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown, And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich, Grots, statues, urns, and John’s dog and bitch, Ne village is without, on either side, All up the silver Thames, or all adown; Ne Richmond’s self, from whose tall front are eyed Vales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor’s towery pride.

ALEXANDER POPE.

――――

THE HOLIDAYER.

The sportive swain in Sunday clothes is dressed, And struts he proudly, head high held in air; His sweetheart, who’s with charms like his impressed, Thinketh, perdie, ‘Are we not both all there’? Nor lacketh she adornment’s artful aid, But with enticements rare is she yclout; My pen, I ween, would fail describe the maid, But she with practised skill is trickéd out, And that she pleaseth Lubin fair Chloe doth not doubt.

From train and chaise they run to where the sands Invite the lovers――many joys be there. They foot it to the strains of German bands, And at time-honoured Punch and Judy stare. The wheedling portrait-taker catcheth them, Their likeness taketh, and their cash also; The wily boatman useth stratagem, And out upon the billows they do go―― Not soon will they forget what followeth, I trow.

Then viands meet for holiday they buy―― Pork pies, fresh “natives,” sausages, cold beef―― And as, forsooth, such cakes make folk’s mouth dry, The flowing cans do furnish much relief. At length the railway bell doth loudly ring, To tell them they no longer mote there stay; They crowd in train, they songs again do sing, As from the festive scene they go away. When morrow cometh――ah, that dreadful holiday!

Funny Folks, June 12, 1886.

The following is the title of a small book written in imitation of Spenser’s style:――

“An original Canto of Spencer (sic): Designed as part of his Fairy Queen, but never Printed.”――Now made Publick by NESTOR IRONSIDE Esq.――The Second Edition. LONDON. Printed for James Roberts, near the Oxford Arms in Warwick Lane, MDCCXIV.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

BORN, 1667. | DIED, October 29, 1745.

THE STATE-COACH. (In Imitation of the Manner of Dr. Swift.)

Once on a time a grand lord-may’r (No matter when, no matter where) Kept a huge pompous coach of state, Of most enormous bulk and weight; And on the times of public joy, To wheel about the pond’rous toy, He kept besides a noble string Of horses, fit to draw a king; All of high blood, all beasts of breeding, But vicious from excess of feeding; Of course, intractable and heady, Yet in one point perversely steady, Viz., each good steed was true and hearty To his own interest and his party; Nay, this curs’d spirit hast possest To such degree each sturdy beast, That not a single chuff would move From threats or soothing, fear or love, Unless in partnership he drew With those of his confed’rate crew, Though thus the clumsy and the clever, Ill-pair’d oft hobbled on together. Hence when the coach was order’d out, Buck would refuse to match with Stout, At least one inch would not proceed Unless impetuous Di’mond led, Who when of late our grand premier, And then uncheck’d in his career, While he tugg’d on the vast machine O’er rough and smooth, through thick and thin, Would often with their rapid turn Make the wheels creak and axle burn; Yet give the haughty devil his due, Though bold his quarterings, they were true: Yes, let us not his skill disparage, He never once o’erset the carriage, Though oft he whirl’d it, one would think, Just o’er the pitfall’s headlong brink; While at each hair-breadth ’scape, his foes Would cry, there, there, by G――d, it goes! And as stiff Buck would ne’er submit But on these terms to champ the bit, Stout in return was full as sullen, Nor the same harness would he pull in, Unless by cautious Duke preceded, Or by pacific Sawney headed: The body-coachman, hence unable To rule the refractory stable, Was forc’d to leave the saucy brutes To terminate their own disputes; And when they deign’d to wear the traces, Chuse their own partners and their places; But, tir’d themselves with these distractions, Resolv’d at last the several factions (For in their anger all had wit) Some terms of union to admit, Which, that more firmly they might bind, Drawn in this form by all were sign’d:

We the contracting steeds, (exprest Here was the name of each prime beast, As Di’mond, Sawney, Duke) however Determined not to work together, Yet by these presents are agreed Together peaceably to feed: On this account then (work or play) Let each receive his ’custom’d pay; Confirm we by concurring votes To each his daily peck of oats: Besides, omit we by no means Proportion’d quantities of beans; Nor yet warm mashes when we chuse ’em, Nor Bracken’s balls when pleas’d to use ’em; For as ’tis likely from full feeding, At times, diseases may be breeding, ’Tis right for ev’ry horse that is sick, Who finds the food should find the physic.

These previous articles now clos’d, Here prudent Di’mond interpos’d, Long fam’d for his contempt of pelf, And views which center’d not in self, “How chang’d at present!” (or no more Wears he that mask which once he wore.) Quoth he (wrapp’d round with many a clout His greasy heels, the horses gout) “Snug now ourselves and our dependants, Shall we neglect our dear descendants? Nay e’en from Scripture we should learn For our own households due concern; Lest we incur then, to our shame, Of infidels th’ accursed name. Provide we next (if such your will is) For all your present colts and fillies; No matter, tho’ for this supply We drain our master’s coffers dry: Stretch we the grant too, if ye please, E’en to the future colts of these; Then to their coltlings in entail, ’Till issue of such issue fail: Well, bullies, are you all content?” Each steed here snorted his assent; And now adjusted their pretensions, And thus secur’d their long-breath’d pensions, Like porkers fattening in the sty, On their fat sides at ease they lie; Uplitter’d to their ears in straw, Yet not a single beast will draw.

Dogs! to reduce you all to reason, I wish, at least, for some short season, That in your present master’s stead, Too meek to tame so rough a breed, Too mild to curb your factious spirit, Too good to treat ye as ye merit, Stern boisterous Cromwell from the dead, Or bluff old Hal would lift his head, That I might see you bound and skip Beneath their disciplining whip; That I might see your pamper’d hides Flogg’d, ’till from out your furrow’d sides Spun, in each part, the sizy blood, Too rich from sloth and copious food; That thus let out at all these sluices, It may purge off its vicious juices; While I should hear you, at each jerk, Cry, “Lash no more, we’ll work, we’ll work.”

From The Foundling Hospital for Wit, Vol. IV. 1786.

――――

THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON. (In Imitation of Dean Swift.)

Parson, these things in thy possessing Are better than the bishop’s blessing. A wife that makes conserves; a steed That carries double when there’s need; October store, and best Virginia, Tithe-pig, and mortuary guinea; Gazettes sent gratis down, and frank’d; For which thy patron’s weekly thank’d; A large Concordance, bound long since; Sermons to Charles the First, when Prince; A chronicle of ancient standing; A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in; The Polyglott――three parts,――my text: Howbeit,――likewise――now to my next: Lo here the Septuagint,――and Paul, To sum the whole,――the close of all.

He that has these, may pass his life, Drink with the Squire, and kiss his wife; On Sundays preach, and eat his fill; And fast on Fridays――if he will; Toast Church and Queen, explain the news, Talk with churchwardens about pews, Pray heartily for some new gift, And shake his head at Doctor Swift.

ALEXANDER POPE.

In the works of Oliver Goldsmith two poetical imitations of Dean Swift appear, one is entitled “A new Simile in the Manner of Swift,” the other, and the more amusing, is given below.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

Logicians have but ill defin’d, As rational the human mind; Reason, they say, belongs to man, But let them prove it if they can. Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, By ratiocinations specious, Have strove to prove with great precision, With definition and division, Homo est ratione preditum; But for my soul I cannot credit ’em. And must in spite of them maintain, That man and all his ways are vain; And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a weak and erring creature. That instinct is a surer guide, Than reason, boasting mortal’s pride; And that brute beasts are far before ’em, Deus est anima brutorum. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute, Bring action for assault and battery, Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? O’er plains they ramble unconfin’d, No politics disturb the mind; They eat their meals, and take their sport, Nor know who’s in or out at court; They never to the levee go To treat as dearest friend, a foe; They never importune his Grace, Nor ever cringe to men in place; Nor undertake a dirty job, Nor draw the quill to write for Bob; Fraught with invective they ne’er go To folks at Pater-Noster Row: No judges, fiddlers, dancing masters, No pickpockets, or poetasters, Are known to honest quadrupeds, No single brute his fellows leads. Brutes never meet in bloody fray, Nor cut each other’s throats for pay. Of beasts, it is confess’d, the ape Comes nearest us in human shape. Like man he imitates each fashion, And malice is his ruling passion; But both in malice and grimaces, A courtier any ape surpasses. Behold him humbly cringing wait Upon the minister of state; View him soon after to inferiors Aping the conduct of superiors: He promises with equal air, And to perform takes equal care. He in his turn finds imitators, At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, Their master’s manners still contract, And footmen, lords, and dukes can act, Thus at the court both great and small, Behave alike, for all ape all.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

JAMES BROWN.

(“Baron” Brown, the Durham Poet.)

Hone’s Every Day Book, (Vol. II, p. 1218) contains a record of the career, and a portrait of this eccentric individual, who lived in Newcastle-on-Tyne during the first quarter of the present century, when he published a series of extraordinary writings which he considered Poems, and assumed the title of Poet-Laureate. Brown was known to be inordinately vain, and many letters were sent him purporting to come from the leading poets and authors of the day. All of these he believed to be genuine, and would show them to his friends, (who were frequently the real authors) with much pride. These letters, which were chiefly in verse, were produced by the law and medical students of Durham and Newcastle, and of the Catholic College of Ushaw. In 1821, Brown received a large parchment signed G.R. attested by Messrs. Canning and Peel, to which was suspended a large unmeaning seal, which he believed to be the great seal of Great Britain, conferring upon him the title of Baron Brown of Durham, in the County Palatine of Durham, in consequence of a translation of his works having been the means of converting the Mogul empire. From that moment he assumed the name and style of “Baron Brown,” and had a wooden box made for the preservation of his patent. Of the poems that were sent to him only the following fragments have been preserved:――

The first is an imitation of Wilson’s Isle of Palms.

