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diff --git a/old/64229-0.txt b/old/64229-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 2151a5c..0000000 --- a/old/64229-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,19427 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Century of Parody and Imitation, by Walter -Jerrold - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: A Century of Parody and Imitation - -Editor: Walter Jerrold - Robert Maynard Leonard - -Release Date: January 07, 2021 [eBook #64229] -[Most recently updated: October 16, 2021] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: MFR, Karin Spence and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CENTURY OF PARODY AND -IMITATION *** - - - - - A CENTURY OF PARODY AND - IMITATION - - [Illustration: JAMES AND HORACE SMITH] - - - - - A - CENTURY OF PARODY - AND IMITATION - - EDITED BY - - WALTER JERROLD - - AND - - R. M. LEONARD - - 'No author ever spared a brother, - Wits are gamecocks to one another.' - GAY - - [Illustration] - - HUMPHREY MILFORD - OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS - LONDON, EDINBURGH, GLASGOW - NEW YORK, TORONTO, MELBOURNE, BOMBAY - - 1913 - - - - - PREFATORY NOTE - - -The object of this compilation is to provide a corpus of representative -parodies and imitations of a century, beginning with _Rejected -Addresses_ (1812), which practically marked the birth of modern parody, -and are here printed in their entirety. Prose parodies, excepting those -in _Rejected Addresses_, have been excluded; the derivation of the word -'parody' may be referred to in justification. Emerson wrote in his -'Fable' - - '----all sorts of things and weather - Must be taken in together - To make up a year - And a sphere; - -so in this volume will be found all forms of imitations from, in Mr. -Owen Seaman's words, 'the lowest, a mere verbal echo, to the highest, -where it becomes a department of pure criticism.' - -It is quite unnecessary to add to the published mass of writing, wise -and foolish, on the art and ethics of parody. Some of the pieces in -this book are included chiefly because they have an historical place in -the development of parody to its present high standard of execution and -good taste. - -Isaac D'Israeli asserted that 'unless the prototype is familiar to us a -parody is nothing.' As a matter of fact some of the best work is that -of which the originals have been forgotten long since; although, of -course, when the poets and the poems imitated are familiar the art of -the imitator can be better appreciated. - -The word 'century' has been interpreted with some licence. The work of -living parodists does not fall within the scope of this collection, -and it is a real self-denying ordinance which forbids the inclusion -of triumphs by Sir Frederick Pollock, Mr. Owen Seaman, Sir Arthur -Quiller-Couch, Mr. Barry Pain, the Rev. Anthony Deane, and others who, -in their undergraduate days, enlivened the periodicals of Oxford and -Cambridge, or to-day show their dexterity in the pages of _Punch_. By -way of recompense, the volume contains parodies by some, still living -in 1812, whose work was published before _Rejected Addresses_. The -parodies which follow therefore range from George Ellis, who was born -in 1753, to Andrew Lang, who died in 1912. Very sparing use has been -made of anonymous work, and in this connexion it may be well to explain -that 'Adolphus Smalls of Boniface' is ruled out, because, although -published anonymously, it is known to be the joint composition in their -Balliol days of Dr. W. W. Merry, the Rector of Lincoln College, Oxford, -and Alfred Blomfield, afterwards Bishop of Colchester. - -With regard to _Rejected Addresses_, the publication of which may be -said to have revived and established the art of parody, the genesis -of the work is sufficiently explained in the authors' prefaces and -notes. There were parodists before the Brothers Smith, yet their -topical little volume has a lasting value, not only because of its -inherent excellence, but also because it struck the note which the -best later exponents of the art have followed. Published in the autumn -of 1812, the book reached its fifteenth edition within two years, -and its success led to the publication of a volume of certain of the -_Addresses_ that had really been sent to Drury Lane for competition. -The one hundred and fifteen such Addresses which were actually -submitted are, with one or two exceptions, preserved in the Manuscript -Department of the British Museum. - -The compilers' best thanks are due to those who have kindly allowed -the use of copyright parodies or imitations--namely, to the following: -Sir Herbert Stephen (and Messrs. Bowes and Bowes) for parodies by his -brother J. K. Stephen; Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton and Messrs. Chatto -and Windus for Swinburne's parodies; Mr. W. M. Rossetti and Messrs. -Ellis for those by Dante Gabriel Rossetti; Messrs. G. Bell and Sons -for the copyright pieces by C. S. Calverley in _Fly-Leaves_; Messrs. -Blackwood and Sons for Sir Theodore Martin's 'Lay of the Lovelorn' and -H. D. Traill's parodies; Messrs. Bradbury, Agnew and Co. for R. F. -Murray's 'Tennysonian Fragment' from _Punch_; Messrs. Burns and Oates -for Francis Thompson's imitation of Omar Khayyam; Messrs. Chatto and -Windus, and, for the American rights, the Houghton, Mifflin Company, -for the parodies by Bret Harte and Bayard Taylor; the Editor of the -_Journal of Education_ for 'A Girtonian Funeral' by an unknown author, -presumably deceased; Messrs. Longmans, Green and Co. for the parodies -by Andrew Lang; Messrs. J. MacLehose and Sons for the additional pieces -by R. F. Murray; Messrs. Metcalfe and Co. for A. G. Hilton's parodies; -Messrs. Pickering and Chatto for Miss Fanshawe's pieces; and Messrs. -Charles Scribner's Sons for the variations by H. C. Bunner on the -familiar theme of 'Home, Sweet Home.' The sources of the copyright work -are given in the notes at the end of the volume. The footnotes are -those of the writers of the parodies. - - WALTER JERROLD. - R. M. LEONARD. - - - - - ALPHABETICAL LIST - OF AUTHORS, WITH THEIR PARODIES - OR IMITATIONS - - - AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE (1813-1865): PAGE - The Massacre of the Macpherson '_From the Gaelic_' 250 - A Midnight Meditation _Lytton_ 252 - The Husband's Petition _Aytoun_ 254 - - BARHAM, RICHARD HARRIS ('THOMAS INGOLDSBY') (1788-1845): - Margate _Byron_ 176 - 'Not a _sous_ had he got' _Wolfe_ 176 - The Demolished Farce _Bayly_ 178 - - 'BEDE, CUTHBERT.' _See_ BRADLEY. - - BRADLEY, EDWARD ('CUTHBERT BEDE') (1827-1889): - On a Toasted Muffin _Lytton_ 272 - In Immemoriam _Tennyson_ 273 - - BROOKS, CHARLES WILLIAM SHIRLEY (1816-1874): - To my Five New Kittens _Tupper_ 256 - For a' that and a' that _Burns_ 256 - - BROUGH, ROBERT BARNABAS (1828-1860): - I'm a Shrimp! Old Song: '_I'm Afloat_' 289 - - BUNNER, HENRY CUYLER (1855-1896): - Home, Sweet Home, with Variations _Swinburne_ 365 - " " " " _Bret Harte_ 367 - " " " " _Austin Dobson_ 368 - " " " " _Goldsmith_ 369 - " " " " _Pope_ 369 - " " " " _Walt Whitman_ 370 - - BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD (1788-1824): - To Mr. Murray _Cowper_ 173 - Parenthetical Address by Dr. - Plagiary _Busby_ 174 - - CALVERLEY, CHARLES STUART (1831-1884): - Ode to Tobacco _Longfellow_ 292 - Beer _Byron_ 293 - Wanderers _Tennyson_ 296 - Proverbial Philosophy _Tupper_ 298 - The Cock and the Bull _Browning_ 301 - Lovers, and a Reflection _J. Ingelow_ 304 - The Auld Wife _J. Ingelow_ 306 - - CANNING, GEORGE (1770-1827) and GEORGE ELLIS (1753-1815): - Song by Rogero _German Tragedy_ 107 - - CANNING, GEORGE, and JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE (1769-1846): - Inscription _Southey_ 93 - The Soldier's Friend _Southey_ 93 - The Soldier's Wife _Southey_ (_and Coleridge_) 94 - The Friend of Humanity and the - Knife-Grinder _Southey_ 95 - _See_ FRERE, CANNING, and ELLIS. - - 'CARROLL, LEWIS.' _See_ DODGSON. - - CARY, PHŒBE (1824-1871): - 'The Day is done' _Longfellow_ 270 - 'That very time I saw' _Shakespeare_ 271 - 'When lovely Woman' _Goldsmith_ 271 - - COLERIDGE, HARTLEY (1796-1849): - He lived amidst th' untrodden - ways _Wordsworth_ 218 - - COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR (1772-1834): - Sonnets attempted in the manner of contemporary writers - (_Coleridge_, _Lamb_, and _Charles Lloyd_): - 1. 'Pensive at Eve' 142 - 2. To Simplicity 142 - 3. On a Ruined House in a Romantic Country 143 - - COLLINS, MORTIMER (1827-1876): - If _Swinburne_ 286 - Salad: - 'O cool in the summer is salad' _Swinburne_ 287 - 'Waitress, with eyes so marvellous - black' _R. Browning_ 287 - 'King Arthur, growing very tired - indeed' _Tennyson_ 287 - - CRABBE, GEORGE (1754-1832): - Inebriety _Pope_ 86 - - DODGSON, CHARLES LUTWIDGE ('LEWIS CARROLL') (1832-1898): - 'How doth the little Crocodile' _Watts_ 308 - ''Tis the voice of the Lobster' _Watts_ 308 - 'Twinkle, twinkle, little Bat' _Jane Taylor_ 308 - 'You are old, Father William' _Southey_ 309 - Hiawatha's Photographing _Longfellow_ 310 - The Three Voices _Tennyson_ 314 - Beautiful Soup Uncertain 322 - - ELLIS, GEORGE (1753-1815): - Elegy written in a College - Library _Gray_ 81 - _See_ FRERE, CANNING, and ELLIS. - - FANSHAWE, CATHERINE MARIA (1765-1834): - Ode _Gray_ 87 - Fragment _Wordsworth_ 89 - - FRERE, JOHN HOOKHAM (1769-1846): - A Fable _Dryden_ 92 - The Course of Time _Pollok_ 92 - - FRERE, JOHN HOOKHAM, GEORGE CANNING, and GEORGE ELLIS: - The Loves of the Triangles _E. Darwin_ 97 - _See_ CANNING and FRERE. - - GILFILLAN, ROBERT (1798-1850): - Blue Bonnets over the Border _Scott_ 228 - - HARTE, FRANCIS BRET (1839-1902): - A Geological Madrigal _Shenstone_ 342 - Mrs. Judge Jenkins _Whittier_ 343 - The Willows _Poe_ 344 - - HILTON, ARTHUR CLEMENT (1851-1877): - The Vulture and the Husbandman '_Lewis Carroll_' 358 - The Heathen Pass-ee _Bret Harte_ 360 - Octopus _Swinburne_ 363 - - HOGG, JAMES (1770-1835): - Walsingham's song from 'Wat o' - the Cleuch' _Scott_ 109 - The Flying Tailor _Wordsworth_ 110 - The Cherub _Coleridge_ 118 - Isabelle _Coleridge_ 120 - The Curse of the Laureate _Southey_ 123 - The Gude Greye Katt _Hogg_ 129 - - HOOD, THOMAS (1799-1845): - The Irish Schoolmaster _Spenser_ 229 - Huggins and Duggins _Pope_ 237 - Sea Song _Dibdin_ 239 - 'We met--'twas in a Crowd' _T. H. Bayly_ 240 - Those Evening Bells _Moore_ 241 - The Water Peri's Song _Moore_ 241 - - HOOD, THOMAS--the Younger (1835-1874): - Ravings by E., a Poe-t _Poe_ 323 - In Memoriam Technicam _Tennyson_ 324 - The Wedding '_Owen Meredith_' 324 - Poets and Linnets _R. Browning_ 325 - - 'INGOLDSBY, THOMAS.' See BARHAM. - - KEATS, JOHN (1795-1821): - Stanzas on Charles Armitage Brown _Spenser_ 216 - On Oxford _Wordsworth_ 217 - - 'KERR, ORPHEUS C.' See NEWELL. - - LAMB, CHARLES (1775-1834): - Epicedium _Drayton_ 151 - Hypochondriacus _Burton_ 153 - Nonsense Verses _Lamb_ 154 - - LANG, ANDREW (1844-1912): - 'Oh, no, we never mention her' _Rossetti_ 353 - Ballade of Cricket _Swinburne_ 354 - Brahma _Emerson_ 355 - The Palace of Bric-à-Brac _Swinburne_ 355 - 'Gaily the Troubadour' _W. Morris_ 356 - - LEIGH, HENRY SAMBROOKE (1837-1883): - Only Seven _Wordsworth_ 329 - Chateaux d'Espagne _Poe_ 330 - - LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK (1821-1895): - Unfortunate Miss Bailey _Tennyson_ 268 - - MAGINN, WILLIAM (1793-1842): - The Rime of the Auncient - Waggonere _Coleridge_ 208 - To a Bottle of Old Port _Moore_ 213 - The Last Lamp of the Alley _Moore_ 214 - The Galiongee _Byron_ 214 - - MARTIN, SIR THEODORE (1816-1909): - The Lay of the Lovelorn _Tennyson_ 258 - - MOORE, THOMAS (1779-1852): - The Numbering of the Clergy _Sir C. H. Williams_ 155 - - MURRAY, ROBERT FULLER (1863-1894): - The Poet's Hat _Tennyson_ 382 - A Tennysonian Fragment _Tennyson_ 383 - Andrew M'Crie _Poe_ 384 - - NEWELL, ROBERT HENRY ('ORPHEUS C. KERR') (1836-1901): - Rejected National Anthem _W. C. Bryant_ 333 - " " " _Emerson_ 333 - " " " _Willis_ 333 - " " " _Longfellow_ 334 - " " " _Whittier_ 334 - " " " _O. W. Holmes_ 334 - " " " _Stoddard_ 335 - " " " _Aldrich_ 335 - - PEACOCK, THOMAS LOVE (1785-1866): - A Border Ballad _Scott_ 156 - The Wise Men of Gotham _Coleridge_ 157 - Fly-by-Night _Southey_ 160 - Ye Kite-Flyers of Scotland _Campbell_ 162 - Love and the Flimsies _Moore_ 163 - Song by Mr. Cypress _Byron_ 164 - - REYNOLDS, JOHN HAMILTON (1796-1852): - Peter Bell: a Lyrical Ballad _Wordsworth_ 219 - - ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL (1828-1882): - MacCracken _Tennyson_ 290 - The Brothers _Tennyson_ 290 - - SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE (1792-1822): - Peter Bell the Third _Wordsworth_ 179 - - SKEAT, WALTER WILLIAM (1831-1912): - A Clerk ther was of Cauntebrigge - also _Chaucer_ 327 - - SMITH, HORATIO (1779-1849): - Loyal Effusion _Fitzgerald_ 1 - An Address without a Phœnix _See Note_ 7 - The Living Lustres _Moore_ 19 - Drury's Dirge '_Laura Matilda_' 29 - A Tale of Drury Lane _Scott_ 32 - Johnson's Ghost _Johnson_ 38 - The Beautiful Incendiary _W. R. Spencer_ 42 - Fire and Ale _Lewis_ 46 - Architectural Atoms _Busby_ 54 - Punch's Apotheosis _Hook_ 76 - - SMITH, JAMES (1775-1839): - The Baby's Debut _Wordsworth_ 4 - Hampshire Farmer's Address _Cobbett_ 15 - The Rebuilding _Southey_ 21 - Playhouse Musings _Coleridge_ 49 - Drury Lane Hustings '_A Pic-Nic Poet_' 52 - Theatrical Alarm-Bell Editor of the _Morning - Post_ 61 - The Theatre _Crabbe_ 64 - Macbeth _Shakespeare-Poole_ 70 - The Stranger _Kotzebue-Thompson_ 72 - George Barnwell _Lillo_ 73 - - SMITH, JAMES and HORATIO: - Cui Bono _Byron_ 9 - - SOUTHEY, ROBERT (1774-1843): - Amatory Poems of Abel Shufflebottom: - 1. Delia at Play 144 - 2. To a Painter attempting Delia's Portrait 144 - 3. He proves the Existence of a Soul 145 - 4. 'I would I were that portly Gentleman' 145 - Love Elegies: - 1. Delia's Pocket-Handkerchief 146 - 2. Delia Singing 147 - 3. Delia's Hair 148 - 4. The Theft of a Lock 149 - (All imitations of the Della Cruscans.) - - STEPHEN, JAMES KENNETH (1859-1892): - Ode on a Retrospect of Eton - College _Gray_ 374 - A Sonnet _Wordsworth_ 376 - Sincere Flattery of R. B. _Browning_ 376 - Sincere Flattery of W. W. - (Americanus) _Whitman_ 377 - To A. T. M. _F. W. H. Myers_ 378 - - SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES (1837-1909): - The Poet and the Woodlouse _E. B. Browning_ 336 - The Person of the House: The Kid _Patmore_ 338 - Nephelidia _Swinburne_ 340 - - TAYLOR, BAYARD (1825-1878): - Ode on a Jar of Pickles _Keats_ 274 - Gwendoline _E. B. Browning_ 275 - Angelo orders his Dinner _R. Browning_ 276 - The Shrimp-Gatherers _Jean Ingelow_ 277 - Cimabuella _D. G. Rossetti_ 278 - From 'The Taming of Themistocles' _W. Morris_ 280 - All or Nothing _Emerson_ 281 - The Ballad of Hiram Hover _Whittier_ 282 - The Sewing-Machine _Longfellow_ 284 - - TAYLOR, TOM (1817-1880): - The Laureate's Bust at Trinity _Tennyson_ 266 - - THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE (1811-1863): - Cabbages _L. E. L._ 242 - Larry O'Toole _Lever_ 242 - The Willow Tree _Thackeray_ 243 - Dear Jack _Fawkes_ 245 - The Almack's Adieu '_Wapping Old Stairs_' 247 - The Knightly Guerdon '_Wapping Old Stairs_' 248 - The Ghazul: - The Rocks _Oriental Love Song_ 245 - The Merry Bard _Oriental Love Song_ 246 - The Caique _Oriental Love Song_ 246 - - THOMPSON, FRANCIS (1859-1907): - Wake! for the Ruddy Ball has - taken flight _FitzGerald_ 379 - - TRAILL, HENRY DUFF (1842-1900): - Vers de Société _Locker-Lampson_ 347 - The Puss and the Boots _R. Browning_ 348 - After Dilettante Concetti _Rossetti_ 350 - - TWISS, HORACE (1787-1849): - The Patriot's Progress _Shakespeare_ 166 - Our Parodies are Ended _Shakespeare_ 167 - Fashion _Milton_ 167 - Verses _Cowper_ 171 - - UNKNOWN: - The Town Life _Rogers_ 386 - Fish have their times to bite _Hemans_ 387 - Another Ode to the North-East - Wind _Kingsley_ 388 - A Girtonian Funeral _Browning_ 390 - - - - - REJECTED ADDRESSES[1] - - OR - - THE NEW THEATRUM POETARUM - - Fired that the House reject him! ----s death! - I'll print it, and shame the fools. - POPE. - - - - - HORACE AND JAMES SMITH - - - LOYAL EFFUSION. - - BY W. T. F.[2] - - Quicquid dicunt, laudo: id rursum si negant, - Laudo id quoque. - TERENCE. - - - Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work! - God bless the Regent and the Duke of York! - Ye Muses! by whose aid I cried down Fox, - Grant me in Drury Lane a private box, - Where I may loll, cry bravo! and profess - The boundless powers of England's glorious press; - While Afric's sons exclaim, from shore to shore, - 'Quashee ma boo!'--the slave-trade is no more! - In fair Arabia (happy once, now stony, - Since ruined by that arch-apostate Boney), - A phœnix late was caught: the Arab host - Long ponder'd--part would boil it, part would roast; - But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies, - Fledged, beak'd, and claw'd, alive they see him rise - To heaven, and caw defiance in the skies. - So Drury, first in roasting flames consumed, - Then by old renters to hot water doom'd, - By Wyatt's trowel patted, plump and sleek, - Soars without wings, and caws without a beak. - Gallia's stern despot shall in vain advance[3] - From Paris, the metropolis of France; - By this day month the monster shall not gain - A foot of land in Portugal or Spain. - See Wellington in Salamanca's field - Forces his favourite general to yield, - Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted Marmont - Expiring on the plain without his arm on; - Madrid he enters at the cannon's mouth, - And then the villages still further south. - Base Buonapartè, fill'd with deadly ire, - Sets, one by one, our playhouses on fire. - Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on - The Opera House, then burnt down the Pantheon; - Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames, - Next at Millbank he cross'd the river Thames; - Thy hatch, O Halfpenny![4] pass'd in a trice, - Boil'd some black pitch, and burnt down Astley's twice; - Then buzzing on through ether with a vile hum, - Turn'd to the left hand, fronting the Asylum, - And burnt the Royal Circus in a hurry-- - ('Twas call'd the Circus then, but now the Surrey). - Who burnt (confound his soul!) the houses twain - Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane? - Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork - (God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!) - With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas, - And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos? - Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise? - Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies? - Who thought in flames St. James's court to pinch? - Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch?