Lapsus Calami

Front matter

LAPSUS CALAMI

PRINTED BY C. J. CLAY M.A. AND SONS AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS

LAPSUS CALAMI

To C. S. C.

To C. S. C.

Oh, when the grey courts of Christ's College glowed With all the rapture of thy frequent lay, When printers' devils chuckled as they strode, And blithe compositors grew loudly gay: Did Granta realise that here abode, Here in the home of Milton, Wordsworth, Gray, A poet not unfit to cope with any That ever wore the bays or turned a penny?

The wit of smooth delicious Matthew Prior, The rhythmic grace which Hookham Frere displayed, The summer lightning wreathing Byron's lyre, The neat inevitable turns of Praed, Rhymes to which Hudibras could scarce aspire, Such metric pranks as Gilbert oft has played, All these good gifts and others far sublimer Are found in thee, beloved Cambridge rhymer.

And scholarship as sound as his whose name Matched thine (he lives to mourn, alas, thy death, And now enjoys the plenitude of fame, And oft to crowded audience lectureth, Or writes to prove religion is the same As science, unbelief a form of faith):— Ripe scholar! Virgil's self would not be chary Of praises for thy Carmen Seculare.

Whene'er I take my "pint of beer" a day, I "gaze into my glass" and think of thee: When smoking, after "lunch is cleared away," Thy face amid the cloud I seem to see; When "that sweet mite with whom I used to play," Or "Araminta," or "the fair Miss P." Recur to me, I think upon thy verses, Which still my beating heart and quench my curses.

Ah, Calverley! if in these lays of mine Some sparkle of thy radiant genius burned, Or were in any poem—stanza—line Some faint reflection of thy muse discerned: If any critic would remark in fine "Of C. S. C. this gentle art he learned;" I should not then expect my book to fail, Nor have my doubts about a decent sale.

To R. K.

To R. K.

As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrendous Demoniaco-seraphic Penman's latest piece of graphic. >> Browning.

Will there never come a season Which shall rid us from the curse Of a prose which knows no reason And an unmelodious verse: When the world shall cease to wonder At the genius of an Ass, And a boy's eccentric blunder Shall not bring success to pass:

When mankind shall be delivered From the clash of magazines, And the inkstand shall be shivered Into countless smithereens: When there stands a muzzled stripling, Mute, beside a muzzled bore: When the Rudyards cease from kipling And the Haggards Ride no more.

The Grand Old Pipe

The Grand Old Pipe.

I have ceased to believe in the Leader Whom I loved in the days of my youth: Is he, or am I the seceder? It were hard to determine the truth. But my enmity is not impassioned: I'll forgive and forget if I can, And I'm smoking a pipe which is fashioned Like the face of the Grand Old Man.

It was made in the days when his collars Were still of the usual size, And before the recipients of dollars Were known as his trusted allies: But I love, as I lounge in the garden, Or work at my chambers, to gaze At the face of the master of Hawarden, As he was in the Grand Old Days.

My pipe was my one consolation When its antitype kindled the flame Which threatened the brave population Of Ulster with ruin and shame: I forgot that our ruler was dealing With scamps of the Sheridan type, While the true orange colour was stealing O'er the face of my Grand Old Pipe.

Did his conduct grow ever absurder Till no remnant of reason seemed left? Did he praise the professors of murder? Does he preach the evangel of theft? When he urges our eloquent neighbours To keep other men's land in their gripe, Grows he black in his face with his labours? Well, so does my Grand Old Pipe.

For the sake of its excellent savour, For the many sweet smokes of the past, My pipe keeps its hold on my favour, Tho' now it is blackening fast: And, remembering how long he has striven, And the merits he used to possess, And his fall, let him now be forgiven, Though he has made a Grand Old Mess.

Drinking Song

Drinking Song.

To A. S.

There are people, I know, to be found, Who say and apparently think That sorrow and care may be drowned By a timely consumption of drink.

Does not man, these enthusiasts ask, Most nearly approach the divine When engaged in the soul-stirring task Of filling his body with wine?

Have not beggars been frequently known When satisfied, soaked and replete, To imagine their bench was a throne And the civilised world at their feet?

Lord Byron has finely described The remarkably soothing effect Of liquor, profusely imbibed, On a soul that is shattered and wrecked.