Poetic dreams float round me now, My spirit where art thou? Oh! art thou watching the moonbeams smile In the groves of palm in an Indian isle; Or dost thou hang over the lovely main And list to the boatswain’s boisterous strain; Or dost thou sail on sylphid wings Through liquid fields of air, Or, riding on the clouds afar, Dost thou gaze on the beams of the evening star So beautiful and so fair. Oh no! oh no! sweet spirit of mine Thou art entering a holy strain divine A strain which is so sweet, Oh! one might think ’twas a fairy thing, A thing of love and blessedness, Singing in holy tenderness, A lay of peaceful quietness, Within a fairy street! But ah! ’tis Brown. &c., &c.

The next was supposed to be written by Sir Walter Scott. (Lady of the Lake.)

The heath-cock shrill his clarion blew Among the heights of Benvenue, And fast the sportive echo flew, Adown Glenavin’s vale. But louder, louder was the knell, Of Brown’s Northumbrian penance-bell,[46] The noise was heard on Norham fell, And rung through Teviotdale.

There was also a respectable burlesque of The Ancient Mariner, commencing:――

“It is a lion’s trumpeter, And he stoppeth one of three.”

It is a pity that only these few extracts were preserved by Mr. John Sykes in his “Local Records, or Historical Register of Remarkable Events,” 1824.

THE BISHOP’S WISH. (After Robert Bloomfield.)

Be mine a modest pension clear Of just six thousand pounds a-year; And to complete my humble lot, Give Fulham Palace for my cot. Let me enjoy a quiet life, Away from controversial strife; My daily meal should ne’er disturb My tranquil mind! for meat or herb, Or fish or fowl, I ne’er would look, But leave it to my foreign cook. My drink――I ask no better sort, A bin of six-and-twenty port; With now and then, to warm my veins, Some Burgundy or brisk Champagnes. Of cash I need no large amount, But at the Bank a good account, On which――(my tradesmen not to vex)―― To draw from time to time my cheques. My simple wishes thus supplied, I into privacy will glide; My Bishop’s mitre I’ll resign, And calm contentment shall be mine, If they will only give me clear For life――six thousand pounds a-year.

Punch. August 9, 1856.

――――

THE POT-BOY.

Let poets sing the high-flown praise Of shepherds and of rural joys, Whilst I direct my humbler lays To town, its bustle and its noise.

The Pot-boy’s joys shall be my theme, Nor shall a barren subject be, When rising from some lightsome dream, Whitechapel streets he treads with glee.

Bliss is not always join’d to wealth, Nor dwells beneath the gilded roof; For poverty is bliss with health, Of that my Pot-boy stands a proof.

See him with steady footsteps here, How straight he bears the brimful jug, And sips with thirsty lips the beer, Which high o’ertops the pewter mug.

When night resumes her gloomy sway, The object of his fond desire; How happy then he’ll sport and play, Around the blazing kitchen fire.

Then to beguile away the time, He tells the kitchen nymphs his tale; His left hand bears some doggrel rhyme, And in his right――a pot of ale.

And hard must be that kitchen fair, Who could his am’rous tale neglect; And often Moll or Jenny dare, For him some stouter swain reject.

Then weary to his garret hies, Or if perchance the beds be spare, Upon the straw he’ll close his eyes, And sleep with Dapple or the mare.

These lines were written in August, 1808, by Connop Thirlwall, a precocious youth of eleven years of age, on the occasion of receiving the present of a copy of Bloomfield’s poem, “The Plough Boy.” The little work from which “The Pot-boy” is extracted, is entitled “Primitiæ; or Essays and Poems,” by Connop Thirlwall, with a preface by his father, the Rev, Thomas Thirlwall, M.A., who asserts that these Essays and Poems were entirely composed by his son before he was eleven years of age, a statement which requires considerable credulity from the reader.

JOHN KEATS.

BORN Oct. 29, 1796. | DIED Dec. 27, 1820.

Who kill’d John Keats? “I” says the Quarterly, So savage and Tartarly; “’Twas one of my feats.”

Who shot the arrow? “The poet-priest Milman (So ready to kill man), Or Southey, or Barrow.”

LORD BYRON. July, 1821.

The following imitation of two Odes by John Keats is taken from The Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor:――

ODE ON A JAR OF PICKLES.

I.

A sweet, acidulous, down-reaching thrill Pervades my sense: I seem to see or hear The lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich Hill In autumn, when the crispy leaves are sere: And odours haunt me of remotest spice From the Levant or musky-aired Cathay, Or from the saffron-fields of Jericho, Where everything is nice: The more I sniff, the more I swoon away, And what else mortal palate craves, forego.

II.

Odours unsmelled are keen, but those I smell Are keener; wherefore let me sniff again! Enticing walnuts, I have known ye well In youth, when pickles were a passing pain; Unwitting youth, that craves the candy stem, And sugar-plums to olives doth prefer, And even licks the pots of marmalade When sweetness clings to them: But now I dream of ambergris and myrrh, Tasting these walnuts in the poplar shade.

III.

Lo! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon, Plucked with its dew, the cucumber is here, As to the Dryad’s parching lips a boon, And crescent bean-pods, unto Bacchus dear; And, last of all, the pepper’s pungent globe, The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire, Provoking purple draughts; and, surfeited, I cast my trailing robe O’er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre, And twist the Delphic wreath to suit my head.

IV.

Here shall my tongue in other wise be soured Than fretful men’s in parched and palsied days; And, by the mid-May’s dusky leaves embowered, Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise. No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born, Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine; Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed, The lemon-tinted morn Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine: Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void.

――――

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.

Oh, what can ail thee, seedy swell, Alone, and idly loitering? The season’s o’er――at operas No “stars” now sing.

Oh, what can ail thee, seedy swell, So moody! in the dumps so down? Why linger here when all the world Is “out of town?”

I see black care upon thy brow, Tell me, are I.O.U.’s now due? And in thy pouch, I fear thy purse Is empty, too.

“I met a lady at a ball, Full beautiful――a fairy bright; Her hair was golden (dyed, I find!) Struck by the sight――

“I gazed, and long’d to know her then: So I entreated the M.C. To introduce me――and he did! Sad hour for me.

“We paced the mazy dance, and too, We talked thro’ that sweet evening long, And to her――it came to pass, I breathed Love’s song.

“She promised me her lily hand, She seemed particularly cool: No warning voice then whispered low, ‘Thou art a fool!’

“Next day I found I lov’d her not, And then she wept and sigh’d full sore, Went to her lawyer, on the spot, And talked it o’er.

“She brought an action, too, for breach Of promise――’tis the fashion――zounds! The jury brought in damages Five thousand pounds!

“And this is why I sojourn here Alone, and idly loitering, Tho’ all the season’s through and tho’ No ‘stars’ now sing!”

The Figaro. September 15, 1875.

BEAUTY.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and oer’darkened ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils, With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make ’Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms; And such too is the grandeur of the domes We have imagined for the mighty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read.

JOHN KEATS.

――――

KEATS IMPROVED.

“In his opinion, a railway was in itself a beautiful object.”――Mr. Labouchere in the Debate on the Ambleside Railway Bill.

A Locomotive is a joy for ever: It’s loveliness enchants us; it shall never Be blamed for noisiness, but still will keep The country quiet for us, and our sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and easy breathing. Therefore in every Railway Bill we’re wreathing, An iron band to bind us to the earth, Spite of the sentimental, who to mirth, More manly natures, spite of foggy days, Of all the unhealthy and smoke-darkened ways, Made for our travelling: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty makes the whistle’s squall, Sweet to our spirits. Such the bellman’s tune, Roofs, old and rotten, leaking, a shady boon For passengers; and such Excursion bills, With the waste walls they cling to; and loud shrills, With which the drivers nightly shindy make, Sharp shunting shocks, the grinding of the brake, The rich soot-sprinkling that befouls our homes; And such too is the grandeur of the domes, Art hath imagined for the Engine shed. All lovely tales that ever we have read, Of Attic temples on the river’s brink, Before that roof at Cannon Street must shrink!

COVENTRY PATMORE.

The best known work of this poet “The Angel in the House,” published in 1855, was the subject of the following parody written by Shirley Brooks in 1860:

THE BABY IN THE HOUSE.

By Poventry Catmore, author of the “Angel in the House,” etc.

The Doctor.

“A finer than your newborn child,” The Doctor said, “I never saw,” And I, but half believing, smiled To think he thought me jolly raw. And then I viewed the crimson thing, And listened to its doleful squeal, And rather wished the nurse would bring The pap-boat with its earliest meal. My wife remarked, “I fear, a snub,” The Doctor, “Madam, never fear,” “’Tis hard, Ma’am, in so young a cub To say.” Then Nurse, “A cub! a Dear!”

The Glove.

“’Twere meet you tied the knocker up,” The Doctor laughed, and said, “Good-bye. And till you drown that yelping pup Your lady will not close an eye.” Then round I sauntered to the mews, And Ponto heard his fate was near,―― Here few of coachmen will refuse A crown to spend in beastly beer! And then I bought a white kid glove, Lucina’s last and favourite sign, Wound it the knocker’s brass above, And tied it with a piece of twine.

The Advertisement.

“But, Love,” she said, in gentle voice, (’Twas ever delicate and low,) “The fact which makes our hearts rejoice So many folks would like to know. My Scottish cousins on the Clyde, Your uncle at Northavering Gap, The Adams’s at Morningside, And Jane, who sent me up the cap. So do.” The new commencing life The Times announced, “May 31, At 16, Blackstone Place, the wife Of Samuel Bobchick, of a son.”

The Godfathers.

“Of course your father must be one,” Jemima said, in thoughtful tones; “But what’s the use of needy Gunn, And I detest that miser Jones.” I hinted Brown. “Well, Brown would do, But then his wife’s a horrid Guy.” De Blobbins? “Herds with such a crew.” Well love, whom have you in your eye? “Dear Mr. Burbot.” Yes, he’d stand, And as you say, he’s seventy-three, Rich, childless, hates that red-nosed band Of nephews――Burbot let it be.

The Godmother.

“We ought to ask your sister Kate,” “Indeed, I shan’t,” Jemima cried, “She’s given herself such airs of late, I’m out of patience with her pride. Proud that her squinting husband (Sam, You know I hate that little sneak) Has got a post at Amsterdam, Where luckily he goes next week. No, never ask of kin and kith. We’ll have that wife of George Bethune’s, Her husband is a silver-smith, And she’ll be sure to give some spoons.”

The Christening.