-- - Why he, who, forging for this isle a yoke, - Reminds me of a line I lately spoke, - 'The tree of freedom is the British oak.' - Bless every man possess'd of aught to give; - Long may Long Tilney, Wellesley, Long Pole live; - God bless the Army, bless their coats of scarlet, - God bless the Navy, bless the Princess Charlotte; - God bless the Guards, though worsted Gallia scoff, - God bless their pig-tails, though they're now cut off; - And, oh! in Downing Street should Old Nick revel, - England's prime minister, then bless the devil! - - - THE BABY'S DEBUT. - - BY W. W.[5] - - Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait, - All thy false mimic fooleries I hate; - For thou art Folly's counterfeit, and she - Who is right foolish hath the better plea: - Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee. - CUMBERLAND. - - - [_Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of - age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel - Hughes, her uncle's porter._] - - My brother Jack was nine in May,[6] - And I was eight on New-year's-day; - So in Kate Wilson's shop - Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) - Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, - And brother Jack a top. - - Jack 's in the pouts, and this it is,-- - He thinks mine came to more than his; - So to my drawer he goes, - Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars! - He pokes her head between the bars, - And melts off half her nose! - - Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, - And tie it to his peg-top's peg, - And bang, with might and main, - Its head against the parlour-door: - Off flies the head, and hits the floor, - And breaks a window-pane. - - This made him cry with rage and spite: - Well, let him cry, it serves him right. - A pretty thing, forsooth! - If he's to melt, all scalding hot, - Half my doll's nose, and I am not - To draw his peg-top's tooth! - - Aunt Hannah heard the window break, - And cried, 'O naughty Nancy Lake, - Thus to distress your aunt: - No Drury Lane for you to-day!' - And while Papa said, 'Pooh, she may!' - Mamma said, 'No, she sha'n't!' - - Well, after many a sad reproach, - They got into a hackney coach, - And trotted down the street. - I saw them go: one horse was blind, - The tails of both hung down behind, - Their shoes were on their feet. - - The chaise in which poor brother Bill - Used to be drawn to Pentonville - Stood in the lumber-room: - I wiped the dust from off the top, - While Molly mopp'd it with a mop, - And brush'd it with a broom. - - My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, - Came in at six to black the shoes, - (I always talk to Sam:) - So what does he, but takes, and drags - Me in the chaise along the flags, - And leaves me where I am. - - My father's walls are made of brick, - But not so tall and not so thick - As these; and, goodness me! - My father's beams are made of wood, - But never, never half so good - As those that now I see. - - What a large floor! 'tis like a town! - The carpet, when they lay it down, - Won't hide it, I'll be bound; - And there's a row of lamps!--my eye! - How they do blaze! I wonder why - They keep them on the ground. - - At first I caught hold of the wing, - And kept away; but Mr. Thing- - umbob, the prompter man, - Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, - And said, 'Go on, my pretty love; - 'Speak to 'em, little Nan. - - 'You've only got to curtsy, whisp- - er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp, - And then you're sure to take: - I've known the day when brats, not quite - Thirteen, got fifty pounds a-night;[7] - Then why not Nancy Lake?' - - But while I'm speaking, where's papa? - And where's my aunt? and where's mamma? - Where's Jack? O, there they sit! - They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways, - And order round poor Billy's chaise, - To join them in the pit. - - And now, good gentlefolks, I go - To join mamma, and see the show; - So, bidding you adieu, - I curtsy, like a pretty miss, - And if you'll blow to me a kiss, - I'll blow a kiss to you. - [_Blows a kiss, and exit._] - - 'The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any - of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but - has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his maukish - affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. - We hope it will make him ashamed of his _Alice Fell_, and the - greater part of his last volumes--of which it is by no means - a parody, but a very fair; and indeed we think a flattering, - imitation.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - - - AN ADDRESS WITHOUT - A PHŒNIX. - - BY S. T. P.[8] - - - This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked. - _What You Will._ - - What stately vision mocks my waking sense? - Hence, dear delusion, sweet enchantment, hence! - Ha! is it real?--can my doubts be vain? - It is, it is, and Drury lives again! - Around each grateful veteran attends, - Eager to rush and gratulate his friends, - Friends whose kind looks, retraced with proud delight, - Endear the past, and make the future bright: - Yes, generous patrons, your returning smile - Blesses our toils, and consecrates our pile. - - When last we met, Fate's unrelenting hand - Already grasped the devastating brand; - Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize, - Then burst resistless to the astonished skies. - The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride, - In trembling conflict stemmed the burning tide, - Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall, - Down rushed the thundering roof, and buried all! - - Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung, - And raptured thousands on their music hung, - Where Wit and Wisdom shone, by Beauty graced, - Sat lonely Silence, empress of the waste; - And still had reigned--but he, whose voice can raise - More magic wonders than Amphion's lays, - Bade jarring bands with friendly zeal engage - To rear the prostrate glories of the stage. - Up leaped the Muses at the potent spell, - And Drury's genius saw his temple swell; - Worthy, we hope, the British Drama's cause, - Worthy of British arts, and _your_ applause. - - Guided by you, our earnest aims presume - To renovate the Drama with the dome; - The scenes of Shakespeare and our bards of old, - With due observance splendidly unfold, - Yet raise and foster with parental hand - The living talent of our native land. - O! may we still, to sense and nature true, - Delight the many, nor offend the few. - Though varying tastes our changeful Drama claim, - Still be its moral tendency the same, - To win by precept, by example warn, - To brand the front of Vice with pointed scorn, - And Virtue's smiling brows with votive wreaths adorn. - - - CUI BONO? - - BY LORD B.[9] - - - I. - - Sated with home, of wife, of children tired, - The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;[10] - Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired, - The restless soul is driven to ramble home; - Sated with both, beneath new Drury's dome - The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine, - There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome, - Scorning to view fantastic Columbine, - Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine. - - - II. - - Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way - To gaze on puppets in a painted dome, - Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray, - Like falling stars in life's eternal gloom, - What seek ye here? Joy's evanescent bloom? - Woe's me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave - Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb. - Man's heart, the mournful urn o'er which they wave, - Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave. - - - III. - - Has life so little store of real woes, - That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief? - Or is it that from truth such anguish flows, - Ye court the lying drama for relief? - Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief: - Or if one tolerable page appears - In folly's volume, 'tis the actor's leaf, - Who dries his own by drawing others' tears, - And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years. - - - IV. - - Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee! - Light as the mote that danceth in the beam, - He liveth only in man's present e'e, - His life a flash, his memory a dream, - Oblivious down he drops in Lethe's stream. - Yet what are they, the learned and the great? - Awhile of longer wonderment the theme, - Who shall presume to prophesy _their_ date, - Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate? - - - V. - - This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt's toil, - Perchance than Holland's edifice[11] more fleet, - Again red Lemnos' artisan may spoil; - The fire-alarm and midnight drum may beat, - And all be strewed y-smoking at your feet! - Start ye? perchance Death's angel may be sent, - Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat; - And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent, - May find, in pleasure's fane, your grave and monument. - - - VI. - - Your debts mount high--ye plunge in deeper waste; - The tradesman duns--no warning voice ye hear; - The plaintiff sues--to public shows ye haste; - The bailiff threats--ye feel no idle fear. - Who can arrest your prodigal career? - Who can keep down the levity of youth? - What sound can startle age's stubborn ear? - Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth - Men true to falsehood's voice, false to the voice of truth? - - - VII. - - To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to make - The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy, - We dedicate the pile--arise! awake!-- - Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy, - Clear our new stage from reason's dull alloy, - Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth - With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy; - While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth,[12] - Harps twang in Drury's walls, and make her boards a booth. - - - VIII. - - For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March? - And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl? - And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch, - Orlando's helmet in Augustine's cowl. - Shakespeare, how true thine adage, 'fair is foul!' - To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,-- - The song of Braham is an Irish howl,-- - Thinking is but an idle waste of thought, - And nought is every thing, and every thing is nought. - - - IX. - - Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above, - Not laurel-crown'd, but clad in rusty black; - Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè's grove, - But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack; - What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack, - Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long, - Condemn'd to tread the bard's time-sanction'd track, - Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng, - And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song. - - - X. - - So fares the follower in the Muses' train; - He toils to starve, and only lives in death; - We slight him, till our patronage is vain, - Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe, - And o'er his bones an empty requiem breathe-- - Oh! with what tragic horror would he start, - (Could he be conjured from the grave beneath) - To find the stage again a Thespian cart, - And elephants and colts down-trampling Shakespeare's art. - - - XI. - - Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules! - Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface; - Back, sister Muses, to your native schools; - Here booted grooms usurp Apollo's place. - Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace, - The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit, - Man yields the drama to the Hou'yn'm race, - His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit, - The stage a stable-yard, a jockey-club the pit. - - - XII. - - Is it for these ye rear this proud abode? - Is it for these your superstition seeks - To build a temple worthy of a god, - To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks? - Then be the stage, to recompense your freaks, - A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks, - Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks, - And Wisdom weeps, and Folly plays her pranks, - And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks. - - 'The author has succeeded better in copying the moody - and misanthropic sentiments of _Childe Harold_, than the - nervous and impetuous diction in which his noble biographer - has embodied them. The attempt, however, indicates very - considerable power; and the flow of the verse and the - construction of the poetical period are imitated with no - ordinary skill.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - - - TO THE - - SECRETARY OF THE MANAGING COMMITTEE - OF DRURY-LANE PLAYHOUSE. - - SIR, - -To the gewgaw fetters of _rhyme_ (invented by the monks to enslave -the people) I have a rooted objection. I have therefore written an -address for your theatre in plain, homespun, yeoman's _prose_; in the -doing whereof hope I am swayed by nothing but an _independent_ wish to -open the eyes of this gulled people, to prevent a repetition of the -dramatic _bamboozling_ they have hitherto laboured under. If you like -what I have done, and mean to make use of it, I don't want any such -_aristocratic_ reward as a piece of plate with two griffins sprawling -upon it, or a _dog_ and a _jackass_ fighting for a ha'p'worth of _gilt -gingerbread_, or any such Bartholomew-fair nonsense. All I ask is, -that the door-keepers of your playhouse may take all the _sets of my -Register_ now on hand, and _force_ every body who enters your doors to -buy one, giving afterwards a debtor and creditor account of what they -have received, _post-paid_, and in due course remitting me the money -and unsold Registers, _carriage-paid_. - - I am, &c. - W. C.