In short, if your body or mind Or your soul or your purse come to grief, You need only get drunk, and you'll find Complete and immediate relief.

For myself, I have managed to do Without having recourse to this plan, So I can't write a poem for you, And you'd better get someone who can.

Sincere Flattery of F. W. H. M.: To One that Smokes

SINCERE FLATTERY.

I. Of F. W. H. M.

i. To One that smokes.

Spare us the hint of slightest desecration, Spotless preserve us an untainted shrine; Not for thy sake, oh goddess of creation, Not for thy sake, oh woman, but for mine.

Sincere Flattery of F. W. H. M.: To A. T. M.

2. To A. T. M.

See where the K., in sturdy self-reliance, Thoughtful and placid as a brooding dove Stands, firmly sucking, in the cause of science, Just such a peppermint as schoolboys love.

Suck, placid K.: the world will be thy debtor; Though thine eyes water and thine heart grow faint, Suck: and the less thou likest it the better; Suck for our sake, and utter no complaint.

Near thee a being, passionate and gentle, Man's latest teacher, wisdom's pioneer, Calmly majestically monumental, Stands: the august Telepathist is here.

Waves of perception, subtle emanations, Thrill through the ether, circulate amain; Delicate soft impalpable sensations, Born of thy palate, quiver in his brain.

Lo! with a voice unspeakably dramatic, Lo! with a gesture singularly fine, He makes at last a lucid and emphatic Statement of what is in that mouth of thine.

He could detect that peppermint's existence, He read its nature in the book of doom; Standing at some considerable distance; Standing, in fact, in quite another room.

Was there a faint impenetrable essence Wafted towards him from the sucking K.? Did some pale ghost inform him of its presence? Or did it happen in some other way?

These are the questions nobody can answer, These are the problems nobody can solve; Only we know that Man is an Advancer: Only we know the Centuries revolve.

Sincere Flattery of R.B.: To A. S.

II. Of R. B.

I. To A. S.

Birthdays? yes, in a general way; For the most if not for the best of men: You were born (I suppose) on a certain day: So was I: or perhaps in the night: what then?

Only this: or at least, if more, You must know, not think it, and learn, not speak: There is truth to be found on the unknown shore, And many will find where few will seek.

For many are called and few are chosen, And the few grow many as ages lapse: But when will the many grow few: what dozen Is fused into one by Time's hammer-taps?

A bare brown stone in a babbling brook:— It was wanton to hurl it there, you say: And the moss, which clung in the sheltered nook (Yet the stream runs cooler), is washed away.

That begs the question: many a prater Thinks such a suggestion a sound "stop thief!" Which, may I ask, do you think the greater, Sergeant-at-arms or a Robber Chief?

And if it were not so? still you doubt? Ah! yours is a birthday indeed if so. That were something to write a poem about, If one thought a little. I only know.

P.S.

There's a Me Society down at Cambridge, Where my works, cum notis variorum, Are talked about; well, I require the same bridge That Euclid took toll at as Asinorum:

And, as they have got through several ditties I thought were as stiff as a brick-built wall, I've composed the above, and a stiff one it is, A bridge to stop asses at, once for all.

Sincere Flattery of R.B.: The Last Ride together

2. The Last Ride together.

(From Her point of view.)

When I had firmly answered "No”, And he allowed that that was so, I really thought I should be free For good and all from Mr B., And that he would soberly acquiesce: I said that it would be discreet That for a while we should not meet; I promised I would always feel A kindly interest in his weal; I thanked him for his amorous zeal; In short, I said all I could but “yes.”

I said what I'm accustomed to; I acted as I always do; I promised he should find in me A friend,—a sister, if that might be: But he was still dissatisfied: He certainly was most polite; He said exactly what was right, He acted very properly, Except indeed for this, that he Insisted on inviting me To come with him for “one more last ride.”

A little while in doubt I stood: A ride, no doubt, would do me good: I had a habit and a hat Extremely well worth looking at: The weather was distinctly fine: My horse too wanted exercise, And time, when one is riding, flies: Besides it really seemed, you see, The only way of ridding me Of pertinacious Mr B.: So my head I graciously incline.