“I sign him,” said the Curate, Howe, O’er Samuel Burbot George Bethune, Then baby kicked up such a row, As terrified that Reverend coon. The breakfast was a stunning spread, As e’er confectioner sent in, And playfully my darling said, “Sam costs papa no end of tin.” We laughed, made speeches, drank for joy: Champagne hath stereoscopic charms; For when Nurse brought our little boy, I saw two Babies in her arms.

――――

THE SPOONS. By Coventry Flatmore.

’Tis six o’clock: at Jones’s house, That stands in Russell Square, And in his dining room there sit The guests, while on a chair That’s placed at top sits Jones himself; Near him a loving pair.

His daughter Bertha and her swain Young Chintip, who’s a clerk In the War-Office, and who’s got Good interest: Reader, mark How snowy-white his shirt front is; Not like his hair――that’s dark.

How happy looks the festive board! The dishes too invite Those present to begin; these do As bid, with all their might; Meanwhile the wine smiles and the cloth Looks comfortably bright.

* * * * *

And so the Tailor goes to Jones And says “I know that he In six weeks’ time your loving childs’ Liege lord forsooth will be And therefore p’rhaps you’ll pay the bill Its all the same to me.”

“Such may have been the case,” says Jones. “But now since he has spent So much, he ne’er shall have my child; I only willed consent When all who did not dance stood still, And Gent knew less of Gent.

“And as for your request, I pray You list, sir: no one cares To pay another person’s debts Who gives himself such airs, And so depart instanter, if You’d not be kicked downstairs.”

* * * * *

When Chintip learned that Bertha was Another’s bride, he swore He should do some rash action in His grief, that he no more Could call her his――nor else her wealth, Which last perplexed him sore.

For creditors now dunned alway Each day without respite; And he could ne’er meet their demands, For he was cleared out-quite; And they refused to be put off Which on their part was right.

And so unto a Coffee-house He went to take some tea; And looking in the next box p’rhaps, Saw spoons in number three Therein his pocket with hands red With guilt perhaps put he.

And when the white tied waiter came, He talked about the skies In low and silent tones perhaps, That drown’d all the cries Bawled in the street; the waiter though Said “Sir I keep my eyes

Full-orbed about me and I saw You take them spoons and so You’ll perhaps be kind enough unto The station house to go.”

* * * * *

And on the day on which his fate In Newgate-list appears, The lovely Bertha takes the Times And reads “for seven years――” Her rosy shoulders weep with grief, Her tongue speaks only tears――

It was a very violent cold That made her sight grow dim, And o’er her shady eyes p’rhaps cast A disagreeable film―― For Chintip figured as “Smith” And so ’twas not for him.

From The Puppet Showman’s Album. Illustrated by Gavarni. No date.

MISS JEAN INGELOW.

THE APPLE-WOMAN’S SONG.

The marten flew to the finch’s nest, Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay: The arrow it sped to thy brown mate’s breast; Low in the broom is thy mate to-day!

“Liest thou low, love! low in the broom? Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay, Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom.” She beateth her wings, and away, away.

“Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told, (Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay,) O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!”

The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest, Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay. Mine is the trouble that rent her breast, And home is silent, and love is clay.

This little ballad, which is taken from Mopsa the Fairy, by Jean Ingelow (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1869) is supposed to have been the original which C. S. Calverley had in his mind when he composed the amusing parody commencing:――

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

This ballad has already been alluded to, and some imitations of it given on p. 71 of this volume.

It will be found in Fly Leaves, by C. S. Calverley (London: George Bell & Sons, 1878), in which there is another burlesque imitation of Miss Jean Ingelow’s poetry, entitled――

LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION.

In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean; Meaning, however, is no great matter), Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;

Thro’ God’s own heather we wonn’d together, I and my Willie (O love my love): I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, And flitterbats wavered alow, above:

Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing (Boats in that climate are so polite), And sands were a ribbon of green endowing, And O the sundazzle on bark and bight!

Thro’ the rare red heather we danced together, (O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers: I must mention again it was glorious weather, Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours;――

By rises that flushed with their purple favours, Thro’ becks that brattled o’er grasses sheen, We walked and waded, we two young shavers; Thanking our stars we were both so green.

We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, In fortunate parallels! Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:――

Songbirds darted about, some inky As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds; Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky―― They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!

But they skim over bents which the millstream washes, Or hang in the lift ’neath a white cloud’s hem; They need no parasols, no goloshes; And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

Then we thrid God’s cowslips (as erst His heather) That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms; And snapt――(it was perfectly charming weather)―― Our fingers at fate and her goddess-glooms.

And Willie ’gan sing (oh, his notes were fluty; Wafts fluttered them out to the white-wing’d sea)―― Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty, Rhymes (better to put it) of “ancientry.”

Bowers of flowers encounter’d showers In William’s carol――(O love my Willie!) When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow I quite forgot what――say a daffodilly:

A nest in a hollow, “with buds to follow,” I think occurred next in his nimble strain; And clay that was “kneaden” of course in Eden―― A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:

* * * * *

O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers, And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, Could be furled together, this genial weather, And carted, or carried on “wafts” away, Nor ever again trotted out――ah me! How much fewer volumes of verse there’d be.

Admirers of Miss Ingelow’s fiction may be interested in knowing the history of those funny little bits of verse with which she enlivened the later chapters of “Fated to be Free.” There can be no doubt that they were intended as a delicate kind of retaliation to Mr. Calverley. As he, who was a cunning master of every kind of metre, had thought fit to directly parody Miss Ingelow’s most popular pieces, by exposing and exaggerating all her worst faults, it was only natural that she should seek to be revenged in kind. But it is clear that the lady cannot cope with Calverley in parody. Her verses read more like deliberate nonsense, and lack the faculty of imitation of style in which he excelled. The following satirical lines, from “Fated to be Free” illustrate this point, “Crayshaw” having been substituted for “Calverley,” doubtless for the sake of the rhyme:――

That maiden’s nose, that puppy’s eyes, Which I this happy day saw, They’ve touched the manliest chords that rise I’ the breast of Clifford Crayshaw.

* * * * *

All day she worked, no lover lent His aid; and yet with glee At dusk she sought her home, content, That beauteous Bumble Bee.

A cell it was, nor more nor less, But oh! all’s one to me, Whether you write it with an S, Dear girl, or with a C.

* * * * *

Then doth Tuck-man smile, “Them there (Ho and Hi and futile Hum) Jellies three-and-sixpence air, Use of spoons an equal sum.”

Trees are rich. Sweet task, ’tis o’er, “Tuck-man, you’re a brick,” they cry. Wildly then, shake hands, all four (Hum and Ho, the end is Hi).

――――

THE SHRIMP-GATHERERS.

Scarlet spaces of sand and ocean. Gulls that circle and winds that blow; Baskets and boats and men in motion, Sailing and scattering to and fro.

Girls are waiting, their wimples adorning With crimson sprinkles the broad gray flood; And down the beach the blush of the morning, Shines reflected from moisture and mud.

Broad from the yard the sails hang limpy, Lightly the steersman whistles a lay; Pull with a will, for the nets are shrimpy, Pull with a whistle, our hearts are gay!

Tuppence a quart; there are more than fifty, Coffee is certain, and beer galore: Coats are corduroy, and minds are thrifty, Won’t we go it on sea and shore?

See, behind, how the hills are freckled With low white huts, where the lasses bide! See, before, how the sea is speckled With sloops and schooners that wait the tide!

Yarmouth fishers may rail and roister, Tyne-side boys may shout “Give way!” Let them dredge for the lobster and oyster, Pink and sweet are our shrimps to-day!

Shrimps and the delicate periwinkle, Such are the sea-fruits lasses love: Ho! to your nets till the blue stars twinkle, And the shutterless cottages gleam above!

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

――――

In a volume of poems by Miss Jean Ingelow, published in 1880, there was a long one entitled The Letter L, which gave rise to the following parody, printed in “The Daily News” of December 4, 1885.

THE LETTER L. By a Despairing Tory.

Oh, letter L, Miss Ingelow Once wrote a poem all about you, And what she meant I do not know, I know I never thought to doubt you! But now I fairly tell you this―― I wish I’d never learnt to spell, You come between me and my bliss, Oh, hated, hated letter L!

As daily to the Club I go, My heart with honest ardour burns, I hope for Gladstone’s overthrow, Expect Conservative returns; But where I long to see a C, Of Tory victory to tell, I only meet the face of thee, Oh hated, hateful letter L!

The Labour and the Crofter vote, I do not greatly dread them now, Rather the influence I note Of that once sacred beast, the Cow. I mark a lot of N’s and P’s That brand the people of Parnell; I’m quite prepared to swallow these, But not, oh not the letter L!

This was at the time of the general election, when the returns were daily being scanned with great interest, and the C’s and L’s and P’s were eagerly counted up by all politicians.

HORACE.

Messrs. George Bell & Sons have recently published an interesting collection entitled, “Horace’s Odes, Englished and Imitated” selected and arranged by Charles W. G. Cooper. This contains several burlesque imitations of Horace’s Odes, but not the following, which are certainly also worthy of preservation.

“Persicos odi, puer, apparatus.”

Buttons, you booby, I wish you would learn; I don’t want the big lamp, nor yet the épergne When I sit down to dine by myself. I’ll have no made-dishes in future; tell cook She may keep her receipts shut up close in her book, Her stock in tureen, and her game on her hook, And her Bang-Mary bright on her shelf.

And you lay the table-cloth neatly and straight (You’re a stupid young owl, and you won’t learn to wait, You’re always too slow, or too fast); I’ll just have two chops, underdone, if you please, Some stout in the pewter, a tin of stewed cheese, Then some port, wherein flutter the wings of the bees, Will make up my modest repast.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1859.

Mr. Shirley Brooks wrote many other humorous translations of Horace, which will be found in his Wit and Humour. London, Bradbury & Co. 1883.

――――

ON THE COMMENCEMENT OF TERM. (See Horace. Book 1. Ode IV.)