[13] - - - IN THE CHARACTER OF - - A HAMPSHIRE FARMER. - - ----Rabidâ qui concitus irâ - Implevit pariter ternis latratibus auras, - Et sparsit virides spumis albentibus agros. - OVID. - - MOST THINKING PEOPLE, - -When persons address an audience from the stage, it is usual, either -in words or gesture, to say, 'Ladies and Gentlemen, your servant.' -If I were base enough, mean enough, paltry enough, and _brute -beast_ enough, to follow that fashion, I should tell two lies in a -breath. In the first place, you are _not_ Ladies and Gentlemen, but -I hope something better, that is to say, honest men and women; and -in the next place, if you were ever so much ladies, and ever so much -gentlemen, I am not, _nor ever will be_, your humble servant. You -see me here, _most thinking people_, by mere chance. I have not been -within the doors of a playhouse before for these ten years; nor, till -that abominable custom of taking money at the doors is discontinued, -will I ever sanction a theatre with my presence. The stage-door is -the only gate of _freedom_ in the whole edifice, and through that I -made my way from Bagshaw's[14] in Brydges Street, to accost you. Look -about you. Are you not all comfortable? Nay, never slink, mun; speak -out, if you are dissatisfied, and tell me so before I leave town. You -are now, (thanks to _Mr. Whitbread_,) got into a large, comfortable -house. Not into a _gimcrack palace_; not into a _Solomon's temple_; not -into a frost-work of Brobdingnag filigree; but into a plain, honest, -homely, industrious, wholesome, _brown brick playhouse_. You have been -struggling for independence and elbow-room these three years; and who -gave it you? Who helped you out of Lilliput? Who routed you from a -rat-hole, five inches by four, to perch you in a palace? Again and -again I answer, _Mr. Whitbread_. You might have sweltered in that place -with the Greek name[15] till doomsday, and neither _Lord Castlereagh_, -_Mr. Canning_, no, nor the _Marquess Wellesley_, would have turned a -trowel to help you out! Remember that. Never forget that. Read it to -your children, and to your children's children! And now, _most thinking -people_, cast your eyes over my head to what the builder (I beg his -pardon, the architect) calls the _proscenium_. No motto, no slang, no -popish Latin, to keep the people in the dark. No _veluti in speculum_. -Nothing in the dead languages, properly so called, for they ought to -die, aye and be _damned_ to boot! The Covent Garden manager tried -that, and a pretty business he made of it! When a man says _veluti in -speculum_, he is called a man of letters. Very well, and is not a man -who cries O. P. a man of letters too? You ran your O. P. against his -_veluti in speculum_, and pray which beat? I prophesied that, though -I never told any body. I take it for granted, that every intelligent -man, woman, and child, to whom I address myself, has stood severally -and respectively in Little Russell Street, and cast their, his, her, -and its eyes on the outside of this building before they paid their -money to view the inside. Look at the brick-work, _English Audience_! -Look at the brick-work! All plain and smooth like a quakers' meeting. -None of your Egyptian pyramids, to entomb subscribers' capitals. No -overgrown colonnades of stone, like an alderman's gouty legs in white -cotton stockings, fit only to use as rammers for paving Tottenham Court -Road. This house is neither after the model of a temple in Athens, no, -nor a _temple_ in _Moorfields_, but it is built to act English plays -in; and, provided you have good scenery, dresses, and decorations, I -daresay you wouldn't break your hearts if the outside were as plain as -the pikestaff I used to carry when I was a sergeant. _Apropos_, as the -French valets say, who cut their masters' throats[16]--_apropos_, a -word about dresses. You must, many of you, have seen what I have read -a description of, Kemble and Mrs. Siddons in Macbeth, with more gold -and silver plastered on their doublets than would have kept an honest -family in butcher's meat and flannel from year's end to year's end! I -am informed, (now mind, I do not vouch for the fact,) but I am informed -that all such extravagant idleness is to be done away with here. Lady -Macbeth is to have a plain quilted petticoat, a cotton gown, and a -mob cap (as the court parasites call it;--it will be well for them, -if, one of these days, they don't wear a _mob cap_--I mean a _white -cap_, with a _mob_ to look at them); and Macbeth is to appear in an -honest yeoman's drab coat, and a pair of black calamanco breeches. Not -_Sal_amanca; no, nor _Talavera_ neither, my most Noble Marquess; but -plain, honest, black calamanco stuff breeches. This is right; this is -as it should be. _Most thinking people_, I have heard you much abused. -There is not a compound in the language but is strung fifty in a rope, -like onions, by the Morning Post, and hurled in your teeth. You are -called the mob; and when they have made you out to be the mob, you -are called the _scum_ of the people, and the _dregs_ of the people. I -should like to know how you can be both. Take a basin of broth--not -_cheap soup, Mr. Wilberforce_--not soup for the poor, at a penny a -quart, as your mixture of horses' legs, brick-dust, and old shoes, was -denominated--but plain, wholesome, patriotic beef or mutton broth; take -this, examine it, and you will find--mind, I don't vouch for the fact, -but I am told--you will find the dregs at the bottom, and the scum at -the top. I will endeavour to explain this to you: England is a large -_earthenware pipkin_; John Bull is the _beef_ thrown into it; taxes -are the _hot water_ he boils in; rotten boroughs are the _fuel_ that -blazes under this same pipkin; parliament is the _ladle_ that stirs the -hodge-podge, and sometimes----. But, hold! I don't wish to pay _Mr. -Newman_[17] a second visit. I leave you better off than you have been -this many a day: you have a good house over your head; you have beat -the French in Spain; the harvest has turned out well; the comet keeps -its distance;[18] and red slippers are hawked about in Constantinople -for next to nothing; and for all this, _again and again_ I tell you, -you are indebted to _Mr. Whitbread_!!! - - - THE LIVING LUSTRES. - - BY T. M.[19] - - Jam te juvaverit - Viros relinquere, - Doctæque conjugis - Sinu quiescere. - SIR T. MORE. - - - I. - - O why should our dull retrospective addresses[20] - Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire? - Away with blue devils, away with distresses, - And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire! - - - II. - - Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury, - The richest to me is when woman is there; - The question of houses I leave to the jury; - The fairest to me is the house of the fair. - - - III. - - When woman's soft smile all our senses bewilders, - And gilds, while it carves, her dear form on the heart, - What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders? - With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art? - - - IV. - - How well would our actors attend to their duties, - Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit, - In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beauties - Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit! - - - V. - - The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge - By woman were pluck'd, and she still wears the prize, - To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college-- - I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes. - - - VI. - - There too is the lash which, all statutes controlling, - Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair; - For man is the pupil, who, while her eye's rolling, - Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair. - - - VII. - - Bloom, Theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes - Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile! - And flourish, ye pillars,[21] as green as the rushes - That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle! - - - VIII. - - For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean, - Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave, - Whose sons, unaccustom'd to rebel commotion, - Though joyous, are sober--though peaceful, are brave. - - - IX. - - The shamrock their olive, sworn foe to a quarrel, - Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows; - Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel, - Which flourishes rapidly over their brows. - - - X. - - O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles - Which each panting bosom indignantly names, - Until not one goose at the capital cackles - Against the grand question of Catholic claims. - - - XI. - - And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffey - Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy, - Hold the helm of the state, and dispense in a jiffy - More fishes than ever he caught when a boy. - - - XII. - - And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows, - In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock, - When bred to _our_ bar shall be Gibbses and Garrows, - Assume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock. - - - XIII. - - For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune, - As Dian outshines each encircling star; - And the spheres and the heavens could never have kept tune - Till set to the music of Erin-go-bragh! - - - THE REBUILDING. - - BY R. S.[22] - - ----Per audaces nova dithyrambos - Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur - Lege solutis. - HORAT. - - [_Spoken by a Glendoveer._] - - I am a blessed Glendoveer:[23] - 'Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.[24] - Midnight, yet not a nose - From Tower-hill to Piccadilly snored! - Midnight, yet not a nose - From Indra drew the essence of repose! - See with what crimson fury, - By Indra fann'd, the god of fire ascends the walls of - Drury! - - Tops of houses, blue with lead, - Bend beneath the landlord's tread. - Master and 'prentice, serving-man and lord, - Nailor and tailor, - Grazier and brazier, - Through streets and alleys pour'd-- - All, all abroad to gaze, - And wonder at the blaze. - Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee, - Mounted on roof and chimney,[25] - The mighty roast, the mighty stew - To see; - As if the dismal view - Were but to them a Brentford jubilee. - - Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton - (By Greeks call'd Apollo[26]), - Hollow - Sounds from thy harp proceed; - Combustible as reed, - The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs: - From Drury's top, dissever'd from thy pegs, - Thou tumblest, - Humblest, - Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high; - While, by thy somerset excited, fly - Ten million - Billion - Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky. - - Now come the men of fire to quench the fires: - To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run - Hope gallops first, and second Sun; - On flying heel - See Hand-in-Hand - O'ertake the band! - View with what glowing wheel - He nicks - Phœnix! - While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars-- - Drury Lane! Drury Lane! - Drury Lane! Drury Lane! - They shout and they bellow again and again. - All, all in vain! - Water turns steam; - Each blazing beam - Hisses defiance to the eddying spout: - It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out! - Drury Lane! Drury Lane! - See, Drury Lane expires! - - Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more, - Shorn of his ray, - Surya in durance lay: - The workmen heard him shout, - But thought it would not pay, - To dig him out. - When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell, - Solemn as lead, - Judge of the dead, - Sworn foe to witticism, - By men call'd criticism, - Came passing by that way: - Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness! - Behold the rival theatre! - I've set O. P. at her,[27] - Who, like a bull-dog bold, - Growls and fastens on his hold. - The many-headed rabble roar in madness; - Thy rival staggers: come and spy her - Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire. - - So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one, - And crossing Russell Street, - He placed him on his feet - 'Neath Covent Garden dome. Sudden a sound, - As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose: - Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper, - Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes, - From the knobb'd bludgeon to the taper switch,[28] - Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards - Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches; - A sea of heads roll'd roaring in the pit; - On paper wings O. P.'s - Reclin'd in lettered ease; - While shout and scoff, - Ya! ya! off! off! - Like thunderbolt on Surya's ear-drum fell, - And seem'd to paint - The savage oddities of Saint - Bartholomew in hell. - - Tears dimm'd the god of light-- - 'Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight; - Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick, - Oh! bury me again in brick; - Shall I on New Drury tremble, - To be O. P.'d like Kemble? - No, - Better remain by rubbish guarded, - Than thus hubbubish groan placarded; - Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick, - And bury me again in brick.' - Obedient Yamen - Answered, 'Amen,' - And did - As he was bid. - - There lay the buried god, and Time - Seemed to decree eternity of lime; - But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest - Almighty Veeshnoo's[29] adamantine breast: - He, the preserver, ardent still - To do whate'er he says he will, - From South-hill wing'd his way, - To raise the drooping lord of day. - All earthly spells the busy one o'erpower'd; - He treats with men of all conditions, - Poets and players, tradesmen, and musicians; - Nay, even ventures - To attack the renters, - Old and new: - A list he gets - Of claims and debts, - And deems nought done, while aught remains to do. - Yamen beheld, and wither'd at the sight; - Long had he aim'd the sunbeam to control, - For light was hateful to his soul: - 'Go on!' cried the hellish one, yellow with spite; - 'Go on!' cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen, - 'Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca's queen, - I'll toil to undo every night.' - - Ye sons of song, rejoice! - Veeshnoo has still'd the jarring elements, - The spheres hymn music; - Again the god of day - Peeps forth with trembling ray, - Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine, - And pours at intervals a strain divine. - 'I have an iron yet in the fire,' cried Yamen; - 'The vollied flame rides in my breath, - My blast is elemental death; - This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces; - Engross your deeds, assignments, leases, - My breath shall every line erase - Soon as I blow the blaze.' - The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor, - And Yamen's visage grows blanker and blanker; - The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown, - And Yamen's cheek is a russety brown: - Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds; - The solicitor reads, - And, merit of merit! - Red wax and green ferret - Are fixed at the foot of the deeds! - - Yamen beheld and shiver'd; - His finger and thumb were cramped; - His ear by the flea in't was bitten, - When he saw by the lawyer's clerk written, - Sealed and delivered, } - Being first duly stamped.} - 'Now for my turn!' the demon cries, and blows - A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose. - Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend, - Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell, - Is judged in his turn; - Parchment won't burn! - His schemes of vengeance are dissolv'd in air, - Parchment won't tear!! - - Is it not written in the Himakoot book, - (That mighty Baly from Kehama took) - 'Who blows on pounce - Must the Swerga renounce?' - It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh: - Like as an eagle claws an asp, - Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp, - And hurl'd him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls, - Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain, - Three times as high as Meru mountain, - Which is - Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul's. - Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew,[30] - Who a durable grave meant - To dig in the pavement - Of Monument-yard: - To earth by the laws of attraction he flew, - And he fell, and he fell - To the regions of hell; - Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock, - And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock, - Like a pebble in Carisbrook well. - - Now Veeshnoo turn'd round to a capering varlet, - Arrayed in blue and white and scarlet, - And cried, 'Oh! brown of slipper as of hat! - Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!' - He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth; - When lo! upstarting into birth - A fabric, gorgeous to behold, - Outshone in elegance the old, - And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, 'Hail, playhouse mine!' - Then, bending his head, to Surya he said: - 'Soon as thy maiden sister Di - Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky, - And through the fissures of her clouded fan - Peeps at the naughty monster man, - Go mount yon edifice, - And show thy steady face - In renovated pride, - More bright, more glorious than before!' - But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge, - Still smarted from his former singe; - And to Veeshnoo replied, - In a tone rather gruff, - 'No, thank you! one tumble's enough!' - - - DRURY'S DIRGE. - - BY LAURA MATILDA.[31] - - You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force, - Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse: - We want their _strength_, agreed; but we atone - For that and more, by _sweetness_ all our own. - GIFFORD. - - I. - - Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting, - Shade me with your azure wing; - On Parnassus' summit sitting, - Aid me, Clio, while I sing. - - II. - - Softly slept the dome of Drury - O'er the empyreal crest, - When Alecto's sister-fury - Softly slumb'ring sunk to rest. - - III. - - Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely, - Lags the lowly Lord of Fire, - Cytherea yielding tamely - To the Cyclops dark and dire. - - - IV. - - Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness, - Dulcet joys and sports of youth, - Soon must yield to haughty sadness; - Mercy holds the veil to Truth. - - V. - - See Erostratus the second - Fires again Diana's fane; - By the fates from Orcus beckon'd, - Clouds envelop Drury Lane. - - VI. - - Lurid smoke and frank suspicion - Hand in hand reluctant dance: - While the God fulfils his mission, - Chivalry, resign thy lance. - - VII. - - Hark! the engines blandly thunder, - Fleecy clouds dishevell'd lie, - And the firemen, mute with wonder, - On the son of Saturn cry. - - VIII. - - See the bird of Ammon sailing, - Perches on the engine's peak, - And, the Eagle firemen hailing, - Soothes them with its bickering beak. - - IX. - - Juno saw, and mad with malice, - Lost the prize that Paris gave: - Jealousy's ensanguined chalice, - Mantling pours the orient wave. - - - X. - - Pan beheld Patroclus dying, - Nox to Niobe was turn'd; - From Busiris Bacchus flying - Saw his Semele inurn'd. - - XI. - - Thus fell Drury's lofty glory, - Levell'd with the shuddering stones; - Mars, with tresses black and gory, - Drinks the dew of pearly groans. - - XII. - - Hark! what soft Eolian numbers - Gem the blushes of the morn! - Break, Amphion, break your slumbers, - Nature's ringlets deck the thorn. - - XIII. - - Ha! I hear the strain erratic - Dimly glance from pole to pole; - Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic - Fire my everlasting soul. - - XIV. - - Where is Cupid's crimson motion? - Billowy ecstasy of woe, - Bear me straight, meandering ocean, - Where the stagnant torrents flow. - - XV. - - Blood in every vein is gushing, - Vixen vengeance lulls my heart; - See, the Gorgon gang is rushing! - Never, never let us part! - - '"Drury's Dirge," by Laura Matilda, is not of the first - quality. The verses, to be sure, are very smooth, and very - nonsensical--as was intended; but they are not so good as - Swift's celebrated Song by a Person of Quality; and are so - exactly in the same measure, and on the same plan, that it - is impossible to avoid making the comparison.'