I won't say much of what happened next: I own I was extremely vexed: Indeed I should have been aghast If any one had seen what passed: But nobody need ever know That, as I leaned forward to stir the fire, He advanced before I could well retire, And I suddenly felt, to my great alarm, The grasp of a warm unlicensed arm, An embrace in which I found no charm; I was awfully glad when he let me go.

Then we began to ride: my steed Was rather fresh, too fresh indeed, And at first I thought of little, save The way to escape an early grave, As the dust rose up on either side. My stern companion jogged along On a brown old cob both broad and strong:

He looked as he does when he's writing verse, Or endeavouring not to swear and curse, Or wondering where he has left his purse: Indeed it was a sombre ride.

I spoke of the weather to Mr B.: But he neither listened nor spoke to me: I praised his horse, and I smiled the smile Which was wont to move him once on a while; I said I was wearing his favourite flowers: But I wasted my words on the desert air, For he rode with a fixed and gloomy stare: I wonder what he was thinking about: As I don't read verse, I sha'n't find out: It was something subtle and deep, no doubt, A theme to detain a man for hours.

Ah! there was the corner where Mr S. So nearly induced me to whisper "yes": And here it was that the next but one Proposed on horseback, or would have done, Had his horse not most opportunely shied; Which perhaps was due to the unseen flick He received from my whip: 'twas a scurvy trick, But I never could do with that young man: I hope his present young woman can. Well, I must say, never, since time began, Did I go for a duller or longer ride.

He never smiles and he never speaks: He might go on like this for weeks:

He rolls a slightly frenzied eye Towards the blue and burning sky, And the cob bounds on with tireless stride. If we aren't at home for lunch at two I don't know what Papa will do; But I know full well he will say to me "I never approved of Mr B.: "It's the very devil that you and he "Ride, ride together, for ever ride."

Sincere Flattery of R.B.: Midsummer

3. Midsumer

Persons at various times have said That the hot dank steam of a sun-scorched day Is a thing to thank God for: strike me dead If I let such a falsehood lack its nay.

When Philip of Spain, or our own red Mary, Desired to be rid of an impious man, Did they freeze him to death? they were not so chary Of man's worst weapon, the frying pan.

The fire, or the frying pan—well, the adage Tells us the difference is but small, And the fact remains that in that last bad age When man had all torture-tricks at call,

They knew what was best and did it duly, And broiled those most whom they loved the least. Man, is it thou that hast proved unruly? They are broiling thee, thou sinful beast.

Languid and frenzied, most despairing When least's to despair at, such we grow, When the sun's rays down on our heads, naught sparing, Burn and blister. I'd have you know

I have strung together these sad reflections To prove to my tutor, a stern stark man, That my chance of a decent place in collections Drooped and died when the heat began.

Sincere Flattery of W. W. (Americanus)

III. Of W. W. (Americanus).

The clear cool note of the cuckoo which has ousted the legitimate nest-holder, The whistle of the railway guard despatching the train to the inevitable collision, The maiden's monosyllabic reply to a polysyllabic proposal, The fundamental note of the last trump, which is presumably D natural; All of these are sounds to rejoice in, yea to let your very ribs re-echo with: But better than all of them is the absolutely last chord of the apparently inexhaustible pianoforte player.

Sincere Flattery of W. W. (Britannicus)

IV. Of W. W. (Britannicus).

Poetic lamentation on the insufficiency of steam locomotion in the lake district.

Bright Summer spreads his various hue O'er nestling vales and mountains steep, Glad birds are singing in the blue, In joyous chorus bleat the sheep. But men are walking to and fro, Are riding, driving far and near, And nobody as yet can go By train to Buttermere.

The sunny lake, the mountain track, The leafy groves are little gain, While Rydal's pleasant pathways lack The rattle of the passing train. But oh! what poet would not sing That heaven-kissing rocky cone, On whose steep side the railway king Shall set his smoky throne?

Helvellyn in those happy days With tunnelled base and grimy peak Will mark the lamp's approaching rays, Will hear the whistle's warning shriek: Will note the coming of the mails, And watch with unremitting stare The dusky grove of iron rails Which leads to Euston-square.

Wake, England, wake! 'tis now the hour To sweep away this black disgrace— The want of locomotive power In so enjoyable a place. Nature has done her part, and why Is mightier man in his to fail? I want to hear the porters cry, "Change here for Ennerdale!"