Vacation’s o’er,――in every street We soon shall many a Cantab meet; For hither numbers daily hie, Or by the Tele,[47] or the Fly.[47] Once more the halls, so desert late, With smoking cheer, our senses greet; Freshmen and Sophs with one intent Haste to the scene of merriment. O’er Alma Mater’s sacred head, Who widely late her banner spread, Fell solitude,――to jocund song, Now yields her reign usurp’d too long: While Bacchus, rosy god of wine! } And Venus, with her joys divine, } Dispute the Empire with the Nine.} But would you reach the heights of fame, And glory from Apollo’s claim; Now, now, the Chaplet ’gin to weave, Now, vows to favouring heaven give. For Death, whose unrelenting hand, No mortal prowess can withstand, Strikes surely, with impartial dart, Masters’ and under-graduates’ heart And the short space that here we tarry, At least “in statu pupillari,” Forbids our growing hopes to germ Alas! beyond the appointed term. Nay, even now our time is o’er, And January threatening lower,[48] And warn us quickly to resign The jovial monarchy of wine; To freshmen yield the boasted claim, As from the boards we take our name.

From Gradus ad Cantabrigiam by a Brace of Cantabs. London, 1824.

――――

NOVEMBER 1858.

Derby. While Peel’s old ministry could twine Thy lot political with mine; Ere yet on corn were disagreed, As colleagues we were blest indeed.

Gladdy. Whilst thou didst feel no rival flame, Nor Gladdy next to Dizzy came, O then thy Gladdy’s echoing name Excelled its since Homeric fame.

Derby. My heart from Peelite loves outworn By Dizzy’s corkscrew curls is drawn; My forfeit life I’ll freely give. So Diz――my better life――may live.

Gladdy. My bosom burns to yield possession, Of all my charms to Bright next session; I’ll face two several deaths with joy, So fate but spare my broad-brimm’d boy.

Derby. What if our ancient love awoke And bound us with its golden yoke; If Diz were sent some Indian venture, And Gladdy his old place re-enter?

Gladdy. Bright as the Morning Star is B., Thou rougher than the Adrian Sea, And fickle as light bark; yet I With thee would live――with thee would die.

ANONYMOUS.

Thackeray also wrote some humourous versions of Horace, which are familiar to everyone. In 1862 a small volume entitled Railway Horace, by G. Chichester Oxenden, was published by Upham and Beet, London; the translations were not destitute of merit, but are now rather out of date.

――――:o:――――

JOHN GAY.

THE BEGGAR’S OPERA.

Macheath’s Song.

How happy could I be with either, Were t’other dear charmer away! But while ye thus teaze me together, To neither a word will I say But toll de roll, etc.

――――

How happy could I be with ether, Were mesmeric charmers away; But whilst they perplex me together, I’ll cut, and no longer will stay. Sing Robinson, Thomson, and Cooper, Tol lol de rol, lol de rol lay, There’s nothing like ether and stupor For making an hospital gay.

From The Man in the Moon, Vol. I.

In the same volume there was another parody, dealing with a similar topic, entitled――

A LAY OF GUTHRIE. AIR――“Maiden, I will ne’er deceive thee.”

Patient, I will ne’er deceive thee, Never pain thee, never grieve thee: Take this tube, inhale it so, Out carbonic acid blow. From your lips the mouthpiece move, Only when you senseless prove. Patient I’ll before we part, Amputate without a smart. Patient, I will ne’er deceive thee, &c.

“The Beggar’s Opera,” written by Mr. John Gay, was first produced at the theatre in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, in 1728, and was so successful that it made “Gay rich and Rich (the lessee) gay.” This encouraged Gay to write a sequel to it, entitled “Polly,” which was produced in 1729, but met with far less approbation.

An anonymous play was produced in 1773, called “The Bow Street Opera,” on the plan of “The Beggar’s Opera,” in which the most celebrated songs were parodied.

John Gay was the author of the well-known song Black-eyed Susan, “All in the Downs the fleet was moor’d,” of which an excellent Latin translation will be found in the Poetical Works of Vincent Bourne.

Dr. ERASMUS DARWIN.

1731-1802.

The fame of this once popular poet has been so utterly eclipsed by the philosophical and scientific writings of his grandson, that there is some danger that the author of “The Loves of the Plants” and “The Botanic Garden” may soon be quite forgotten. Fifty years ago the Death of Eliza at the Battle of Minden, taken from “The Loves of the Plants” was a favourite recitation, and was included in every book of Elegant Extracts.

This detached passage is quoted below, together with a modern parody upon it:――

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crown’d height, O’er Minden’s plains spectatress of the fight; Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife Her dearer self, the partner of her life; From hill to hill the rushing host pursued, And view’d his banner, or believed she view’d. Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread, Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led; And one fair girl amid the loud alarm Slept on her kerchief, cradled on her arm: While round her brows bright beams of honour dart, And love’s warm eddies circle round her heart. ――Near and more near the intrepid beauty press’d, Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest, Heard the exulting shout――“They run!――they run!” “He’s safe!” she cried, “he’s safe! the battle’s won!”

――A ball now hisses through the airy tides, (Some Fury wings it, and some Demon guides,) Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck, Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck; The red stream issuing from her azure veins, Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains. ――“Ah me!” she cried, and sinking on the ground, Kiss’d her dear babes, regardless of the wound: “Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn, Wait, gushing life, oh! wait my love’s return!”―― Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far, The angel, Pity, shuns the walks of war;―― “Oh spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age! On me, on me,” she cried, “exhaust your rage!” Then with weak arms, her weeping babes caress’d, And sighing, hid them in her blood-stain’d vest.

From tent to tent, the impatient warrior flies, Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes: Eliza’s name along the camp he calls, Eliza echoes through the canvas walls; Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread, O’er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead, Vault o’er the plain,――and in the tangled wood,―― Lo! dead Eliza――weltering in her blood! Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds, With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds, “Speak low,” he cries, and gives his little hand, “Mamma’s asleep upon the dew-cold sand; Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake―― Why do you weep! Mamma will soon awake.” ――“She’ll wake no more!” the hopeless mourner cried, Upturn’d his eyes, and clasp’d his hands, and sigh’d; Stretch’d on the ground, awhile entranced he lay, And press’d warm kisses on the lifeless clay; And then upsprung with wild convulsive start, And all the father kindled in his heart; “Oh, Heaven!” he cried, “my first rash vow forgive! These bind to earth, for these I pray to live.” Round his chill babes he wrapp’d his crimson vest, And clasp’d them sobbing, to his aching breast.

From The Loves of the Plants, by Dr. Erasmus Darwin.

ELIZA.

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crown’d height O’er Chobham’s plain, spectatress of the fight; Sought with proud eye, amid the noisy strife, Her own John Jenkins, private in the Life Guards Blue. This day a holyday she’d got, Telling her Missus (whether true or not, Who knows?) her grandmother in danger lay Of death, and might she go out for the day? From hill to hill the Guards the foe pursued; She viewed her Jenkins, or believed she viewed; And in full uniform what female heart Could look on Jenkins, and not feel Love’s dart? Near and more near th’ exulting Housemaid press’d. ’Twas Jenkins! What emotions fill’d her breast! She caught his eye,――then heard a shout, “They run!” “Now, then,” she cried, “he’ll come――the fight is done!” One Sergeant Jones approaches now her side, (Some demon pow’r it is his steps doth guide.) He smoothes the locks her graceful head that deck,―― Kisses her,――puts his arm about her neck, And whispers softly in her ear a vow, Swearing that he will love her then as now. “Heigho!” she sighs,――then in half-smother’d tones Consents, and so,――goes off with Sergeant Jones.

* * * * *

From tent to tent the impatient Jenkins flies;―― “Where is Eliza?” he despairing cries. Eliza’s name through all the camp he calls,―― “Eliza!” echoes through the canvas walls. Swift gains he the canteen. What horror’s here, Eliza with the Sergeant drinking beer! “Eliza false!” the hopeless Jenkins cried, Upturn’d his eyes, and clasp’d his hands, and sigh’d. “Have you, then, for a Sergeant, false one, scorn’d The ‘private’ station I so well adorn’d? I’ll be revenged.” The false Eliza smiles,―― “There’s not an area to be seen for miles.” Hopeless, despairing, Jenkins dropp’d one tear; And then upsprung, and wildly call’d for beer.

* * * * *

That night a whisper through the encampment went, Jenkins was carried, drunk, unto his tent.

Diogenes, 1853.

――――

But one of the most humorous parodies in the language, which was also founded upon Darwin’s poem, appeared in The Anti-Jacobin, it was entitled

THE LOVES OF THE TRIANGLES.

_A Mathematical and Philosophical Poem, Inscribed to Dr. Darwin._

Stay your rude steps, or e’er your feet invade The Muses’ haunts, ye sons of War and Trade! Nor you, ye legion fiends of Church and Law, Pollute these pages with unhallow’d paw! Debas’d, corrupted, grovelling, and confined, No Definitions touch your senseless mind; To you no Postulates prefer their claim, No ardent Axioms your dull souls inflame; For you, no Tangents touch, no Angles meet, No Circles join in osculation sweet! For me, ye Cissoids, round my temples bend Your wandering curves; ye Conchoids extend; Let playful Pendules quick vibration feel, While silent Cyclois rests upon her wheel; Let Hydrostatics, simpering as they go, Lead the light Naiads on fantastic toe; Let shrill Acoustics tune the tiny lyre; With Euclid sage fair Algebra conspire; The obedient pulley strong Mechanics ply, And wanton Optics roll the melting eye!

But chief, thou Nurse of the Didactic Muse, Divine Nonsensia, all thy soul infuse; The charms of Secants and of Tangents tell, How Loves and Graces in an Angle dwell; How slow progressive Points protract the Line, As pendant spiders spin the filmy twine; How lengthened Lines, impetuous sweeping round, Spread the wide Plane, and mark its circling bound; How Planes, their substance, with their motion grown, Form the huge Cube, the Cylinder, the Cone.

* * * * *

This parody has two drawbacks, in the first place it is much too long to be inserted here in full, in the second place, much of its humour depends on an acquaintance with the original poem, which comparatively few modern readers have. It will be found complete in The Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin.

There were several other parodies of Darwin’s Loves of the Plants, such as The Loves of the Colours, and The Loves of the Lowlier Plants, both of which were published about 1824.