--_Edinburgh - Review._ - - - A TALE OF DRURY LANE. - - BY W. S.[32] - - Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in - the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating, - as near as he could, their very phrase.[33]--DON QUIXOTE. - - [_To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, in a suit of the Black Prince's Armour, - borrowed from the Tower._] - - Survey this shield, all bossy bright-- - These cuisses twain behold! - Look on my form in armour dight - Of steel inlaid with gold; - My knees are stiff in iron buckles, - Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles. - These once belong'd to sable prince, - Who never did in battle wince; - With valour tart as pungent quince, - He slew the vaunting Gaul. - Rest there awhile, my bearded lance, - While from green curtain I advance - To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,[34] - And tell the town what sad mischance - Did Drury Lane befall. - - The Night. - - On fair Augusta's towers and trees - Flitted the silent midnight breeze, - Curling the foliage as it past, - Which from the moon-tipp'd plumage cast - A spangled light, like dancing spray, - Then re-assumed its still array; - When, as night's lamp unclouded hung, - And down its full effulgence flung, - It shed such soft and balmy power - That cot and castle, hall and bower, - And spire and dome, and turret height, - Appeared to slumber in the light. - From Henry's chapel, Rufus' hall, - To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul, - From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, - To Redriff, Shadwell, Horsleydown, - No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, - But all in deepest sleep reposed. - They might have thought, who gazed around - Amid a silence so profound, - It made the senses thrill, - That 'twas no place inhabited, - But some vast city of the dead-- - All was so hush'd and still. - - - The Burning. - - As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom, - Had slept in everlasting gloom, - Started with terror and surprise - When light first flash'd upon her eyes-- - So London's sons in nightcap woke, - In bedgown woke her dames; - For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke, - And twice ten hundred voices spoke-- - 'The playhouse is in flames!' - And, lo! where Catherine Street extends, - A fiery tail its lustre lends - To every window-pane; - Blushes each spout in Martlet Court, - And Barbican, moth-eaten fort, - And Covent Garden kennels sport - A bright ensanguined drain; - Meux's new brewhouse shows the light, - Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height - Where patent shot they sell; - The Tennis Court, so fair and tall, - Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall, - The ticket-porters' house of call, - Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,[35] - Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal, - And Richardson's Hotel. - Nor these alone, but far and wide, - Across red Thames's gleaming tide, - To distant fields, the blaze was borne, - And daisy white and hoary thorn - In borrow'd lustre seem'd to sham - The rose or red Sweet Wil-li-am. - To those who on the hills around - Beheld the flames from Drury's mound, - As from a lofty altar rise, - It seem'd that nations did conspire - To offer to the god of fire - Some vast stupendous sacrifice! - The summon'd firemen woke at call, - And hied them to their stations all: - Starting from short and broken snooze, - Each sought his pond'rous hobnail'd shoes, - But first his worsted hosen plied, - Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed, - His nether bulk embraced; - Then jacket thick, of red or blue, - Whose massy shoulder gave to view - The badge of each respective crew, - In tin or copper traced. - The engines thunder'd through the street, - Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete, - And torches glared, and clattering feet - Along the pavement paced. - And one, the leader of the band, - From Charing Cross along the Strand, - Like stag by beagles hunted hard, - Ran till he stopp'd at Vin'gar Yard. - The burning badge his shoulder bore, - The belt and oil-skin hat he wore, - The cane he had, his men to bang, - Show'd foreman of the British gang-- - His name was Higginbottom. Now - 'Tis meet that I should tell you how - The others came in view: - The Hand-in-Hand the race begun, - Then came the Phœnix and the Sun, - Th' Exchange, where old insurers run, - The Eagle, where the new; - With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole, - Robins from Hockley in the Hole, - Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl, - Crump from St. Giles's Pound: - Whitford and Mitford join'd the train, - Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, - And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain - Before the plug was found. - Hobson and Jobson did not sleep, - But ah! no trophy could they reap, - For both were in the Donjon Keep - Of Bridewell's gloomy mound! - - E'en Higginbottom now was posed, - For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed; - Without, within, in hideous show, - Devouring flames resistless glow, - And blazing rafters downward go, - And never halloo 'Heads below!' - Nor notice give at all. - The firemen terrified are slow - To bid the pumping torrent flow, - For fear the roof should fall. - Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof! - Whitford, keep near the walls! - Huggins, regard your own behoof, - For, lo! the blazing rocking roof - Down, down, in thunder falls! - An awful pause succeeds the stroke, - And o'er the ruins volumed smoke, - Rolling around its pitchy shroud, - Conceal'd them from th' astonish'd crowd. - At length the mist awhile was clear'd, - When, lo! amid the wreck uprear'd, - Gradual a moving head appear'd, - And Eagle firemen knew - 'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered, - The foreman of their crew. - Loud shouted all in signs of woe, - 'A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!' - And pour'd the hissing tide: - Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, - And strove and struggled all in vain, - For, rallying but to fall again, - He totter'd, sunk, and died! - - Did none attempt, before he fell, - To succour one they loved so well? - Yes, Higginbottom did aspire - (His fireman's soul was all on fire), - His brother chief to save; - But ah! his reckless generous ire - Served but to share his grave! - Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, - Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, - Where Muggins broke before. - But sulphury stench and boiling drench, - Destroying sight, o'erwhelm'd him quite, - He sunk to rise no more. - Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved, - His whizzing water-pipe he waved; - 'Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps, - You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps - Why are you in such doleful dumps? - A fireman, and afraid of bumps!-- - What are they fear'd on? fools! 'od rot 'em!' - Were the last words of Higginbottom. - - - The Revival. - - Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom, - And toil rebuilds what fires consume! - Eat we and drink we, be our ditty, - 'Joy to the managing committee!' - Eat we and drink we, join to rum - Roast beef and pudding of the plum; - Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come, - With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, - For this is Drury's gay day: - Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops, - And buy, to glad thy smiling chops, - Crisp parliament with lollypops, - And fingers of the Lady. - - Didst mark, how toil'd the busy train, - From morn to eve, till Drury Lane - Leap'd like a roebuck from the plain? - Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again, - And nimble workmen trod; - To realise bold Wyatt's plan - Rush'd many a howling Irishman; - Loud clatter'd many a porter-can, - And many a raggamuffin clan, - With trowel and with hod. - - Drury revives! her rounded pate - Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate; - She 'wings the midway air' elate, - As magpie, crow, or chough; - White paint her modish visage smears, - Yellow and pointed are her ears, - No pendant portico appears - Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears[36] - Have cut the bauble off. - - Yes, she exalts her stately head; - And, but that solid bulk outspread - Opposed you on your onward tread, - And posts and pillars warranted - That all was true that Wyatt said, - You might have deem'd her walls so thick - Were not composed of stone or brick, - But all a phantom, all a trick, - Of brain disturb'd and fancy-sick, - So high she soars, so vast, so quick! - - 'From the parody of Walter Scott we know not what to - select--it is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, - and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, - may be quoted as amusing specimens of the _misapplication_ - of the style and metre of Mr. Scott's admirable - romances.'--_Quarterly Review._ - - '"A Tale of Drury," by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, - admirably executed; though the introduction is rather - tame. The burning is described with the mighty minstrel's - characteristic love of localities. The catastrophe is - described with a spirit not unworthy of the name so - venturously assumed by the describer.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - - - JOHNSON'S GHOST.[37] - - [_Ghost of Dr._ JOHNSON _rises from trap-door P. S., and Ghost - of_ BOSWELL _from trap-door O. P. The latter bows - respectfully to the House, and obsequiously to the - Doctor's Ghost, and retires._] - - - _Doctor's Ghost loquitur._ - -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 to 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 -attitudinizing 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 flood-gate, 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[38] 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 Mandane 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,[39] 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. - - - THE BEAUTIFUL INCENDIARY. - - BY THE HON. W. S.[40] - - Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida silvas.--VIRGIL. - - - _Scene draws, and discovers a Lady asleep on a couch._ - - _Enter_ PHILANDER. - - PHILANDER. - - - I. - - Sobriety, cease to be sober,[41] - Cease, Labour, to dig and to delve; - All hail to this tenth of October, - One thousand eight hundred and twelve! - Ha! whom do my peepers remark? - 'Tis Hebe with Jupiter's jug; - O no, 'tis the pride of the Park, - Fair Lady Elizabeth Mugg. - - - II. - - Why, beautiful nymph, do you close - The curtain that fringes your eye? - Why veil in the clouds of repose - The sun that should brighten our sky? - Perhaps jealous Venus has oiled - Your hair with some opiate drug, - Not choosing her charms should be foiled - By Lady Elizabeth Mugg. - - - III. - - But ah! why awaken the blaze - Those bright burning-glasses contain, - Whose lens with concentrated rays - Proved fatal to old Drury Lane? - 'Twas all accidental, they cry,-- - Away with the flimsy humbug! - 'Twas fired by a flash from the eye - Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg. - - - IV. - - Thy glance can in us raise a flame, - Then why should old Drury be free? - Our doom and its dome are the same, - Both subject to beauty's decree. - No candles the workmen consumed, - When deep in the ruins they dug; - Thy flash still their progress illumed, - Sweet Lady Elizabeth Mugg. - - - V. - - Thy face a rich fire-place displays: - The mantel-piece marble--thy brows; - Thine eyes, are the bright beaming blaze; - Thy bib, which no trespass allows, - The fender's tall barrier marks; - Thy tippet's the fire-quelling rug, - Which serves to extinguish the sparks - Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg. - - - VI. - - The Countess a lily appears, - Whose tresses the pearl-drops emboss; - The Marchioness, blooming in years, - A rose-bud enveloped in moss; - But thou art the sweet passion-flower, - For who would not slavery hug, - To pass but one exquisite hour - In the arms of Elizabeth Mugg? - - - VII. - - When at court, or some Dowager's rout, - Her diamond aigrette meets our view, - She looks like a glow-worm dressed out, - Or tulips bespangled with dew. - Her two lips denied to man's suit, - Are shared with her favourite Pug; - What lord would not change with the brute, - To live with Elizabeth Mugg? - - - VIII. - - Could the stage be a large vis-à-vis, - Reserved for the polished and great, - Where each happy lover might see - The nymph he adores tête-à-tête; - No longer I'd gaze on the ground, - And the load of despondency lug, - For I'd book myself all the year round, - To ride with the sweet Lady Mugg. - - - IX. - - Yes, she in herself is a host, - And if she were here all alone, - Our house might nocturnally boast - A bumper of fashion and ton. - Again should it burst in a blaze, - In vain would they ply Congreve's plug,[42] - For nought could extinguish the rays - From the glance of divine Lady Mugg. - - - X. - - O could I as Harlequin frisk, - And thou be my Columbine fair, - My wand should with one magic whisk - Transport us to Hanover Square: - St. George's should lend us its shrine, - The parson his shoulders might shrug, - But a license should force him to join - My hand in the hand of my Mugg. - - - XI. - - Court-plaster the weapons should tip, - By Cupid shot down from above, - Which, cut into spots for thy lip, - Should still barb the arrows of love. - The god who from others flies quick, - With us should be slow as a slug; - As close as a leech he should stick - To me and Elizabeth Mugg. - - - XII. - - For Time would, with us, 'stead of sand, - Put filings of steel in his glass, - To dry up the blots of his hand, - And spangle life's page as they pass. - Since all flesh is grass ere 'tis hay,[43] - O may I in clover live snug, - And when old Time mows me away, - Be stacked with defunct Lady Mugg! - - '"The Beautiful Incendiary," by the Honourable W. Spencer, is - also an imitation of great merit. The flashy, fashionable, - artificial style of this writer, with his confident and - extravagant compliments, can scarcely be said to be parodied - in such lines.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - - - FIRE AND ALE. - - BY M. G. L.[44] - - Omnia transformat sese in miracula rerum.--VIRGIL. - - My palate is parched with Pierian thirst, - Away to Parnassus I'm beckoned; - List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehearsed, - I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first, - And the birth of Miss Drury the second. - - The Fire King, one day, rather amorous felt; - He mounted his hot copper filly; - His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt - Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt - With the heat of the copper colt's belly. - - Sure never was skin half so scalding as his! - When an infant 'twas equally horrid; - For the water, when he was baptised, gave a fizz, - And bubbled and simmer'd and started off, whizz! - As soon as it sprinkled his forehead. - - Oh! then there was glitter and fire in each eye, - For two living coals were the symbols; - His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry, - It rattled against them, as though you should try - To play the piano in thimbles. - - From his nostrils a lava sulphureous flows, - Which scorches wherever it lingers; - A snivelling fellow he's call'd by his foes, - For he can't raise his paw up to blow his red nose, - For fear it should blister his fingers. - - His wig is of flames curling over his head, - Well-powder'd with white smoking ashes; - He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead, - Cream of tartar, and dines on hot spiced gingerbread, - Which black from the oven he gnashes. - - Each fire nymph his kiss from her countenance shields, - 'Twould soon set her cheekbone a frying; - He spit in the tenter ground near Spitalfields, - And the hole that it burnt, and the chalk that it yields, - Make a capital lime-kiln for drying. - - When he open'd his mouth, out there issued a blast - (Nota bene, I do not mean swearing), - But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast, - I've heard it from those who have seen it, surpass'd - A shot manufactory flaring. - - He blazed, and he blazed, as he gallop'd to snatch - His bride, little dreaming of danger; - His whip was a torch, and his spur was a match, - And over the horse's left eye was a patch, - To keep it from burning the manger. - - And who is the housemaid he means to enthral - In his cinder-producing alliance? - 'Tis Drury Lane Playhouse, so wide, and so tall, - Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall, - If she cannot set sparks at defiance. - - On his warming-pan kneepan he clattering roll'd, - And the housemaid his hand would have taken, - But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold, - And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold - All melted, like butter or bacon! - - Oh! then she look'd sour, and indeed well she might, - For Vinegar Yard was before her; - But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight, - Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas light, - To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her. - - Look! look! 