Man! nature must be sought and found In lonely pools, on verdant banks; Go, fight her on her chosen ground, Turn shapely Thirlmere into tanks: Pursue her to her last retreats, And if perchance a garden plot Is found among the London streets, Smoke, steam and spare it not.

Presumptuous nature! do not rate Unduly high thy humble lot, Nor vainly strive to emulate The beauties which thy lavish pride Has scattered through the smiling land Are little worth till sanctified By man's completing hand.

Sincere Flattery of T. G.

V. Of T. G.

Ode on a retrospect of Eton College.

Ye bigot spires, ye Tory towers, That crown the watery lea, Where grateful science still adores The aristocracy: A happy usher once I strayed Beneath your lofty elm trees' shade, With mind untouched by guilt or woe But mad ambition made me stray Beyond the round of work and play Wherein we ought to go.

My office was to teach the young Idea how to shoot: But, ah! I joined with eager tongue Political dispute: I ventured humbly to suggest That all things were not for the best Among the Irish peasantry: And finding all the world abuse My simple unpretending views, I thought I'd go and see.

I boldly left the College bounds: Across the sea I went,

To probe the economic grounds Of Irish discontent. My constant goings to and fro Excited some alarm; and so Policemen girded up their loins, And, from his innocent pursuits,― Morose unsympathetic brutes,— They snatched a fearful Joynes.

Escaped, I speedily returned To teach the boys again: But ah, my spirit inly burned To think on Ireland's pain. Such wrongs must out: and then, you see, My own adventures might not be Uninteresting to my friends: I therefore ventured to prepare A little book, designed with care, To serve these humble ends.

Our stern head-master spoke to me Severely:—"You appear "(Horresco referens) to be. "A party pamphleteer. "If you must write, let Caesar's page "Or Virgil's poetry engage "Your all too numerous leisure hours: "But now annihilate and quash "This impious philanthropic bosh: "Or quit these antique towers."

It seems that he who dares to write Is all unfit to teach: And literary fame is quite Beyond an usher's reach. I dared imprisonment in vain: The little bantling of my brain I am compelled to sacrifice. The moral, after all, is this:— That here, where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

Sincere Flattery of Lord B.

VI. Of Lord B.

A Grievance.

Dear Mr Editor: I wish to say— If you will not be angry at my writing it— But I've been used, since childhood's happy day, When I have thought of something, to inditing it: I seldom think of things: and, by the way, Although this metre may not be exciting, it Enables one to be extremely terse, Which is not what one always is in verse.

I used to know a man,—such things befall The observant wayfarer through Fate's domain: He was a man, take him for all in all, We shall not look upon his like again: I know that statement's not original: What statement is, since Shakspere? or, since Cain, What murder? I believe 'twas Shakspere said it, or Perhaps it may have been your Fighting Editor.

Though why an Editor should fight, or why A Fighter should abase himself to edit, Are problems far too difficult and high For me to solve with any sort of credit: Some greatly more accomplished man than I Must tackle them: let's say then Shakspere said it: And, if he did not, Lewis Morris may (Or even if he did). Some other day,

When I have nothing pressing to impart, I should not mind dilating on this matter: I feel its import both in head and heart, And always did,—especially the latter: I could discuss it in the busy mart Or on the lonely housetop: hold! this chatter Diverts me from my purpose. To the point: The time, as Hamlet said, is out of joint,

And I perhaps was born to set it right; A fact I greet with perfect equanimity; I do not put it down to "cursed spite": I don't see any cause for cursing in it: I Have always taken very great delight In such pursuits since first I read divinity: Whoever will may write a nation's songs As long as I'm allowed to right its wrongs.

What's Eton but a nursery of wrong-righters, A mighty mother of effective men, A training-ground for amateur reciters, A sharpener of the sword as of the pen, A factory of orators and fighters, A forcing-house of genius? Now and then, The world at large shrinks back, abashed and beaten, Unable to endure the glare of Eton.

I think I said I knew a man: what then? I don't suppose such knowledge is forbid: We nearly all do, more or less, know men,— Or think we do: nor will a man get rid Of that delusion, while he wields a pen: But who this man was, what, if aught, he did, Nor why I mentioned him, I do not know: Nor what I "wished to say" a while ago.