――――:o:――――

NATURAL SELECTION. A Skit on the Darwinian Theory.

I have found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the cave men are Laid, Skull femur and pelvis are there, And spears that of silex they made.

But he ne’er could be true, she averred, Who would dig up an ancestor’s grave; And I loved her the more when I heard Such filial regard for the Cave.

My shelves they are furnished with stones, All sorted and labelled with care, And a splendid collection of bones, Each one of them ancient and rare.

One would think she might like to retire To my study――she calls it a “hole,” Not a fossil I heard her admire, But I begged it, or borrowed,――or stole.

But there comes an idea-less lad, With a strut, and a stare, and a smirk; And I watch, scientific though sad, The Law of Selection at work.

Of Science he hasn’t a trace, He seeks not the How or the Why. But he sings with an amateur’s grace, And dances much better than I.

And we know the more modified males By dance and by song win their wives, ’Tis a law that in “Aves” prevails And that even in “Homo” survives.

Shall I rage as they twirl in the valse? Shall I sneer as they carol and coo? Oh, no! for since Chloe is false I’m certain that Darwin is true.

From The Modern Apostle, by C. C. W. Naden.

――――

TO MY BELOVED.

Miss, I’m a Pensive Protoplasm, Born in some pre-historic chasm. I, and my humble fellow-men Are hydrogen, and oxygen, And nitrogen and carbon too, And so is Jane, and so are you. In stagnant water swarm our brothers And sisters, but we’ve many others, Among them animalculæ, And lizard’s eggs――and so, you see, My darling Vesta, show no pride, Nor turn coquettish head aside, Our pedigrees, as thus made out, Are no great things to boast about. The only comfort seems to be In this――philosophers agree That how a Protoplasm’s made Is mystery outside their trade. And we are parts, so say the sages, Of life come down from Long Past Ages. So let us haste in Hymen’s bands To join our protoplastic hands, And spend our gay organic life As happy man and happy wife.

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1869.

――――

PARODY EPITAPH ON DARWIN.

What needs my Darwin for his honoured bones, The labour of an age in pilèd stones? He, to our wonder and astonishment, Was hid beneath a grander monument, And in such pomp doth here sepulchrèd lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die!

From Travels, by “Umbra.” 1865.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

In the second volume of this collection (p. 236) will be found several parodies of Matthew Arnold’s Sonnet to George Cruikshank, and The Forsaken Merman, which had been printed some years before. Yet a writer in the Saturday Review, in a notice of Arnold’s poems, made the following confession of his ignorance:――

“Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne, and most of our lesser poets besides, have been parodied again and again; we do not remember to have seen a single parody of Mr. Arnold.… There is a subtlety about the structure of his verse and the harmony of his lines which defies imitation.”

The Superfine Review makes such claims to omniscience that it is refreshing to find a writer on its staff not only stating his belief that Arnold had not been parodied, but that his poetry defied parody, and this soon after the reading world had been delighted with the following successful burlesque, in Mr. W. H. Mallock’s The New Republic, published in London by Messrs. Chatto & Windus:――

“Softly the evening descends, Violet and soft. The sea Adds to the silence, below Pleasant and cool on the beach Breaking; yes, and a breeze Calm as the twilight itself Furtively sighs through the dusk, Listlessly lifting my hair, Fanning my thought-wearied brow, Thus I stand in the gloom Watching the moon-track begin Quivering to die like a dream Over the far sea-line To the unknown region beyond.

“So for ages hath man Gazed on the ocean of time From the shores of his birth, and, turning His eyes from the quays, the thronged Marts, the noise and the din To the far horizon, hath dreamed Of a timeless country beyond. Vainly: for how should he pass, Being on foot, o’er the wet Ways of the unplumbed waves? How, without ship, should he pass Over the shipless sea To the timeless country beyond?

“Ah, but once――once long ago, There came a ship white-sailed From the country beyond, with bright Oarsmen, and men that sang; Came to Humanity’s coasts, Called to the men on the shore, Joyously touched at the port. Then did time-weary man Climb the bulwarks, the deck Eagerly crowding. Anon With jubilant voices raised, And singing, “When Israel came Out of Egypt,” and whatso else In the psalm is written, they passed Out of the ken of the land, Over the far sea-line, To the unknown region beyond.

“Where are they now, then――they That were borne out of sight by the ship―― Our brothers, of times gone by? Why have they left us here, Solemn, dejected, alone, Gathered in groups on the shore? Why? For we, too, have gazed O’er the waste of waters, and watched For a sail as keenly as they. Ah, wretched men that we are! On our haggard faces and brows Aching, a wild breeze fawns Full of the scents of the sea, Redolent of regions beyond. Why, then, tarries the ship? When will her white sail rise Like a star on the sea-line? When?

“When?――And the answer comes From the sailless face of the sea, “Ah, vain watchers, what boots The calm of the evening? Have ye not watched through the day Turbulent waves, the expanse Endless, shaken with storm, And ask ye where is the ship? Deeper than plummet can dive She is bedded deep in the ooze, And over her tall mast floats The purple plain of the calm.”

“Yes――and never a ship Since this is sunken, will come Ever again o’er the waves―― Nay, not even the craft with the fierce Steersman, him of the marsh Livid, with wheels of flame Circling his eyes, to smite The lingering soul with his oar. ――Not that even. But we Drop where we stand one by one On the shingles and sands of time, And cover in taciturn gloom, With only perhaps some tear, Each for his brother the hushed Heart and the limitless dreams With a little gift of sand.”

――――

CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS. By a Modern Thinker.

’Tis Christmas-eve; a low wind breathes: The windows of the church are bright, And girls with happy eyes to-night Are hanging up the Christmas wreaths; And village voices by and by Will reach my windows through the trees With wild sweet music: “Praise on high To God, on earth good will and peace!”

O happy girls that hang the wreaths O village fiddlers, happy ye! Christmas to you still truly breathes Good-will and peace, but not to me!

Yes, gladness is your simple rôle Ye foolish girls, ye labouring poor; But ill would joy beseem my soul, To sigh, my past is, and endure. For as once Rousseau stood, I stand Apart, made picturesque by grief One of a small world-weary band, The orphans of a dead belief Through graveyards lone we love to stray, And sadly the sad tombs explore, And contradict the texts which say That we shall rise again once more. Our faith is dead, of course, and grief Fills up its room; and Christmas pie And turkey cannot bring relief To such as Obermann and I.

Ah, Obermann! and might I pass This English Christmastide with thee Far by those inland waves whose glass Brightens and breaks by Meillerie! Or else amidst the loveliest dells Alp-crags with pine we’d mix our sighs; Mourn at the sound of Christmas bells Sniff at the smells of Christmas pies; But thou art dead, and long dank grass And wet mould cools thy tired hot brain; Thou art lain down and now, alas, Of course you won’t get up again

Yet Obermann, ’tis better so; For if, sad slumberer, after all We were to re-arise you know ’Twould make us feel so very small. Best bear our grief this manlier way, And make our grief be balm to grief For if in faith sweet comfort lay There lurks sweet pride in unbelief.

Wherefore remembering this once more, Unto my childhood’s church I’ll go And bow my head to that low door I passed through standing long ago. I’ll sit in the accustomed place And make, whilst all the unlearned stare A mournful atheistic face At their vain noise of unheard prayer. Then whilst they hymn the heavenly birth And angel-voices from the skies, My thoughts shall go where Weimar’s earth For ever darkens Goethe’s eyes; Till sweet girls’ glances from their books Shall steal towards me as they sigh, “How intellectual he looks And yet how wistful! and his eye Has that vain look of baffled prayer.” And then when church is o’er, I’ll run Comb misery into my hair, And go and get my portrait done!

W. H. M.

This parody of Matthew Arnold appeared in The World some years ago, so that the Saturday Reviewer before alluded to must either have been Rip Van Winkle, or very fresh from school.

――――

GUIDO AND LITA.

For the son of a Duke, and the husband of a Princess, to write and to publish a poem was a pretty piece of condescension, which was not properly appreciated. But, alas! we live in a busy age, and two thousand lines of verse have a deterring effect on the average modern mind. To overcome the difficulty, Funny Folks condensed the Marquis of Lorne’s dismal poem Guido and Lita into half a dozen stanzas, faithfully preserving the pith of the original.

Guido on the Riviera Talketh verse unto his dad, Brusquely says the father, “Bother! Where is shelter to be had?” For a storm is fiercely rising, And the old man hath the blues―― Here a fisherman’s small cottage Sentimental Guido views.

Guido there beheld his Lita Frying fish――she turned to grin; Guido, fired with sudden passion, “Chucked” her underneath the chin, Saying, “Sweetest maid, I love thee!” Said the maiden unto him, “Get out with your stuff and nonsense! See, your parent’s looking grim.”

Soon the Paynim host came fiercely, Slaughtering with fire and sword; Aid was sought from Guido’s father, But that crusty knight was bored. Off they carried beauteous Lita―― Guido could not bring relief; Sirad, Saracenic leader, Made her of his Harem chief.

There a victim of that Paynim A goblet of “cold pizen” brings. “When the Saracenic chieftain At the banquet drinks and sings,” Says this personage vindictive, “Give this gruel, dear, to he―― It will cure him of his tantrums, Straightway then arise and flee.”

Escaping thus, the dauntless Lita, Emulating Joan of Arc, Dons bright armour, sword, and buckler, And in battle makes her mark. This the “Elder Knight” perceiving (Guido’s father), though a churl, Said, “I never more will hinder Guido’s penchant for the girl.”

Meanwhile, screwing up his courage, Guido, maundering no more, Has again put on his armour, Plunged into the battle’s roar, Deeds of daring without number, Paynims driven from the walls, Dying father, “Bless ye children!” Tableau!――and the curtain falls.

Funny Folks, November 27, 1875.

――――:o:――――

NUTSHELL NOVELS.

VOL. I.

A winning wile, A sunny smile, A feather; A tiny walk, A pleasant talk, Together!

VOL. II.

A little doubt, A playful pout. Capricious; A merry miss, A stolen kiss, Delicious!

VOL. III.

You ask mamma, Consult papa, With pleasure! And both repent This rash event At leisure!

MARRIAGE A LA MODE.