'tis the Ale King, so stately and starch, - Whose votaries scorn to be sober; - He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch; - Brown-stout is his doublet, he hops in his march, - And froths at the mouth in October. - - His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung; - He taps where the housemaid no more is, - When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung - A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young, - And sported _in loco sororis_. - - Back, lurid in air, for a second regale, - The Cinder King, hot with desire, - To Brydges Street hied; but the Monarch of Ale, - With uplifted spigot and faucet and pail, - Thus chided the Monarch of Fire: - - 'Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew; - I rule the roast here, dash the wig o' me! - If, spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you - Come here with your tinderbox, courting the New, - I'll have you indicted for bigamy!' - - '"Fire and Ale," by M. G. Lewis, exhibits not only a faithful - copy of the spirited, loose, and flowing versification of - that singular author, but a very just representation of that - mixture of extravagance and jocularity which has impressed - most of his writings with the character of a sort of farcical - horror.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - - - PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS. - - BY S. T. C.[45] - - Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim - Credebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquam - Decurrens alio, neque si bene. - HORACE. - - My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad? - I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey - To carry to the mart her crockery ware, - And when that donkey look'd me in the face, - His face was sad! and you are sad, my Public! - - Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October - Again assembles us in Drury Lane. - Long wept my eye to see the timber planks - That hid our ruins; many a day I cried, - Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it! - Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve, - As along Charles Street I prepared to walk, - Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's, - I heard a trowel tick against a brick. - I look'd me up, and straight a parapet - Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks. - Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said: - He[46] of Blackfriars' Road, who hymn'd thy downfall - In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied - That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma, - Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee, - Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour, - As leisure offer'd, close to Mr. Spring's - Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders. - They had a plan to render less their labours; - Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder - With hooded heads, but these stretch'd forth a pole - From the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulley - Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley; - To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks - Thus freighted, swung securely to the top, - And in the empty basket workmen twain - Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth. - - Oh! 'twas a goodly sound, to hear the people - Who watch'd the work, express their various thoughts! - While some believed it never would be finish'd, - Some, on the contrary, believed it would. - - I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane - Much criticised; they say 'tis vulgar brick-work, - A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth. - One of the morning papers wish'd that front - Cemented like the front in Brydges Street; - As it now looks, they call it Wyatt's Mermaid, - A handsome woman with a fish's tail. - - White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet Street: - The Albion (as its name denotes) is white; - Morgan and Saunders' shop for chairs and tables - Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun; - White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet Street, - The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders, - Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury's face. - - Oh, Mr. Whitbread![47] fie upon you, sir! - I think you should have built a colonnade; - When tender Beauty, looking for her coach, - Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower, - And draws the tippet closer round her throat, - Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off, - And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud - Soaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow, - She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa - Cries, 'There you go! this comes of playhouses!' - To build no portico is penny wise: - Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish! - - Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theatres! - What is the Regency in Tottenham Street, - The Royal Amphitheatre of Arts, - Astley's, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil, - Compar'd with thee? Yet when I view thee push'd - Back from the narrow street that christen'd thee, - I know not why they call thee Drury Lane. - - Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions, - It grieves me much to see live animals - Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit, - Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig; - Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist - Of former Drury, imitated life - Quite to the life. The elephant in Blue Beard, - Stuff'd by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis, - As spruce as he who roar'd in Padmanaba.[48] - Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands - I reverence the coachman who cries 'Gee,' - And spares the lash. When I behold a spider - Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm, - Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife - Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton, - Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick! - [_Exit hastily._ - - 'Mr. Coleridge will not, we fear, be as much entertained - as we were with his 'Playhouse Musings,' which begin with - characteristic pathos and simplicity, and put us much in mind - of the affecting story of old Poulter's mare.'--_Quarterly - Review._ - - '"Playhouse Musings,"' by Mr. Coleridge, a piece which - is unquestionably Lakish, though we cannot say that we - recognise in it any of the peculiar traits of that powerful - and misdirected genius whose name it has borrowed. We rather - think, however, that the tuneful brotherhood will consider it - as a respectable eclogue.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - - - DRURY LANE HUSTINGS. - - A NEW HALFPENNY BALLAD. - - BY A PIC-NIC POET. - - This is the very age of promise: To promise is most courtly - and fashionable. Performance is a kind of will or testament, - which argues a great sickness in his judgement that makes it. - TIMON OF ATHENS. - - [_To be sung by Mr._ JOHNSTONE _in the character of_ - LOONEY M'TWOLTER.] - - - I. - - Mr. Jack, your address, says the Prompter to me, - So I gave him my card--no, that a'nt it, says he; - 'Tis your public address. Oh! says I, never fear, - If address you are bother'd for, only look here. - [_Puts on hat affectedly._ - Tol de rol lol, &c. - - - II. - - With Drury's for sartin we'll never have done, - We've built up another, and yet there's but one; - The old one was best, yet I'd say, if I durst, - The new one is better--the last is the first. - Tol de rol, &c. - - - III. - - These pillars are call'd by a Frenchified word, - A something that's jumbled of antique and verd; - The boxes may show us some verdant antiques, - Some old harridans who beplaster their cheeks. - Tol de rol, &c. - - - IV. - - Only look how high Tragedy, Comedy, stick, - Lest their rivals, the horses, should give them a kick! - If you will not descend when our authors beseech ye, - You'll stop there for life, for I'm sure they can't reach ye. - Tol de rol, &c. - - - V. - - Each one shilling god within reach of a nod is, - And plain are the charms of each gallery goddess-- - You, Brandy-faced Moll, don't be looking askew, - When I talk'd of a goddess I didn't mean you. - Tol de rol, &c. - - - VI. - - Our stage is so prettily fashion'd for viewing, - The whole house can see what the whole house is doing: - 'Tis just like the Hustings, we kick up a bother; - But saying is one thing, and doing's another. - Tol de rol, &c. - - - VII. - - We've many new houses, and some of them rum ones, - But the newest of all is the new House of Commons; - 'Tis a rickety sort of a bantling, I'm told, - It will die of old age when it's seven years old. - Tol de rol, &c. - - - VIII. - - As I don't know on whom the election will fall, - I move in return for returning them all; - But for fear Mr. Speaker my meaning should miss, - The house that I wish 'em to sit in is this. - Tol de rol, &c. - - - IX. - - Let us cheer our great Commoner, but for whose aid - We all should have gone with short commons to bed; - And since he has saved all the fat from the fire, - I move that the house be call'd Whitbread's Entire. - Tol de rol, &c. - - '"A New Halfpenny Ballad," by a Pic-Nic Poet, is a good - imitation of what was not worth imitating--that tremendous - mixture of vulgarity, nonsense, impudence, and miserable puns, - which, under the name of humorous songs, rouses our polite - audiences to a far higher pitch of rapture than Garrick or - Siddons ever was able to inspire.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - - - ARCHITECTURAL ATOMS. - - TRANSLATED BY DR. B.[49] - - - Lege, Dick, Lege!--JOSEPH ANDREWS. - - _To be recited by the Translator's Son_ - - Away, fond dupes! who, smit with sacred lore, - Mosaic dreams in Genesis explore, - Doat with Copernicus, or darkling stray - With Newton, Ptolemy, or Tycho Brahe! - To you I sing not, for I sing of truth, - Primeval systems, and creation's youth; - Such as of old, with magic wisdom fraught, - Inspired LUCRETIUS to the Latians taught. - - I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb, - Encounter'd casual cow-hair, casual lime; - How rafters, borne through wondering clouds elate, - Kiss'd in their slope blue elemental slate, - Clasp'd solid beams in chance-directed fury, - And gave to birth our renovated Drury. - - Thee, son of Jove! whose sceptre was confess'd, - Where fair Æolia springs from Tethys' breast; - Thence on Olympus, mid celestials placed, - GOD OF THE WINDS, and Ether's boundless waste-- - Thee I invoke! Oh _puff_ my bold design, - Prompt the bright thought, and swell th' harmonious line; - Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspire - With Winsor's[50] patent gas, or wind of fire, - In whose pure blaze thy embryo form enroll'd, - The dark enlightens, and enchafes the cold. - - But, while I court thy gifts, be mine to shun - The deprecated prize Ulysses won; - Who, sailing homeward from thy breezy shore, - The prison'd winds in skins of parchment bore. - Speeds the fleet bark, till o'er the billowy green - The azure heights of Ithaca are seen; - But while with favouring gales her way she wins, - His curious comrades ope the mystic skins; - When, lo! the rescued winds, with boisterous sweep, - Roar to the clouds and lash the rocking deep; - Heaves the smote vessel in the howling blast, - Splits the stretch'd sail, and cracks the tottering mast. - Launch'd on a plank, the buoyant hero rides, - Where ebon Afric stems the sable tides, - While his duck'd comrades o'er the ocean fly, - And sleep not in the whole skins they untie. - - So, when to raise the wind some lawyer tries, - Mysterious skins of parchment meet our eyes; - On speeds the smiling suit--'Pleas of our Lord - The King' shine sable on the wide record; - Nods the prunella'd bar, attorneys smile, - And siren jurors flatter to beguile; - Till stript--nonsuited--he is doom'd to toss - In legal shipwreck and redeemless loss! - Lucky, if, like Ulysses, he can keep - His head above the waters of the deep. - - Æolian monarch! Emperor of Puffs! - We modern sailors dread not thy rebuffs; - See to thy golden shore promiscuous come - Quacks for the lame, the blind, the deaf, the dumb; - Fools are their bankers--a prolific line, - And every mortal malady's a mine. - Each sly Sangrado, with his poisonous pill, - Flies to the printer's devil with his bill, - Whose Midas touch can gild his asses' ears, - And load a knave with folly's rich arrears. - And lo! a second miracle is thine, - For sloe-juice water stands transform'd to wine. - Where Day and Martin's patent blacking roll'd - Burst from the vase Pactolian streams of gold; - Laugh the sly wizards, glorying in their stealth - Quit the black art, and loll in lazy wealth. - See Britain's Algerines, the lottery fry, - Win annual tribute by the annual lie! - Aided by thee--but whither do I stray?-- - Court, city, borough, own thy sovereign sway; - An age of puffs an age of gold succeeds, - And windy bubbles are the spawn it breeds. - - If such thy power, O hear the Muse's prayer! - Swell thy loud lungs and wave thy wings of air; - Spread, viewless giant, all thy arms of mist - Like windmill-sails to bring the poet grist; - As erst thy roaring son, with eddying gale, - Whirl'd Orithyia from her native vale-- - So, while Lucretian wonders I rehearse, - Augusta's sons shall patronise my verse. - - I sing of ATOMS, whose creative brain, - With eddying impulse, built new Drury Lane; - Not to the labours of subservient man, - To no young Wyatt appertains the plan-- - We mortals stalk, like horses in a mill, - Impassive media of atomic will; - Ye stare! then Truth's broad talisman discern-- - 'Tis Demonstration speaks--attend, and learn! - - From floating elements in chaos hurl'd, - Self-form'd of atoms, sprang the infant world: - No great _First Cause_ inspired the happy plot, - But all was matter--and no matter what. - Atoms, attracted by some law occult, - Settling in spheres, the globe was the result: - Pure child of _Chance_, which still directs the ball, - As rotatory atoms rise or fall. - In ether launch'd, the peopled bubble floats, - A mass of particles and confluent motes, - So nicely poised, that if one atom flings - Its weight away, aloft the planet springs, - And wings its course through realms of boundless space - Outstripping comets in eccentric race. - Add but one atom more, it sinks outright - Down to the realms of Tartarus and night. - What waters melt or scorching fires consume, - In different forms their being re-assume: - Hence can no change arise, except in name, - For weight and substance ever are the same. - - Thus with the flames that from old Drury rise - Its elements primeval sought the skies; - There pendulous to wait the happy hour, - When new attractions should restore their power: - So, in this procreant theatre elate, - Echoes unborn their future life await; - Her embryo sounds in ether lie conceal'd, - Like words in northern atmosphere congeal'd. - Here many a fœtus laugh and half encore - Clings to the roof, or creeps along the floor; - By puffs concipient some in ether flit, - And soar in bravos from the thundering pit; - Some forth on ticket-nights[51] from tradesmen break, - To mar the actor they design to make; - While some this mortal life abortive miss, - Crush'd by a groan, or strangled by a hiss. - So, when 'Dog's-meat' re-echoes through the streets, - Rush sympathetic dogs from their retreats, - Beam with bright blaze their supplicating eyes, - Sink their hind-legs, ascend their joyful cries; - Each, wild with hope, and maddening to prevail, - Points the pleased ear, and wags the expectant tail. - - Ye fallen bricks! in Drury's fire calcined, - Since doom'd to slumber, couch'd upon the wind, - Sweet was the hour, when, tempted by your freaks, - Congenial trowels smooth'd your yellow cheeks. - Float dulcet serenades upon the ear, - Bends every atom from its ruddy sphere, - Twinkles each eye, and, peeping from its veil, - Marks in the adverse crowd its destined male. - The oblong beauties clap their hands of grit, - And brick-dust titterings on the breezes flit; - Then down they rush in amatory race, - Their dusty bridegrooms eager to embrace. - Some choose old lovers, some decide for new, - But each, when fix'd, is to her station true. - Thus various bricks are made, as tastes invite-- - The red, the grey, the dingy, or the white. - - Perhaps some half-baked rover, frank and free, - To alien beauty bends the lawless knee, - But of unhallow'd fascinations sick, - Soon quits his Cyprian for his married brick; - The Dido atom calls and scolds in vain, - No crisp Æneas soothes the widow's pain. - - So in Cheapside, what time Aurora peeps, - A mingled noise of dustmen, milk, and sweeps, - Falls on the housemaid's ear: amazed she stands, - Then opes the door with cinder-sabled hands, - And 'Matches' calls. The dustman, bubbled flat, - Thinks 'tis for him, and doffs his fan-tail'd hat; - The milkman, whom her second cries assail, - With sudden sink unyokes the clinking pail; - Now louder grown, by turns she screams and weeps-- - Alas! her screaming only brings the sweeps. - Sweeps but put out--she wants to raise a flame, - And calls for matches, but 'tis still the same. - Atoms and housemaids! mark the moral true-- - If once ye go astray, no _match_ for you! - - As atoms in one mass united mix, - So bricks attraction feel for kindred bricks; - Some in the cellar view, perchance, on high, - Fair chimney chums on beds of mortar lie; - Enamour'd of the sympathetic clod, - Leaps the red bridegroom to the labourer's hod; - And up the ladder bears the workman, taught - To think he bears the bricks--mistaken thought! - A proof behold: if near the top they find - The nymphs or broken-corner'd or unkind, - Back to the base, 'resulting with a bound,' - They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground! - - So legends tell along the lofty hill - Paced the twin heroes, gallant Jack and Jill; - On trudged the Gemini to reach the rail - That shields the well's top from the expectant pail, - When, ah! Jack falls; and, rolling in the rear, - Jill feels the attraction of his kindred sphere: - Head over heels begins his toppling track, - Throws sympathetic somersets with Jack, - And at the mountain's base bobs plump against him, whack! - - Ye living atoms, who unconscious sit, - Jumbled by chance in gallery, box, and pit, - For you no Peter opes the fabled door, - No churlish Charon plies the shadowy oar; - Breathe but a space, and Boreas' casual sweep - Shall bear your scatter'd corses o'er the deep - To gorge the greedy elements, and mix - With water, marl, and clay, and stones, and sticks; - While, charged with fancied souls, sticks, stones, and clay, - Shall take your seats, and hiss or clap the play. - - O happy age! when convert Christians read - No sacred writings but the Pagan creed-- - O happy age! when spurning Newton's dreams - Our poets' sons recite Lucretian themes, - Abjure the idle systems of their youth, - And turn again to atoms and to truth;-- - O happier still! when England's dauntless dames, - Awed by no chaste alarms, no latent shames, - The bard's fourth book unblushingly peruse, - And learn the rampant lessons of the stews! - - All hail, Lucretius! renovated sage! - Unfold the modest mystics of thy page; - Return no more to thy sepulchral shelf, - But live, kind bard--that I may live myself! - - 'In one single point the parodist has failed--there is a - certain Dr. Busby, whose supposed address is a translation - called "Architectural Atoms, intended to be recited by the - translator's son." Unluckily, however, for the wag who had - prepared this fun, the _genuine serious absurdity_ of Dr. - Busby and his son has cast all his humour into the shade. - The doctor from the boxes, and the son from the stage, - have actually endeavoured, it seems, to recite addresses, - which they call _monologues_ and _unalogues_; and which, for - extravagant folly, tumid meanness, and vulgar affectation, - set all the powers of parody at utter defiance.'