Sincere Flattery of A. H. C.

VII. Of A. H. C.

The Literary and Scientific Society.

O ye musical nine, who drink the Castalian waters, Seated on peaks of Olympus (or, if ye prefer it, Olumpos,― Browning's a far better judge of the matter than yours very truly—), Pray be so good as to give me assistance,―for, tho' I'm a poet, I should be glad to receive a certain amount of assistance—, Give me your help while I sing how Smith, on the 4th of December, Did us the honour to read a paper entitled "Pompeii," In a Society whose name defies the restriction of metre.

Scarce need we tell of his fervour, research, erudition and learning, These we must all have observed for ourselves, or at all events heard of, Heard of from President Pashley, our eloquent President Pashley

—Please to observe the effect of a skilfully cooked repetition, Copied from Homer and Clough and a host of hexameter heroes; Nor will we trouble our readers with all the particulars,—pictures, Writings on walls and the like: but this we will say, that Sir Walter, G. P. R. James and Lord Lytton must yield him the palm in description. When he described how a skeleton dove had been found at Pompeii, Found on a skeleton egg, we all of us wept in a chorus.

When he had done, and the weepers had wept, and the stamping was over, Pashley arose, and he made some remarks in the usual fashion; "This was an excellent paper, he seldom had heard such a good one, "Yet there was one little thing he should like to make just one remark on, "One little point where he did not agree with the reader's opinion, "One little question on which Mr Smith should have scarcely been silent": Several more little points, and several more little questions,

Several more little things and so on and so on and so on; Not that I wish to deny that his speech was exceedingly clever, Or that we all of us paid him the greatest and deepest attention. He was immediately followed by Tatham (N.B. to the printer; Do not omit to put all proper names in capital letters, Partly because it looks well and smacks of the penny-a-liner, Partly to comfort our friends when we cannot afford them a Mr): Much information he gave concerning a building he'd heard of, Five were its doors and its size 250 × 80. Jones was the next to arise; and he made us a crushing oration, Crushing, but pointless withal, like a seventy-ton steam hammer, (Study that last line well, observe the onomatopoeia), Crushed Mr Smith with a hint that he had not neglected his Bulwer.

Then Mr Wayte held forth, and his eloquence vied with his learning; Oh for the tongue, or the pen or the pencil or something of some one,

Some one of fame, who was known from his youth as a friend of the Muses, Then I might try to depict what was really the speech of the evening. Now it is useless to try: we will only repeat his suggestion;— If to Pompeii you go, be sure that you go on a Sunday.

Last Mr Shuckburgh spoke, and his speech was extremely delightful, Touching on books and the like: we wish we had time to report it.

Sincere Flattery of W. S.

VIII. Of W. S.

For Greek Iambics.

Pe.Not so, my liege, for even now the town Splits with sedition, and the incensed mob Rush hither roaring. Olc.Let them roar their fill, Bluster and bellow till the enormous wings Of gusty Boreas flap with less ado. Ask they my treacherous nephew's wretched life, As if that order were a thing of nought Which I did publish? Let them beg or threaten, I'll not regard them. Oh my trusty friend, There is no rock defies the elements, With half the constancy that kinglike men Shut up their breasts against such routs as these. Pe.O my most valiant lord, I feel 'tis so, Permit me to advance against the foe. >>(Olcis and Terranea, Act IV., Sc. iii.)

To W. H.

THINGS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE EXPRESSED DIFFERENTLY, ERRORS OF JUDGMENT, IMPROMPTUS, &c.

To W. H.

What are the habits of the ruby flood We reek with? man had questioned many a year: And William Harvey spoke in accents clear These words: "the circulation of the blood." Man owned that this was so, and asked for food; And fate bestowed upon him beef and beer: But beef was coarse, indelicate and sere: So Harvey proffered Sauce and made it good. My friend! be worthy of thy forbears' glory, And if old truths thou canst not rediscover, Yet canst thou live those truths out here on earth Make stagnant conversations, void of mirth, To circulate with quip and crank and story, Make life's dull dish with piquant sauce run over.

4th July, 1882, at Malines. Midnight

4th July, 1882, Malines. Midnight.