A hat, a cane, A nobby beau! A narrow lane, A whisper low.

A smile, a bow, A little flirt! An ardent vow―― That’s cheap as dirt!

A hand to squeeze, A girl to kiss Quite at one’s ease Must needs be bliss.

A ring, a date, A honeymoon, To find too late It was too soon!

――――

ONE SLEIGH RIDE.

A sleigh―― A day Of glorious weather; A girl―― A whirl Of man and maid together.

A freeze―― A squeeze―― A touching of cold noses; A crash―― A blush―― And cheeks as red as roses.

A yearn―― A turn, And homeward they go flying; A sigh―― Good-bye, And then some more good by’ing.

* * * * *

A span―― A man The livery stable trusted; A youth, In truth, Demented, quite, and busted.

――――

NO DOUBT OF IT.

Carpets rise, Dust flies, Confusion reigns supreme; Mouth dries, Aching eyes, Almost makes me scream. Floors wet, House upset, I think you catch my meaning. If not yet, Soon I bet You’ll see it is house-cleaning.

G. L. HARRISON.

――――

The four following examples originally appeared in Truth, February, 3, 1887, together with many others of a less amusing character:――

“Hansom quick! Waterloo. First-class tick- ets for two.”

Wretched train; Bray as last! Will it rain? Sky o’ercast.

Sudden shock! Boat upset! Brand new frock Soaking wet.

Back to town Feeling small, Parents frown, That is all!

CHARON.

THE OLD MAID.

Seventeen Fairy Queen! Rich and rare, Golden hair!

Wilful maid Youths upbraid: Twenty-one, Will have none!

Twenty-eight, Getting late: Rather vexed, Unannexed!

Years advance, Lost her chance; Thirty-six, Cross as sticks!

SCHLEMIL.

Celandine, Violet; Shower and shine, Baby Pet.

Sunny days, Roses rare; Woodland ways, Maiden fair.

Changing leaves, Busy feet; Golden sheaves, Mother sweet.

Snowflakes white, Angel cheer; Hope grows bright, Granny dear!

DELIA.

DRINKS.

Some like tea Or cocoa; Not for me―― Thank you, no!

B. and S. After sup.? Thank you, yes! Finish up.

Sparkling “boy,” If the best, Bringeth joy, Wit and jest.

But of the Drinks that cheer Give to me Bitter beer!

H.M.D.

A COUNTRY QUARTER SESSION.

Three or four parsons, three or four squires, Three or four lawyers, three or four liars; Three or four parishes bringing appeals, Three or four hands, and three or four seals; Three or four bastards, three or four w――――s, Tag rag and bobtail three or four scores; Three or four bulls, and three or four cows, Three or four orders, three or four bows. Three or four statutes not understood, Three or four paupers paying for food; Three or four roads that never were mended, Three or four scolds, and the session is ended.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

RECIPE FOR LORD CASTLEREAGH’S SPEECHES.

Two or three facts without any foundation; Two or three charges of party vexation; Two or three metaphors warring on sense; Two or three sentences ditto on tense; Two or three knocks the table to hammer; Two or three rants in defiance of grammar; Two or three vows on economy’s plan; Two or three hours ending but where you began; Two or three novels in eulogium of tax; Two or three hints about turning your backs; Two or three boasts of venal majorities; Two or three groans on dismal minorities; Two or three cheers from two or three creatures; Two or three fundaments, two or three features; Two or three meanings which nobody reaches, Will be certain to make one of Castlereagh’s speeches.

From The New Tory Guide. London, 1819.

――――

A RECEIPT FOR COURTSHIP.

Two or three dears, and two or three sweets; Two or three balls, and two or three treats; Two or three serenades, given as a lure; Two or three oaths, how much they endure! Two or three messages sent in one day; Two or three times led out to the play; Two or three soft speeches made by the way; Two or three tickets for two or three times; Two or three love-letters writ all in rhymes; Two or three months keeping strict to these rules Can never fail making a couple of fools.

A STOCK EXCHANGE BALLAD. The Grand Promotion Army.

I am Colonel North of the Horse Marines, I began promoting when in my teens, And I rather think I’m behind the scenes In the Grand Promotion Army.

’Tis said to the early bird is due The worm, and I’ve collared of worms a few; For I came from Leeds, and “I’m Yorkshire too,” In the Grand Promotion Army.

With Chili for long I cast my lot, And made some money in that far spot; And Chilies are strong and I make it hot For the Grand Promotion Army.

The City imagination fails To realise how the Nitrate Rails Were boomed so high; but we tell no tales In the Grand Promotion Army.

Two hundred and eighty from fourteen! Why, what could a rise so tremendous mean? ’Twas simply that I was upon the scene With the Grand Promotion Army.

What great financial soul confines Itself to a pitiful few designs? There’s a smaller crop of Nitrate lines For the Grand Promotion Army.

So we run them up, and the rig succeeds, And if some day there’s somebody bleeds, You bet it isn’t the tyke from Leeds, Of the Grand Promotion Army.

Of Tarapaca I might be dumb; For the waterworks have only come To a trumpery thirty premium For the Grand Promotion Army.

In promoting schemes I still persist: There are lines that pay, yet don’t exist. Egad! I’m quite the philanthropist Of the Grand Promotion Army.

As all my friends and admirers know, I’ve mixed myself up with Whitley’s show, That the organ-grinder’s tin might flow To the Grand Promotion Army.

Although I am bald, with whiskers red, There’s Ouless, R.A., who paints one, said He thought I had a wonderful head For the Grand Promotion Army.

Then vive le jeu! and the game for me Is starting a merry companèe And waltzing away with the £ s. d. For the Grand Promotion Army.

For “some has brains and some has tin,” As Orton remarked; and if you’d win, Why, stick to the Colonel, and all stand in With the Grand Promotion Army.

OWLET.

The Financial News, May 26, 1888.

For reasons which can be easily understood by those interested in public companies it has suited the Editor of The Financial News to cry down the ventures in which Mr. John Thomas North is interested. It is easy enough to sneer at him as the “Nitrate King,” and to laugh at his Volunteer Colonelcy, but we do not hear that the Editor of The Financial News is either so successful in business, or so hospitable in private life, as “Colonel North of the Horse Marines.”

LINES ON A DEAD DOG, Seen floating in the Canal. (NOT by A. C. Swinburne.)

In the stir and the tumult of nations, ’Mid the wrestlings of right and of power, It is good to lay hold upon Patience And sit by her side for an hour; Apart from the world and her wonders, In a garden of poppies to wait, And list to the tremulous thunders Of the chariot of Fate.

O carcase not fragrant but fetid! O wave whither all things are shot! O dogs not in honour, but treated As of brutes the most rotten that rot! O moment not gladsome but gloomy, When the threads of our Fates intertwined; O sepulchre, spacious and roomy For thee and thy kind!

Thou wert fair ere the doleful disaster, Firm thy muscles, thy bones featly set, And they moved at the voice of thy master Though obedience were tinged with regret. What moved him, old dog, to thy slaughter, To cast to the pike and the eel? When o’er thy bright form closed the water No remorse did he feel?

Dost thou dream in the night of existence ’Mong the things that have been and but seem, Of thy passionate pulseful resistance To the cad that consigned to the stream? Dost thou dream, when of terriers the gamest Thou didst leap from the leash to be freed, And the blood of the rats thou o’ercamest Besprinkled the mead?

By the maidens who love us and flatter, By the maidens who flout us and jeer, By the friends who but bore with their chatter, By the others whose chatting can cheer, By the tutors who woefully work us, By the tutors who don’t in the least, We adjure thee, respond out of Orcus, Unfortunate beast.

The desire of an aimless flirtation Is more than the wisdom of years, Though we’ve tasted its utter nugation, Light laughter and fugitive fears. For the lords of terrestrial treasures Afflict us and rack us with pains, And we fly to the palace of pleasures Forgetting their chains.

And we smile pressing hands in the dances, And we feign what we give not nor take, And indulge in the gleaming of glances Though the heart is as cold as a snake. As lovers, though loving not truly, We are filled with the fire of the eyes And with langours and laughs that unduly Depress and surprise.

We are tender and warm in the twilight, But the day finds us tuneless and old; Till equally low light and high light Have faded from field and from fold. For the world hath in humbug abounded Since the fiends bade the game to begin, And the motto hath ever resounded,―― ‘Let those laugh that win.’

Like Lady Macbeth or like Pontius, We wash us, of these to be rid; For sadly the soul is subconscious That the fitness of things doth forbid. But the water of Lethè were powerless To cleanse from the rust of the years, And the heavens are sultry and showerless And the eye hath no tears.

Shall we e’er know what Atè intended, Libitina and Clotho to boot, When on Sunday three ’varsity men did Encounter the corse, of the brute? Oh why, as they walked in their wisdom, And cramped with conventional togs, Were they brought into contact with his doom, Defunctest of dogs?

From the sides of the dogs of the Dorians Fur has fallen, but fur is on thine? Ah, where shall we find the historians, In their pages to give thee a line? Where are they――Macaulay or Lingard―― Thy tale and thy troubles to write? Would they touch and cry “faugh!” as they fingered? Would they turn from the sight?

Thou shalt change, and the rot and the canker Make mock of thy beauty and bloom; Thou shalt swell with thy gases, and ranker And ranker shall grow thy perfume. We shall fade, and diminish, and perish, As the Hours and the Fates shall decree, But till then in our bosoms we cherish Remembrance of thee!

EREMUS.

From College Rhymes. Volume XI. 1870.

――――

The following are extracts from an imitation of A. C. Swinburne which appeared in The Century Magazine, February, 1883. As to any meaning to be attached to the lines each reader is perfectly at liberty to make what sense out of them he can.

THE SONG OF SIR PALAMEDE.

_“Came Palamede, upon a secret quest, To high Tintagel, and abode as guest In likeness of a minstrel with the king. Nor was there man could sound so sweet a string._

* * * * *

_To that strange minstrel strongly swore King Mark, By all that makes a knight’s faith firm and strong, That he, as guerdon of his harp and song, Might crave and have his liking. * * * ‘O King, I crave No gift of man that king may give to slave, But this thy crowned queen only, this thy wife.’”_

SWINBURNE. Tristram of Lyonesse.