--_Quarterly - Review._ - - 'Of "Architectural Atoms," translated by Dr. Busby, we can say - very little more than that they appear to us to be far more - capable of combining into good poetry than the few lines we - were able to read of the learned doctor's genuine address in - the newspapers. They might pass, indeed, for a very tolerable - imitation of Darwin.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - - - THEATRICAL ALARM-BELL. - - BY THE EDITOR OF THE M. P.[52] - - Bounce, Jupiter, bounce!--O'HARA. - - LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, - As it is now the universally-admitted, and indeed -pretty-generally-suspected, aim of Mr. Whitbread and the infamous, -bloodthirsty, and, in fact, illiberal faction to which he belongs, -to burn to the ground this free and happy Protestant city, and -establish himself in St. James's Palace, his fellow committee-men -have thought it their duty to watch the principles of a theatre built -under his auspices. The information they have received from undoubted -authority--particularly from an old fruit-woman who has turned king's -evidence, and whose name, for obvious reasons, we forbear to mention, -though we have had it some weeks in our possession--has induced them -to introduce various reforms--not such reforms as the vile faction -clamour for, meaning thereby revolution, but such reforms as are -necessary to preserve the glorious constitution of the only free, -happy, and prosperous country now left upon the face of the earth. -From the valuable and authentic source above alluded to, we have -learnt that a sanguinary plot has been formed by some united Irishmen, -combined with a gang of Luddites, and a special committee sent over -by the Pope at the instigation of the beastly Corsican fiend, for -destroying all the loyal part of the audience on the anniversary of -that deeply-to-be-abhorred and highly-to-be-blamed stratagem, the Gun -powder Plot, which falls this year on Thursday the 5th of November. -The whole is under the direction of a delegated committee of O. -P.'s, whose treasonable exploits at Covent Garden you all recollect, -and all of whom would have been hung from the chandeliers at that -time, but for the mistaken lenity of government. At a given signal, -a well-known O. P. was to cry out from the gallery, 'Nosey! Music!' -whereupon all the O. P.'s were to produce from their inside-pockets -a long pair of shears, edged with felt, to prevent their making any -noise, manufactured expressly by a wretch at Birmingham, one of Mr. -Brougham's evidences, and now in custody. With these they were to -cut off the heads of all the loyal N. P.'s in the house, without -distinction of sex or age. At the signal, similarly given, of 'Throw -him over!' which it now appears always alluded to the overthrow of our -never-sufficiently-enough-to-be-deeply-and-universally-to-be-venerated -constitution, all the heads of the N. P.'s were to be thrown at the -fiddlers, to prevent their appearing in evidence, or perhaps as a false -and illiberal insinuation that they have no heads of their own. All -that we know of the further designs of these incendiaries is, that they -are by-a-great-deal-too-much too-horrible-to-be-mentioned. - -The Manager has acted with his usual promptitude on this trying -occasion. He has contracted for 300 tons of gunpowder, which are -at this moment placed in a small barrel under the pit; and a -descendant of Guy Faux, assisted by Col. Congreve, has undertaken -to blow up the house, when necessary, in so novel and ingenious -a manner, that every O. P. shall be annihilated, while not a -whisker of the N. P.'s shall be singed. This strikingly displays -the advantages of loyalty and attachment to government. Several -other hints have been taken from the theatrical regulations of the -not-a-bit-the-less-on-that-account-to-be-universally-execrated monster -Bonaparte. A park of artillery, provided with chain-shot, is to be -stationed on the stage, and play upon the audience, in case of any -indication of misplaced applause or popular discontent (which -accounts for the large space between the curtain and the lamps); and -the public will participate our satisfaction in learning that the -indecorous custom of standing up with the hat on is to be abolished, as -the Bow-street officers are provided with daggers, and have orders to -stab all such persons to the heart, and send their bodies to Surgeons' -Hall. Gentlemen who cough are only to be slightly wounded. Fruit-women -bawling 'Bill of the play!' are to be forthwith shot, for which purpose -soldiers will be stationed in the slips, and ball-cartridge is to be -served out with the lemonade. If any of the spectators happen to sneeze -or spit, they are to be transported for life; and any person who is -so tall as to prevent another seeing, is to be dragged out and sent -on board the tender, or, by an instrument taken out of the pocket of -Procrustes, to be forthwith cut shorter, either at the head or foot, -according as his own convenience may dictate. - -Thus, ladies and gentlemen, have the committee, through my medium, -set forth the not-in-a-hurry-to-be-paralleled plan they have -adopted for preserving order and decorum within the walls of their -magnificent edifice. Nor have they, while attentive to their own -concerns, by any means overlooked those of the cities of London -and Westminster. Finding, on enumeration, that they have with a -with-two-hands-and-one-tongue-to-be-applauded liberality, contracted -for more gunpowder than they want, they have parted with the surplus -to the mattock-carrying and hustings-hammering high bailiff of -Westminster, who has, with his own shovel, dug a large hole in -the front of the parish church of St. Paul, Covent Garden, that, -upon the least symptom of ill-breeding in the mob at the general -election, the whole of the market may be blown into the air. This, -ladies and gentlemen, may at first make provisions _rise_, but -we pledge the credit of our theatre that they will soon _fall_ -again, and people be supplied, as usual, with vegetables, in the -in-general-strewed-with-cabbage-stalks-but-on-Saturday-night-lighted- -up-with-lamps market of Covent Garden. - -I should expatiate more largely on the other advantages of the glorious -constitution of these by-the-whole-of-Europe-envied realms, but I am -called away to take an account of the ladies, and other artificial -flowers, at a fashionable rout, of which a full and particular account -will hereafter appear. For the present, my fashionable intelligence is -scanty, on account of the opening of Drury Lane; and the ladies and -gentlemen who honour me with their attention will not be surprised if -they find nothing under my usual head!! - - - THE THEATRE. - - BY THE REV. G. C.[53] - - Nil intentatum nostri liquêre poetæ. - Neo minimum meruêre decus, vestigia Græca - Ausi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta. - HORACE. - - - A PREFACE OF APOLOGIES. - -If the following poem should be fortunate enough to be selected for the -opening address, a few words of explanation may be deemed necessary, on -my part, to avert invidious misrepresentation. The animadversion I have -thought it right to make on the noise created by tuning the orchestra, -will, I hope, give no lasting remorse to any of the gentlemen employed -in the band. It is to be desired that they would keep their instruments -ready tuned, and strike off at once. This would be an accommodation -to many well-meaning persons who frequent the theatre, who, not being -blest with the ear of St. Cecilia, mistake the tuning for the overture, -and think the latter concluded before it is begun. - - 'One fiddle will - Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still,' - -was originally written 'one hautboy will'; but, having providentially -been informed, when this poem was upon the point of being sent off, -that there is but one hautboy in the band, I averted the storm of -popular and managerial indignation from the head of its blower: as it -now stands, 'one fiddle' among many, the faulty individual will, I -hope, escape detection. The story of the flying play-bill is calculated -to expose a practice much too common, of pinning play-bills to the -cushions insecurely, and frequently, I fear, not pinning them at all. -If these lines save one play-bill only from the fate I have recorded, -I shall not deem my labour ill employed. The concluding episode of -Patrick Jennings glances at the boorish fashion of wearing the hat in -the one-shilling gallery. Had Jennings thrust his between his feet -at the commencement of the play, he might have leaned forward with -impunity, and the catastrophe I relate would not have occurred. The -line of handkerchiefs formed to enable him to recover his loss, is -purposely so crossed in texture and materials as to mislead the reader -in respect to the real owner of any one of them. For, in the satirical -view of life and manners which I occasionally present, my clerical -profession has taught me how extremely improper it would be, by any -allusion, however slight, to give any uneasiness, however trivial, to -any individual, however foolish or wicked. - G. C. - - - THE THEATRE. - - Interior of a Theatre described.--Pit gradually fills.--The - Check-taker.--Pit full.--The Orchestra tuned.--One Fiddle - rather dilatory.--Is reproved--and repents.--Evolutions of a - Playbill.--Its final Settlement on the Spikes.--The Gods - taken to task--and why.--Motley Group of Play-goers.--Holywell - Street, St. Pancras.--Emanuel Jennings binds his Son - apprentice--not in London--and why.--Episode of the Hat. - - 'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, - Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, - Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art, - Start into light, and make the lighter start; - To see red Phœbus through the gallery-pane - Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane; - While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit, - And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit. - - At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, - Distant or near, they settle where they please; - But when the multitude contracts the span, - And seats are rare, they settle where they can. - - Now the full benches to late-comers doom - No room for standing, miscall'd _standing room_. - - Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks. - And bawling 'Pit full!' gives the check he takes; - Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram, - Contending crowders shout the frequent damn, - And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam. - - See to their desks Apollo's sons repair-- - Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair! - In unison their various tones to tune, - Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon; - In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, - Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, - Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, - Winds the French-horn, and twangs the tingling harp; - Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in, - Attunes to order the chaotic din. - Now all seems hush'd--but, no, one fiddle will - Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still. - Foil'd in his crash, the leader of the clan - Reproves with frowns the dilatory man: - Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, - Nods a new signal, and away they go. - - Perchance, while pit and gallery cry, 'Hats off!' - And awed Consumption checks his chided cough, - Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love - Drops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from above: - Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, - Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap; - But, wiser far than he, combustion fears, - And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers; - Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl, - It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl; - Who from his powder'd pate the intruder strikes, - And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes. - - Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues? - Who's that calls 'Silence!' with such leathern lungs? - He who, in quest of quiet, 'Silence!' hoots, - Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes. - - What various swains our motley walls contain!-- - Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane; - Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, - Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court; - From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, - Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane; - The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark, - The full-price master, and the half-price clerk; - Boys who long linger at the gallery-door, - With pence twice five--they want but twopence more; - Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, - And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs. - - Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, - But talk their minds--we wish they'd mind their talk; - Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live-- - Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; - Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary, - That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary; - And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, - Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; - Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse - With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. - - Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, - Where scowling Fortune seem'd to threaten woe. - - John Richard William Alexander Dwyer - Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; - But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, - Emanuel Jennings polish'd Stubbs's shoes. - Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy - Up as a corn-cutter--a safe employ; - In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred - (At number twenty-seven, it is said), - Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head: - He would have bound him to some shop in town, - But with a premium he could not come down. - Pat was the urchin's name--a red-hair'd youth, - Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth. - - Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe, - The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. - - Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, - But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat: - Down from the gallery the beaver flew, - And spurn'd the one to settle in the two. - How shall he act? Pay at the gallery-door - Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four? - Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, - And gain his hat again at half-past eight? - Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, - John Mullins whispers, 'Take my handkerchief.' - 'Thank you,' cries Pat; 'but one won't make a line.' - 'Take mine,' cried Wilson; and cried Stokes, 'Take mine.' - A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, - Where Spitalfields with real India vies. - Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clue, - Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, - Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. - George Green below, with palpitating hand, - Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band-- - Upsoars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeign'd, - Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd; - While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat - Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat. - - '"The Theatre," by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think, is - the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and - most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, - but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that - most original author; and can hardly be said to be in any - respect a caricature of that style or manner--except in - the excessive profusion of puns and verbal jingles--which, - though undoubtedly to be ranked among his characteristics, - are never so thick-sown in his original works as in this - admirable imitation. It does not aim, of course, at any - shadow of his pathos or moral sublimity, but seems to us - to be a singularly faithful copy of his passages of mere - description.