Belgian, with cumbrous tread and iron boots, Who in the murky middle of the night, Designing to renew the foul pursuits In which thy life is passed, ill-favoured wight, And wishing on the platform to alight Where thou couldst mingle with thy fellow brutes, Didst walk the carriage floor (a leprous sight), As o'er the sky some baleful meteor shoots: Upon my slippered foot thou didst descend, Didst rouse me from my slumbers mad with pain, And laughedst loud for several minutes' space. Oh may'st thou suffer tortures without end: May fiends with glowing pincers rend thy brain, And beetles batten on thy blackened face!

Ballade of the Drowning Fusee

Ballade of the Drowning Fusee.

The pipe I intend to consume Is full, and fairly alight: It scatters a fragrant perfume, Blue smoke-wreaths are heaving in sight I sink on the heathery height, And lo! there is borne unto me From a sweet little stream on my right The song of the drowning fusee.

The monarch of waterfowl, whom On the brink of an infinite night A strange irresistible doom Converts to a musical wight, Is akin, in his glory's despite, To a moribund match, as we see, While we listen, in speechless delight, To the song of the drowning fusee.

As he sinks in his watery tomb, His epitaph let me indite. He hardly took up any room; His life was retired; his end bright. With destiny no one can fight All poets and prosers agree, And a tribute to destiny's might Is the song of the drowning fusee.

Friend! would you be gratified quite The first of our poets to be? If so, I advise you to write The song of the drowning fusee.

The Ballade of the Incompetent Ballade-Monger

The Ballade of the Incompetent Ballade-Monger.

I am not ambitious at all: I am not a poet, I know (Though I do love to see a mere scrawl To order and symmetry grow). My muse is uncertain and slow, I am not expert with my tools, I lack the poetic argot: But I hope I have kept to the rules.

When your brain is undoubtedly small, 'Tis hard, sir, to write in a row, Some five or six rhymes to Nepaul, And more than a dozen to Joe: The metre is easier though, Three rhymes are sufficient for 'ghouls,' My lines are deficient in go, But I hope I have kept to the rules.

Unable to fly let me crawl, Your patronage kindly bestow: I am not the author of Saul, I am not Voltaire or Rousseau: I am not desirous, oh no! To rise from the ranks of the fools, To shine with Gosse, Dobson and Co.: But I hope I have kept to the rules.

Dear Sir, though my language is low, Let me dip in Pierian pools: My verses are only so so, But I hope I have kept to the rules.

Triolets Ollendorfiens

Triolets Ollendorfiens.

Je suis le frère Du bon cocher: Où est sa mère? Je suis le frère. Tu es le père Du jardinier: Je suis le frère Du bon cocher.

Où est mon canif? J'ai perdu ma chatte. Je veux du rosbif. Où est mon canif? J'ai tué le Juif. Faut-il qu'on se batte? Où est mon canif? J'ai perdu ma chatte.

La belle cousine Du fils de ma bru Vit dans ma cuisine, La belle cousine! Ta laide voisine N'a jamais connu La belle cousine Du fils de ma bru.

To D. J. S.

To D. J. S.

Written on the Fly-Leaf of Maclise's Portrait Gallery, Edited by Bates.

Here, painted by a Master's hand, Is many a lovely dame, Amidst the writers of the land Who gained the greatest fame.

But sure there is not one whose pen Was half so apt as thine To catch the ears of listening men, Or wake the Sacred Nine.

None saw reflected in her glass A more distinguished face: But thou art born too late, alas! To take thy proper place.

The pencil of Maclise, my dear, Thy face will ne'er portray, Nor will the facts of thy career Be told by Bates, B.A.

Yet do not hence a pretext seize To blame the cruel Fates: If they denied thee to Maclise, They rescued thee from Bates.

The Philosopher and Philanthropist

The Philosopher and the Philanthropist.

Searching an infinite Where, Probing a bottomless When, Dreamfully wandering, Ceaselessly pondering, What is the Wherefore of men: Bartering life for a There, Selling his soul for a Then, Baffling obscurity, Conning futurity, Usefulest, wisest of men!

Grasping the Present of Life, Seizing a definite Now, Labouring thornfully, Banishing scornfully Doubts of his Whither and How: Spending his substance in Strife, Working a practical How, Letting obscurity Rest on futurity, Usefuler, wiser, I trow.

To a Friend

To a Friend.