With flow exhaustless of alliterate words, And rhymes that mate in music glad as birds That feel the spring’s sweet life among light leaves That ardent breath of amorous May upheaves And kindles fluctuant to an emerald fire Bright as the imperious seas that all men’s souls desire: With long strong swell of alexandrine lines, And with passion of anapæsts, like winds in pines That moan and mutter in great gusts suddenly, With whirl of wild wet wings of storms set free: In mirth of might and very joy to sing, Uplifting voice untired, I sound one sole sweet string.

* * * * *

And many a theme I choose in wayfaring, As one who passing plucks the sunflower And ponders on her looks for love of her. Yea, her flower-named whose fate was like a flower, Being bright and brief and broken in an hour And whirled of winds: and her whose awless hand Held flickering flame to fawn against the brand, Till Meleager splendid as the sun Shrank to a star and set, and all her day was done: And her who lent her slight white virgin light For death to dim, that Athens’ mastering might Above all seas should shine, supernal sphere of night: And her who kept the high knight amorous Pent in her hollow hill-house marvellous, And flame of flowers brake beauteous where she trod, Her who hath wine and honey and a rod, And crowneth man a king and maketh man a slave, Her who rose rose-red from the rose-white wave: And her who ruled with sword-blue blade-bright eyes The helpless hearts of men in queenly wise, And all were bowed and broken as on a wheel, Yet no soft love-cloud long could sheath that stainless steel, Her tiger-hearted and false and glorious, With flower-sweet throat and float of warm hair odorous: These sing I, and whatso else that burns and glows, And is as fire and foam-flowers and the rose And sun and stars and wan warm moon and snows. Who hath said that I have not made my song to shine With such bright words as seal a song to be divine? Who hath said that I have not sweetness thereon spread As gold of peerless honey is poured on bread? Who hath said that I make not all men’s brains to ring, And swim with imminent madness while I sing, And fall as feeble dykes before strong tides of spring? And now as guerdon of my great song I claim The swan-white pearl of singers, yea Queen Fame, Who shall be wed no more to languid lips and tame, But clasp me and kiss and call me by my name, And be all my days about me as a flame, Though sane vain lame tame cranes sans shame make game and blame!

HELEN GRAY CONE.

――――

MR. SWINBURNE’S PROSE.

As a critic and a scholar Mr. Swinburne ranks among the first of the day, yet his style has its defects, as was clearly pointed out by a correspondent of the Pall Mall Gazette in November 1886.

If one of Mr. Swinburne’s long and involved sentences is printed side by side with one selected from Mrs. Gamp’s repertoire, the comparison is not altogether to the advantage of the poet:

MR. SWINBURNE.

We may even, and not unreasonably, suspect and fear that it must be through some defect or default in ourselves if we cannot feel, as they do, the force or charm of that which touches others, and these our betters as often as our equals, so nearly; if we cannot, for example――as I may regretfully confess that I never could――feel adequately, or in full, the bitter sweetness that so many thousands, and most notably among them all a better man by far and a far worthier judge than I, have tasted in these pages of Dickens which hold the story of Little Nell, a story in which all the elaborate accumulation of pathetic incident and interest, so tenderly and studiously built up, has never, to speak truth, given me one passing thrill――in the exquisitely fit and faithful phrase of a great living poet, “one sweet, possessive pang” of the tender delight and pity requickened well nigh to tears at every fresh perusal or chance recollection of that one simple passage in “Bleak House” which describes the baby household tended by the little sister, who leaves her lesser charges locked up while she goes charing; a page which I can imagine that many a man unused to the melting mood would not undertake to read out aloud without a break.――Note on Charlotte Brontë, pp. 64-65.

NOW for MRS. GAMP.

To think as I should see beneath this blessed ouse which well I know it Miss Pecksniff my sweet young lady to be a ouse as there is not a many like――and worse luck, and wishin’ it were not so, which then this tearful walley would be changed into a flowerin’ guardian Mrs. Chuffy; to think as I should see identically comin’ Mrs. Pinch――I take the liberty though almost unbeknown――and so assure you of it Sir, the smilinest and sweetest face as ever Mrs. Chuzzlewit, I see exceptin’ your own, my dear good lady, and your good lady’s too Sir Mrs. Moddle, if I may make so bold as speak so plain of what is plain enough to them as need’nt look through millstones Mrs. Todgers to find out what is wrote upon the wall behind: which no offence is meant ladies and gentlemen none being took I hope: to think as I should see that smilinest and sweetest face which me and another friend of mine took notice of among the packages down London Bridge in this promiscuous place is a surprise indeed!

SIX OF ONE AND HALF-A-DOZEN OF THE OTHER. (Some little way after the late Mortimer Collins.)

Oh, Summer said to Winter, “Earth lovers love me best; For I flush the mead, and I fill the rill, And the violet and the daffodil, And the red, red rose o’er the world I spill; And my dawns are cool, and my eves are chill; And don’t I run up the doctor’s bill For bronchitis and all the rest!”

But Winter said to Summer: “Earth-lovers best love me: For I now bring slop instead of snow, (Which comes in June, or mostly so;) And roses and noses at Christmas blow, And the birds their nesting-time don’t know, But lay in December――a pretty go! And your azure skies, and your sunny glow Are silly legends of long ago; Whilst as to the Doctor’s Bills, oho! We are equally good at them I trow. Fact is, the difference ’twixt us two Is the purest fiddle-de-dee!”

Punch. December 15, 1888.

Several humorous parodies written by the late Mr. Mortimer Collins have already appeared in this collection, but his lines to Chloe, with her supposed burlesque reply to them, deserve to be quoted:――

AD CHLOEN M.A. (Fresh from her Cambridge Examination.)

Lady, very fair are you, And your eyes are very blue, And your hose; And your brow is like the snow, And the various things you know, Goodness knows.

And the rose-flush on your cheek, And your Algebra and Greek Perfect are: And that loving lustrous eye Recognises in the sky Every Star.

You have pouting piquant lips, You can doubtless an eclipse Calculate; But for your cerulean hue, I had certainly from you Met my fate.

If by some arrangement dual I were Adams minced with Whewell, Then some day I, as wooer, perhaps might come, To so sweet an Artium Magistra.

CHLOE. M.A. Ad Amantem Suam.

Careless rhymer, it is true, That my favourite colour’s blue: But am I To be made a victim, Sir; If to puddings I prefer Cambridge pie?

If with giddier girls I play Croquet through the summer day On the turf, Then at night (’tis no great boon) Let me study how the moon Sways the turf.

Tennyson’s idyllic verse Surely suits me none the worse If I seek Old Sicilian birds and bees―― Music of sweet Sophocles―― Golden Greek.

You have said my eyes are blue: There may be a fairer hue, Perhaps――and yet It is surely not a sin If I keep my Secrets in Violet.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

――――:o:――――

THE COMIC HISTORY OF ENGLAND.

The following song was written by Mr. Collins in the days when George the Third was King. It was published, with music, by T. Broome, 15 Holborn Bars, London.

The Romans in England they once did sway, And the Saxons they after them led the way, And they tugg’d with the Danes ’till an Overthrow, They both of them got by the Norman Bow, Yet barring all Pother, the one and the other, Were all of them Kings in their turn.

Little Willy the Conqueror long did reign, But Billy his Son by an Arrow was slain: And Harry the first was a scholar bright, But Stephy was forc’d for his Crown to fight. Yet barring &c.

Second Harry, Plantagenet’s name did bear, And Cœur de Lion was his Son and Heir; But Magna Charta we gain’d from John, Which Harry the Third put his Seal upon. Yet barring &c.

There was Teddy the first like a Tyger bold, But the Second by Rebels was bought and sold And Teddy the third was his Subject’s pride, Tho his Grandson Dicky was popp’d aside. Yet barring &c.

There was Harry the fourth a warlike wight, And Harry the Fifth like a cock would fight Tho Henry his son like a chick did pout, When Teddy his Cousin had kick’d him out. Yet barring &c.

Poor Teddy the fifth he was kill’d in bed, By butchering Dick who was knock’d in head; Then Harry the Seventh in fame grew big; And Harry the Eighth was as fat as a Pig. Yet barring &c.

With Teddy the Sixth we had tranquil days, Tho’ Mary made Fire and Faggot blaze; But good Queen Bess was a glorious Dame, And bonnie King Jamie from Scotland came. Yet barring &c.

Poor Charley the First was a Martyr made, But Charley his Son was a comicle blade; And Jemmy the Second when hotly spurr’d, Run away, do ye see me, from Willy the Third. Yet barring &c.

Queen Ann was victorious by Land and Sea, And Georgey the First did with glory sway, And as Georgey the Second has long been dead, Long life to the Georgey we have in his stead, And may his son’s sons to the end of the Chapter All come to be Kings in their turn.

Prose Parodies.

In the following pages a selection, as nearly representative as it can be made, will be given from the parodies of the works of our greatest prose writers. Although the axiom le style c’est l’homme does not apply to prose with quite the same force as to poetry, yet there are many amusing prose burlesques, the originals of which will at once be recognised.

Unfortunately most prose parodies are very long, in dealing with these merely brief extracts can be given, and in some cases it will only be necessary to indicate the names of the works in which they occur.

A PREFATORY PAPER.

By the shade of Mr. Joseph Addison.

Lest my readers, and more especially the fair part of them, be startled to find themselves thus accosted from another world, I take the freedom in the first place, to assure them that I am a peaceable and altogether inoffensive ghost. In the many private transactions whereat I have been present unseen, I have ever observed a strict discretion.

The secrets of the rouge pot are as safe with me as with my lady’s own woman: and when I have found a lover in the closet of a dame of quality, I have taken no more notice, than her husband himself would have done of a like accident. Our Queen, Proserpine, being, as everybody knows, obliged entirely to the poets for her throne and title, and taking likewise, in her capacity of moon, no little share in their inspiration, hath ever distinguished the whole brotherhood of us with her singular grace: and from time to time, by her intercession with her grim spouse, one or other of us hath the liberty of paying a visit to the upper sphere.

All the condition set upon us is only this; that on our return, we shall make such corrections in our most popular works, as modern men and things may appear to need.