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - - - TO THE MANAGING COMMITTEE OF THE NEW - DRURY-LANE THEATRE.[54] - - GENTLEMEN, - Happening to be wool-gathering at the foot of Mount Parnassus, I -was suddenly seized with a violent travestie in the head. The first -symptoms I felt were several triple rhymes floating about my brain, -accompanied by a singing in my throat, which quickly communicated -itself to the ears of everybody about me, and made me a burthen to -my friends and a torment to Doctor Apollo; three of whose favourite -servants--that is to say, Macbeth, his butcher; Mrs. Haller, his cook; -and George Barnwell, his book-keeper--I waylaid in one of my fits of -insanity, and mauled after a very frightful fashion. In this woful -crisis, I accidentally heard of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, -which cures every disorder incident to Grub Street. I send you enclosed -a more detailed specimen of my ease: if you could mould it into the -shape of an address, to be said or sung on the first night of your -performance, I have no doubt that I should feel the immediate effects -of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, of which they tell me one -hiss is a dose. - I am, &c., - MOMUS MEDLAR. - - - CASE NO. I. - - MACBETH. - - [_Enter_ MACBETH, _in a red nightcap_. PAGE _following with - a torch_.] - - Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell - (She knows that my purpose is cruel), - I'd thank her to tingle her bell - As soon as she's heated my gruel. - Go, get thee to bed and repose-- - To sit up so late is a scandal; - But ere you have ta'en off your clothes, - Be sure that you put out that candle. - Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol. - - My stars, in the air here's a knife!-- - I'm sure it can not be a hum; - I'll catch at the handle, odd's life! - And then I shall not cut my thumb. - I've got him!--no, at him again! - Come, come, I'm not fond of these jokes; - This must be some blade of the brain-- - Those witches are given to hoax. - - I've one in my pocket, I know, - My wife left on purpose behind her; - She bought this of Teddy-high-ho, - The poor Caledonian grinder. - I see thee again! o'er thy middle - Large drops of red blood now are spill'd, - Just as much as to say, diddle diddle, - Good Duncan, pray come and be kill'd. - - It leads to his chamber, I swear; - I tremble and quake every joint-- - No dog at the scent of a hare - Ever yet made a cleverer point. - Ah, no! 'twas a dagger of straw-- - Give me blinkers, to save me from starting; - The knife that I thought that I saw - Was naught but my eye, Betty Martin. - - Now o'er this terrestrial hive - A life paralytic is spread; - For while the one half is alive, - The other is sleepy and dead. - King Duncan, in grand majesty, - Has got my state-bed for a snooze; - I've lent him my slippers, so I - May certainly stand in his shoes. - - Blow softly, ye murmuring gales! - Ye feet, rouse no echo in walking! - For though a dead man tells no tales, - Dead walls are much given to talking. - This knife shall be in at the death-- - I'll stick him, then off safely get! - Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth, - For he'd ne'er stick at any thing yet. - - Hark, hark! 'tis the signal, by goles! - It sounds like a funeral knell; - O, hear it not, Duncan! it tolls - To call thee to heaven or hell. - Or if you to heaven won't fly, - But rather prefer Pluto's ether, - Only wait a few years till I die, - And we'll go to the devil together. - Ri fol de rol, &c. - - - CASE NO. II. - - THE STRANGER. - - Who has e'er been at Drury must needs know the Stranger, - A wailing old Methodist, gloomy and wan, - A husband suspicious--his wife acted Ranger, - She took to her heels, and left poor Hypocon. - Her martial gallant swore that truth was a libel, - That marriage was thraldom, elopement no sin; - Quoth she, I remember the words of my Bible-- - My spouse is a Stranger, and I'll take him in. - With my sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em, - And pathos and bathos delightful to see; - And chop and change ribs, à-la-mode Germanorum, - And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee. - - To keep up her dignity no longer rich enough, - Where was her plate?--why, 'twas laid on the shelf; - Her land fuller's earth, and her great riches kitchen-stuff-- - Dressing the dinner instead of herself. - No longer permitted in diamonds to sparkle, - Now plain Mrs. Haller, of servants the dread, - With a heart full of grief, and a pan full of charcoal, - She lighted the company up to their bed. - - Incensed at her flight, her poor Hubby in dudgeon - Roam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout, - Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeon - Sat down and blubber'd just like a church-spout. - One day, on a bench as dejected and sad he laid, - Hearing a squash, he cried, Damn it, what's that? - 'Twas a child of the count's, in whose service lived Adelaide, - Soused in the river, and squall'd like a cat. - - Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, it - Appear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear; - No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket, - Exposed as he was to the count's _son_ and _heir_. - Dear sir, quoth the count, in reward of your valour, - To show that my gratitude is not mere talk - You shall eat a beefsteak with my cook, Mrs. Haller, - Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork. - - Behold, now the count gave the Stranger a dinner, - With gunpowder-tea, which you know brings a ball, - And, thin as he was, that he might not grow thinner, - He made of the Stranger no stranger at all. - At dinner fair Adelaide brought up a chicken-- - A bird that she never had met with before; - But, seeing him, scream'd, and was carried off kicking. - And he bang'd his nob 'gainst the opposite door. - - To finish my tale without roundaboutation, - Young master and missee besieged their papa; - They sung a quartetto in grand blubberation-- - The Stranger cried, Oh! Mrs. Haller cried, Ah! - Though pathos and sentiment largely are dealt in, - I have no good moral to give in exchange; - For though she, as a cook, might be given to melting, - The Stranger's behaviour was certainly strange, - With his sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em, - And pathos and bathos delightful to see, - And chop and change ribs, à-la-mode Germanorum, - And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee. - - - CASE NO. III. - - GEORGE BARNWELL. - - George Barnwell stood at the shop-door, - A customer hoping to find, sir; - His apron was hanging before, - But the tail of his coat was behind, sir. - A lady, so painted and smart, - Cried, Sir, I've exhausted my stock o' late; - I've got nothing left but a groat-- - Could you give me four penn'orth of chocolate? - Rum ti, &c. - - Her face was rouged up to the eyes, - Which made her look prouder and prouder; - His hair stood on end with surprise, - And hers with pomatum and powder. - The business was soon understood; - The lady, who wish'd to be more rich, - Cries, Sweet sir, my name is Milwood, - And I lodge at the Gunner's in Shoreditch. - Rum ti, &c. - - Now nightly he stole out, good lack! - And into her lodging would pop, sir; - And often forgot to come back, - Leaving master to shut up the shop, sir. - Her beauty his wits did bereave-- - Determined to be quite the crack O, - He lounged at the Adam and Eve, - And call'd for his gin and tobacco. - Rum ti, &c. - - And now--for the truth must be told, - Though none of a 'prentice should speak ill-- - He stole from the till all the gold, - And ate the lump-sugar and treacle. - In vain did his master exclaim, - Dear George, don't engage with that dragon; - She'll lead you to sorrow and shame, - And leave you the devil a rag on - Your rum ti, &c. - - In vain he entreats and implores - The weak and incurable ninny, - So kicks him at last out of doors, - And Georgy soon spends his last guinea. - His uncle, whose generous purse - Had often relieved him, as I know, - Now finding him grow worse and worse, - Refused to come down with the rhino. - Rum ti, &c. - - Cried Milwood, whose cruel heart's core - Was so flinty that nothing could shock it, - If ye mean to come here any more, - Pray come with more cash in your pocket: - Make nunky surrender his dibs, - Rub his pate with a pair of lead towels, - Or stick a knife into his ribs-- - I'll warrant he'll then show some bowels. - Rum ti, &c. - - A pistol he got from his love-- - 'Twas loaded with powder and bullet; - He trudged off to Camberwell Grove, - But wanted the courage to pull it. - There's nunky as fat as a hog, - While I am as lean as a lizard; - Here's at you, you stingy old dog!-- - And he whips a long knife in his gizzard. - Rum ti, &c. - - All you who attend to my song, - A terrible end of the farce shall see, - If you join the inquisitive throng - That follow'd poor George to the Marshalsea. - If Milwood were here, dash my wigs, - Quoth he, I would pummel and lam her well; - Had I stuck to my pruins and figs, - I ne'er had stuck nunky at Camberwell. - Rum ti, &c. - - Their bodies were never cut down; - For granny relates with amazement, - A witch bore 'em over the town. - And hung them on Thorowgood's casement. - The neighbours, I've heard the folks say, - The miracle noisily brag on; - And the shop is, to this very day, - The sign of the George and the Dragon. - Rum ti, &c. - - - PUNCH'S APOTHEOSIS. - - BY T. H.[55] - - Rhymes the rudders are of verses, - With which, like ships, they steer their courses. - HUDIBRAS. - - _Scene draws, and discovers_ PUNCH _on a throne, surrounded - by_ LEAR, LADY MACBETH, MACBETH, OTHELLO, GEORGE BARNWELL, - HAMLET, GHOST, MACHEATH, JULIET, FRIAR, APOTHECARY, ROMEO, - _and_ FALSTAFF.--PUNCH _descends, and addresses them in the - following_ - - - RECITATIVE. - - As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is, - So I with you am master of the ceremonies-- - These grand rejoicings. Let me see, how name ye 'em?-- - Oh, in Greek lingo 'tis E-pi-thalamium. - October's tenth it is: toss up each hat to-day, - And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday! - On this great night 'tis settled by our manager, - That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a jeer, - Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillion, - And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion; - That every soul, whether or not a cough he has, - May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus. - So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini,[56] - Spin up a teetotum like Angiolini;[57] - That John and Mrs. Bull, from ale and tea-houses, - May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis! - - _They dance and sing._ - - AIR--'_Sure such a day._' TOM THUMB. - - LEAR. - - Dance, Regan! dance, with Cordelia and Goneril-- - Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross; - Stop, Cordelia! do not tread upon her heel, - Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse. - See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub, - And t'other's clack, who pats her back, is louder far than hell's - hubbub. - They tweak my nose, and round it goes--I fear they'll break the - ridge of it, - Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of - it.[58] - - OMNES. - - Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, - Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza! - - LADY MACBETH. - - _I_ kill'd the king; my husband is a heavy dunce; - He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud. - One loves long gloves; for mittens, like king's evidence, - Let truth with the fingers out, and won't hide blood. - - MACBETH. - - When spoonys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery, - To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry; - With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her, - Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer. - - OMNES. - - Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, - Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza! - - OTHELLO. - - Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did, - Spit the feathers from your mouth, and munch roast beef; - Iago he may go and be toss'd in the coverlid - That smother'd you, because you pawn'd my handkerchief. - - GEORGE BARNWELL. - - Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate? - Milwood shows for hanging us they've got an ugly knack o' late; - If on beauty 'stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees, - Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices. - - OMNES. - - Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, - Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza! - - HAMLET. - - I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and perihelia - The moon can fix, which lunatics makes sharp or flat. - I stuck by ill luck, enamour'd of Ophelia, - Old Polony like a sausage, and exclaim'd, 'Rat, rat!' - - GHOST. - - Let Gertrude sup the poison'd cup--no more I'll be an actor in - Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing. - - MACHEATH. - - I'll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy O; - But as for tunes, I have but one, and that is Drops of Brandy O. - - OMNES. - - Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, - Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza! - - JULIET. - - I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore-- - A hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall. - - FRIAR. - - And I am the friar, who so corpulent a belly bore. - - APOTHECARY. - - And that is why poor skinny I have none at all. - - ROMEO. - - I'm the resurrection-man, of buried bodies amorous. - - FALSTAFF. - - I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous; - For though my paunch is round and stanch, I ne'er begin to feel it - ere I - Feel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military. - - OMNES. - - Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, - Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza! - - [_Exeunt dancing._ - - '"Punch's Apotheosis," by G. Colman, junior, is too purely - nonsensical to be extracted; and both gives less pleasure to - the reader, and does less justice to the ingenious author - in whose name it stands, than any other of the poetical - imitations.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - - 'We have no conjectures to offer as to the anonymous author - of this amusing little volume. He who is such a master of - disguises may easily be supposed to have been successful in - concealing himself, and, with the power of assuming so many - styles, is not likely to be detected by his own. We should - guess, however, that he had not written a great deal in his - own character--that his natural style was neither very lofty - nor very grave--and that he rather indulges a partiality - for puns and verbal pleasantries. We marvel why he has shut - out Campbell and Rogers from his theatre of living poets, - and confidently expect to have our curiosity in this and - in all other particulars very speedily gratified, when the - applause of the country shall induce him to take off his - mask.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - - - THE MORNING POST. - - _Additional note intended for p. 61._--This journal was, at - the period in question, rather remarkable for the use of the - figure called by the rhetoricians _catachresis_. The Bard of - Avon may be quoted in justification of its adoption, when he - writes of taking arms against a sea, and seeking a bubble in - the mouth of a cannon. _The Morning Post_, in the year 1812, - congratulated its readers upon having stripped off Cobbett's - mask and discovered his cloven foot; adding, that it was high - time to give the hydra-head of Faction a rap on the knuckles! - - - - - GEORGE ELLIS. - - - ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COLLEGE LIBRARY. - - (GRAY) - - The chapel bell, with hollow mournful sound, - Awakes the Fellows, slumb'ring o'er their fires, - Roused by the 'customed note, each stares around, - And sullen from th' unfinished pipe retires. - - Now from the Common-Hall's restrictions free, - The sot's full bottles in quick order move, - While gayer coxcombs sip their amorous tea, - And Barbers' daughters soothe with tales of love. - - Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns, - Save where, the broken battlements among, - The east wind murmurs through the shattered panes, - And hoarser ravens croak their evening song. - - Where groan yon shelves beneath their learned weight, - Heap piled on heap, and row succeeding rows, - In peaceful pomp, and undisturbed retreat, - The labours of our ancestors repose. - - No longer, sunk in ceaseless, fruitless toil, - The half-starved student o'er their leaves shall pore; - For them no longer blaze the midnight oil, - Their sun is set, and sinks to rise no more. - - For them no more shall booksellers contend, - Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim; - Beneath their weight no more the press shall bend, - While common-sense stands wondering at their fame. - - Oft did the Classics mourn their Critic rage, - While still they found each meaning but the true; - Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid's page, - And give to Virgil words he never knew; - - Yet ere the partial voice of Critic scorn - Condemn their memory or their toils deride, - Say, have not we had equal cause to mourn - A waste of words, and learning ill-applied? - - Can none remember?