For the sake of mutual help in these our reforms, a few of us have united of late into a Society, of which I have been appointed (together with Dr. Samuel Johnson) to be the joint secretary, or Recorder. And it may be convenient, if, by way of introduction to the pieces now revised and put forth, I prefix a short catalogue of their authors, persons who, though born in different ages, do nevertheless marvellously harmonise and agree, insomuch, that a sincerer friendship is hardly to be met with at Court, or even among beauties themselves.

(Here follow descriptions of the principal authors whose works are imitated in “Posthumous Parodies.”)

However, it were almost too much to expect in either of us the perfection of later judges, who have carried the art of criticism to such a pitch of excellence, as that no mixture whatsoever of commendation is any longer let in, to weaken its spirit and effect.

For my own part, I am wonderfully pleased with this improvement; for it helps the main end of criticism, to wit, to make the public laugh.

And what author can be so blind to his own real interests, as not to discern, how much more truly those are his friends who point out his errors, than who puff up his vanity?

I know not how it hath happened, that in an assembly so notable for ingenious persons as ours is, there is yet no mixture of the fairer sort. Their absence is always a subject of regret with me, the most unworthy of their admirers: and it is so now in a more especial manner, forasmuch as I foresee that many small wags will take occasion to draw therefrom a conclusion not a little disparaging to the sex’s wit, and so make themselves mighty merry, as little people are ever willing, at their better’s expence. C.

From Posthumous Parodies. London. J. Miller. 1814.

――――:o:――――

DR. JOHNSON’S GHOST. On the re-opening of Drury Lane Theatre.

That which was organised by the moral ability of one has been executed by the physical efforts of many, and DRURY LANE THEATRE is now complete. Of that part behind the curtain, which has not yet been destined to glow beneath the brush of the varnisher, or vibrate to the hammer of the carpenter, little is thought by the public, and little need be said by the committee. Truth, however, is not lo be sacrificed for the accommodation of either; and he who should pronounce that our edifice has received its final embellishment would be disseminating falsehood without incurring favour, and risking the disgrace of detection without participating the advantage of success.

Professions lavishly effused and parsimoniously verified are alike inconsistent with the precepts of innate rectitude and the practice of external policy: let it not then be conjectured, that because we are unassuming, we are imbecile; that forbearance is any indication of despondency, or humility of demerit. He that is the most assured of success will make the fewest appeals to favour, and where nothing is claimed that is undue, nothing that is due will be withheld. A swelling opening is too often succeeded by an insignificant conclusion. Parturient mountains have ere now produced muscipular abortions; and the auditor who compares incipient grandeur with final vulgarity is reminded of the pious hawkers of Constantinople, who solemnly perambulate her streets, exclaiming, “In the name of the Prophet――figs!”

Of many who think themselves wise, and of some who are thought wise by others, the exertions are directed to the revival of mouldering and obscure dramas; to endeavours to exalt that which is now rare only because it was always worthless, and whose deterioration, while it condemned it to living obscurity, by a strange obliquity of moral perception, constitutes its title to posthumous renown. To embody the flying colours of folly, to arrest evanescence, to give to bubbles the globular consistency as well as form, to exhibit on the stage the piebald denizen of the stable, and the half-reasoning parent of combs, to display the brisk locomotion of Columbine, or the tortuous attitudinising of Punch;――these are the occupations of others, whose ambition, limited to the applause of unintellectual fatuity, is too innocuous for the application of satire, and too humble for the incitement of jealousy.

Our refectory will be found to contain every species of fruit, from the cooling nectarine and luscious peach to the puny pippin and the noxious nut. There Indolence may repose, and Inebriety revel; and the spruce apprentice, rushing in at second account, may there chatter with impunity; debarred, by a barrier of brick and mortar, from marring that scenic interest in others, which nature and education have disqualified him from comprehending himself.

Permanent stage-doors we have none. That which is permanent cannot be removed, for, if removed, it soon ceases to be permanent. What stationary absurdity can vie with that ligneous barricado, which, decorated with frappant and tintinnabulant appendages, now serves as the entrance of the lowly cottage, and now as the exit of a lady’s bed-chamber; at one time, insinuating plastic Harlequin into a butcher’s shop, and, at another, yawning, as a floodgate, to precipitate the Cyprians of St. Giles’s into the embraces of Macheath. To elude this glaring absurdity, to give to each respective mansion the door which the carpenter would doubtless have given, we vary our portal with the varying scene, passing from deal to mahogany, and from mahogany to oak, as the opposite claims of cottage, palace, or castle, may appear to require.

Amid the general hum of gratulation which flatters us in front, it is fit that some regard should be paid to the murmurs of despondence that assail us in the rear. They, as I have elsewhere expressed it, “who live to please,” should not have their own pleasures entirely overlooked. The children of Thespis are general in their censures of the architect, in having placed the locality of exit at such a distance from the oily irradiators which now dazzle the eyes of him who addresses you, I am, cries the Queen of Terrors, robbed of my fair proportions. When the king-killing Thane hints to the breathless auditory the murders he means to perpetrate in the castle of Macduff, “ere his purpose cool,” so vast is the interval he has to travel before he can escape from the stage, that his purpose has even time to freeze. Your condition, cries the Muse of Smiles, is hard, but it is cygnet’s down in comparison with mine. The peerless peer of capers and congees[49] has laid it down as a rule, that the best good thing uttered by the morning visitor should conduct him rapidly to the doorway, last impressions vying in durability with first. But when, on this boarded elongation, it falls to my lot to say a good thing, to ejaculate “keep moving,” or to chant “hic hoc horum genitivo,” many are the moments that must elapse ere I can hide myself from public vision in the recesses of O. P. or P. S.

To objections like these, captiously urged and querulously maintained, it is time that equity should conclusively reply. Deviation from scenic propriety has only to vituperate itself for the consequences it generates. Let the actor consider the line of exit as that line beyond which he should not soar in quest of spurious applause: let him reflect, that in proportion as he advances to the lamps, he recedes from nature; that the truncheon of Hotspur acquires no additional charm from encountering the cheek of beauty in the stage-box, and that the bravura of Madame may produce effect, although the throat of her who warbles it should not overhang the orchestra. The Jove of the modern critical Olympus, Lord Mayor of the theatric sky[50] has, ex cathedrâ, asserted, that a natural actor looks upon the audience part of the theatre as the third side of the chamber he inhabits. Surely, of the third wall thus fancifully erected, our actors should, by ridicule or reason, be withheld from knocking their heads against the stucco.

Time forcibly reminds me, that all things which have a limit must be brought to a conclusion. Let me, ere that conclusion arrives, recall to your recollection that the pillars which rise on either side of me, blooming in virid antiquity, like two massy evergreens, had yet slumbered in their native quarry, but for the ardent exertions of the individual who called them into life: to his never-slumbering talents you are indebted for whatever pleasure this haunt of the Muses is calculated to afford. If, in defiance of chaotic malevolence, the destroyer of the temple of Diana yet survives in the name of Erostratus, surely we may confidently predict that the rebuilder of the temple of Apollo will stand recorded to distant posterity in that of――SAMUEL WHITBREAD.

From The Rejected Addresses, by James and Horace Smith. London, 1812.

There is a Prefatory Paper, in the style of Dr. Johnson, in “Posthumous Parodies,” published by John Miller, London, 1814, but it is greatly inferior to that contained in “Rejected Addresses.”

――――

ON BOOKBINDERS. (After Rasselas.)

Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of noodles, and pursue with eagerness the phantom “collection,” who believe that binder’s promises are――binding, and that an inch of margin to-day matters not on the morrow, attend to the wisdom of Bonnardot, Prince of Book-Restorers. “The greatest merit of a rare book is indisputably a margin uncut, or at least, little and regularly cut in every way.” No hesitating words these; no room for doubt here. An uncut margin is the greatest merit a rare book can possess, and it is a merit which has a well ascertained commercial value. An eighth of an inch more or less of margin often makes a difference in value of hundreds of dollars. Now let the botcher-binder cut and slash as you will.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

ANONYMOUS JOURNALISM. (From an unpublished Essay by Dr. Johnson.)

He that asserts the annexation of a correct cognomen to each production to be imperative upon every author, either strays from veracity for the sake of disseminating falsehood, or circulates error through the possession of congenital imbecility. Let it not be surmised that this declaration is expressed through sensitive timidity or supported by vacuous generalizations, for a further perusal will speedily discover a clinching dialectic. The individual that appends his hereditary appellation to a composition of transcendant ability, does but seek to enervate his intellect by encomiastic excess, and whilst he panders to his ambition, exaggerates his energies. Such a course indeed, is too ephemeral for the attainment by an author of immortality, because too invidious for the approbation of his colleagues. Of the many who consider their cerebral progeny worthy of attentive investigation, but few have the right to predicate correctness of their hopeful conviction; and he that inscribes his signature on a piece of somniferous fatuity, involves his relatives in unmerited obloquy, whilst he exposes himself to dedecorating derision. Amid the multitude of periodical productions it is but reasonable that some should be devoted to the analysis of individual idiosyncracies, and the maxims previously unfolded may to these be pertinently applied.

An anonymous panegyric by an unknown friend is more acceptable than the cringing adulation of a patent parasite, whilst unsigned reproofs are more meritorious than personal vituperations.

He that panders to an inflamed irascibility by affording it an opportunity of illicit flagellation, does but incite an infuriated man to rebel against the legal institutions of his country.

To the contemptible criticisms of those whose opinions are in contrariety with the superscribed, we merely reply, that, whilst the procrastination of judgment is essential to the perfectibility of Truth, their future ratiocinations will still be treated with dignified derision by their magnanimous admonishers.

From The Shotover Papers, Oxford, 1874.

――――

“Lexiphanes, a Dialogue, imitated from Lucian, and suited to the present times,” (1767), was a malicious piece of drollery directed against Dr. Johnson; this has been attributed to Sir John Hawkins, the real author, however, was Archibald Campbell, the Purser of a Man-of-War.

A continuation of Rasselas, entitled Dinarbas, was published in 1793, it had little merit.

Rev. LAURENCE STERNE.

BORN 1713. DIED March, 18, 1768.

A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY. By a Sterne Shade.

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