--yes, I know all can-- - When readings against different readings jarred, - While Bentley led the stem scholastic van, - And new editions with the old ones warred. - - Nor ye, who lightly o'er each work proceed, - Unmindful of the graver moral part, - Contemn these works, if as you run and read, - You find no trophies of th' engraver's art. - - Can Bartolozzi's all-enrapturing power - To heavy works the stamp of merit give? - Could Grignion's art protract Oblivion's hour, - Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live? - - In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrewed, - Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade, - Some wondrous legend, filled with death and blood, - Some monkish history, perhaps is laid. - - With store of barbarous Latin at command, - Though armed with puns and jingling quibble's might, - Yet could not these soothe Time's remorseless hand - Or save their labours from eternal night. - - Full many an elegy has mourned its fate, - Beneath some pasty 'cabined, cribbed, confined'; - Full many an ode has soared in lofty state, - Fixed to a kite, and quivering in the wind. - - Here too, perhaps, neglected now, may lie - The rude memorial of some ancient song, - Whose martial strains, and rugged minstrelsy, - Once waked to rapture every listening throng. - - To trace fair Science through each wildering course, - With new ideas to enlarge the mind, - With useful lessons drawn from Classic source, - At once to polish and instruct mankind, - - Their times forbade; nor yet alone represt - Their opening fancy; but alike confined - The senseless ribaldry, the scurvy jest, - And each low triumph of the vulgar mind; - - With Griffiths, Langhorne, Kenrick, and the tribe,[59] - Whom science loathes and scorn disdains to name, - To snarl unpaid, or, softened by a bribe, - Smear with vile praise, and deem their daubing fame. - - Their humble science never soared so far, - In studious trifles pleased to waste their time, - Or wage with common-sense eternal war, - In never-ending clink of monkish rhyme. - - Yet were they not averse to noisy Fame, - Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast, - But still aspired to raise their sinking name, - And fondly hoped that name might ever last. - - Hence each proud volume to the wondering eye, - Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel's urn,[60] - Where Ships, Wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie, - And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn. - - For who with rhymes e'er racked his weary brain, - Or spent in search of epithets his days, - But from his lengthened labours hoped to gain - Some present profit, or some future praise? - - Though Folly's self inspire each dead-born strain, - Still Flattery prompts some blockhead to commend, - Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath not toiled in vain, - Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath as dull a friend. - - For thee, whose Muse with many an uncouth rhyme, - Doth in these lines neglected worth bewail, - If chance (unknowing how to kill the time) - Some kindred idler should inquire thy tale; - - Haply some ancient Fellow may reply-- - Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day, - E'en till the western sun went down the sky, - Lounging his lazy, listless hours away. - - Each morn he sought the cloister's cool retreat; - At noon, at Tom's he caught the daily lie, - Or from his window looking o'er the street, - Would gaze upon the travellers passing by. - - At night, encircled with a kindred band, - In smoke and ale rolled their dull lives away; - True as the College clock's unvarying hand, - Each morrow was the echo of to-day. - - Thus free from cares and children, noise and wife, - Passed his smooth moments; till, by Fate's command, - A lethargy assailed his harmless life, - And checked his course, and shook his loitering sand, - - Where Merton's towers in Gothic grandeur rise, - And shed around each soph a deeper gloom, - Beneath the centre aisle interred he lies, - With these few lines engraved upon his tomb. - - - THE EPITAPH. - - Of vice or virtue void, here rests a man - By prudence taught each rude excess to shun; - Nor love nor pity marred his sober plan, - And Dulness claimed him for her favourite son. - - By no eccentric passion led astray, - Not rash to blame, nor eager to commend, - Calmly through life he steered his quiet way, - Nor made an enemy, nor gained a friend. - - Seek not his faults--his merits--to explore, - But quickly drop this uninstructive tale, - His works--his faults--his merits--are no more, - Sunk in the gloom of dark oblivion's veil. - - - - - GEORGE CRABBE. - - - INEBRIETY. - - (POPE) - - The mighty spirit, and its power, which stains - The bloodless cheek, and vivifies the brains, - I sing. Say, ye, its fiery vot'ries true, - The jovial curate, and the shrill-tongued shrew, - Ye, in the floods of limpid poison nurst, - Where bowl the second charms like bowl the first; - Say how, and why, the sparkling ill is shed, - The heart which hardens, and which rules the head.... - Lo! the poor toper whose untutor'd sense, - Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense; - Whose head proud fancy never taught to steer, - Beyond the muddy ecstasies of beer; - But simple nature can her longing quench, - Behind the settle's curve, or humbler bench: - Some kitchen fire diffusing warmth around, - The semi-globe by hieroglyphics crown'd; - Where canvas purse displays the brass enroll'd, - Nor waiters rave, nor landlords thirst for gold; - Ale and content his fancy's bounds confine, - He asks no limpid punch, no rosy wine; - But sees, admitted to an equal share, - Each faithful swain the heady potion bear: - Go wiser thou! and in thy scale of taste, - Weigh gout and gravel against ale and rest; - Call vulgar palates what thou judgest so; - Say beer is heavy, windy, cold, and slow; - Laugh at poor sots with insolent pretence, - Yet cry, when tortured, where is Providence? - - - - - CATHERINE MARIA FANSHAWE. - - - ODE. - - (GRAY) - - Lo! where the gaily vestur'd throng, - Fair learning's train, are seen, - Wedg'd in close ranks her walls along, - And up her benches green. - Unfolded to their mental eye - Thy awful form, Sublimity! - The moral teacher shows-- - Sublimity of Silence born, - And Solitude 'mid caves forlorn - And dimly-vision'd woes; - Or Stedfast Worth, that inly great - Mocks the malignity of fate. - While whisper'd pleasure's dulcet sound - Murmurs the crowded room around, - And Wisdom, borne on Fashion's pinions, - Exulting hails her new dominions. - Oh! both on me your influence shed, - Dwell in my heart and deck my head! - - Where'er a broader, browner shade - The shaggy beaver throws, - And with the ample feather's aid - O'er-canopies the nose; - Where'er with smooth and silken pile, - Ling'ring in solemn pause awhile, - The crimson velvet glows; - From some high bench's giddy brink, - Clinton with me begins to think - (As bolt upright we sit) - That dress, like dogs, should have its day, - That beavers are too hot for May, - And velvets quite unfit. - - Then taste, in maxims sweet, I draw - From her unerring lip; - How light, how simple are the straw, - How delicate the chip! - Hush'd is the speaker's powerful voice, - The audience melt away, - I fly to fix my final choice - And bless th' instructive day. - - The milliner officious pours - Of hats and caps her ready stores, - The unbought elegance of spring; - Some wide, disclose the full round face, - Some shadowy, lend a modest grace - And stretch their sheltering wing. - - Here clustering grapes appear to shed - Their luscious juices on the head, - And cheat the longing eye; - So round the Phrygian monarch hung - Fair fruits, that from his parched tongue - For ever seem'd to fly. - - Here early blooms the summer rose; - Here ribbons wreathe fantastic bows; - Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes-- - Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes! - Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head! - Mine be the chip of purest white, - Swan-like, and as her feathers light - When on the still wave spread; - And let it wear the graceful dress - Of unadorned simpleness. - - Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought; - Ah! hope indulged in vain; - Of modest fancy cheaply bought, - A stranger yet to Payne. - - With undissembled grief I tell,-- - For sorrow never comes too late,-- - The simplest bonnet in Pall Mall - Is sold for £1 8s. - - To Calculation's sober view, - That searches ev'ry plan, - Who keep the old, or buy the new, - Shall end where they began. - - Alike the shabby and the gay - Must meet the sun's meridian ray; - The air, the dust, the damp. - This, shall the sudden shower despoil; - That, slow decay by gradual soil; - Those, envious boxes cramp. - - Who will, their squander'd gold may pay; - Who will, our taste deride; - We'll scorn the fashion of the day - With philosophic pride. - - Methinks we thus, in accents low, - Might Sydney Smith address, - 'Poor moralist! and what art thou, - Who never spoke of dress! - - 'Thy mental hero never hung - Suspended on a tailor's tongue, - In agonizing doubt; - Thy tale no flutt'ring female show'd, - Who languish'd for the newest mode, - Yet dar'd to live without.' - - - FRAGMENT. - - (WORDSWORTH) - - There is a river clear and fair, - 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; - It winds a little here and there-- - It winds about like any hare; - And then it takes as straight a course - As on the turnpike road a horse, - Or through the air an arrow. - - The trees that grow upon the shore, - Have grown a hundred years or more; - So long there is no knowing. - Old Daniel Dobson does not know - When first those trees began to grow; - But still they grew, and grew, and grew, - As if they'd nothing else to do, - But ever to be growing. - - The impulses of air and sky - Have reared their stately stems so high, - And clothed their boughs with green; - Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,-- - And when the wind blows loud and keen, - I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, - And shake their sides with merry glee-- - Wagging their heads in mockery. - - Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, - Where winds can never blow; - But visitings of deeper birth - Have reached their roots below. - For they have gained the river's brink, - And of the living waters drink. - - There's little Will, a five years' child-- - He is my youngest boy; - To look on eyes so fair and wild, - It is a very joy:-- - He hath conversed with sun and shower, - And dwelt with every idle flower, - As fresh and gay as them. - He loiters with the briar rose,-- - The blue bells are his play-fellows, - That dance upon their slender stem. - - And I have said, my little Will, - Why should not he continue still - A thing of Nature's rearing? - A thing beyond the world's control-- - A living vegetable soul,-- - No human sorrow fearing. - - It were a blessed sight to see - That child become a willow-tree, - His brother trees among. - He'd be four times as tall as me, - And live three times as long. - - - - - JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE. - - - A FABLE. - - (DRYDEN) - - A dingy donkey, formal and unchanged, - Browsed in the lane and o'er the common ranged, - Proud of his ancient asinine possessions, - Free from the panniers of the grave professions, - He lived at ease; and chancing once to find - A lion's skin, the fancy took his mind - To personate the monarch of the wood; - And for a time the stratagem held good. - He moved with so majestical a pace - That bears and wolves and all the savage race - Gazed in admiring awe, ranging aloof, - Not over-anxious for a clearer proof-- - Longer he might have triumph'd--but alas! - In an unguarded hour it came to pass - He bray'd aloud; and show'd himself an ass! - - The moral of this tale I could not guess - Till Mr. Landor sent his works to press. - - - THE COURSE OF TIME. - - (ROBERT POLLOK) - - Robert Pollok, A.M.! this work of yours - Is meant, I do not doubt, extremely well, - And the design I deem most laudable, - But since I find the book laid on my table, - I shall presume (with the fair owner's leave) - To note a single slight deficiency: - I mean, in short (since it is called a poem), - That in the course of ten successive books - If something in the shape of poetry - Were to be met with, we should like it better; - But nothing of the kind is to be found, - Nothing, alas! but words of the olden time, - Quaint and uncouth, contorted phrase and queer, - With the familiar language that befits - Tea-drinking parties most unmeetly matched. - - - - - GEORGE CANNING AND JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE. - - - INSCRIPTION - - _For the Door of the Cell in Newgate where Mrs. Brownrigg, the - 'Prentice-cide, was confined previous to her Execution._ - - (SOUTHEY) - - For one long term, or e'er her trial came, - Here BROWNRIGG linger'd. Often have these cells - Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice - She scream'd for fresh Geneva. Not to her - Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street, - St. Giles, its fair varieties expand; - Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart she went - To execution. Dost thou ask her crime? - SHE WHIPP'D TWO FEMALE 'PRENTICES TO DEATH, - AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HOLE. For her mind - Shap'd strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes! - Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine - Of the Orthyan Goddess he bade flog - The little Spartans; such as erst chastised - Our MILTON, when at college. For this act - Did BROWNRIGG swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come - When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed! - - - THE SOLDIERS' FRIEND. - - DACTYLICS. - - (SOUTHEY) - - Come, little Drummer Boy, lay down your knapsack here: - I am the soldiers' friend--here are some books for you; - Nice clever books by Tom Paine the philanthropist. - Here's half-a-crown for you--here are some handbills too; - Go to the barracks and give all the soldiers some: - Tell them the sailors are all in a mutiny. - - [_Exit Drummer Boy, with Handbills and Half-Crown. - --Manet Soldier's Friend._] - - Liberty's friends thus all learn to amalgamate, - Freedom's volcanic explosion prepares itself, - Despots shall bow to the fasces of liberty, - Reason, philosophy, 'fiddledum diddledum,' - Peace and fraternity, higgledy piggledy, - Higgledy piggledy, 'fiddledum diddledum.' - _Et cætera, et cætera, et cætera._ - - - THE SOLDIER'S WIFE - - _Being the Quintessence of all the Dactylics that ever were or ever - will be written._ - - (SOUTHEY AND COLERIDGE) - - Wearisome Sonnetteer, feeble and querulous, - Painfully dragging out thy demo-cratic lays-- - Moon-stricken Sonnetteer, 'ah! for thy heavy chance!' - - Sorely thy Dactylics lag on uneven feet: - Slow is the Syllable which thou would'st urge to speed, - Lame and o'erburden'd, and 'screaming its wretchedness!' - - * * * * *[61] - - Ne'er talk of Ears again! look at thy Spelling-book; - _Dilworth_ and _Dyche_ are both mad at thy quantities-- - DACTYLICS, call'st thou 'em?--'God help thee, silly one!' - - - THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. - - _Sapphics._ - - (SOUTHEY) - - FRIEND OF HUMANITY. - - 'Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? - Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order-- - Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't - So have your breeches! - - 'Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, - Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- - -road, what hard work 'tis crying all day "Knives and - Scissors to grind O!" - - 'Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? - Did some rich man tyrannically use you? - Was it the squire, or parson of the parish? - Or the attorney? - - 'Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or - Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? - Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little - All in a lawsuit? - - '(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) - Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, - Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your - Pitiful story.' - - - KNIFE-GRINDER. - - 'Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, - Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers, - This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were - Torn in a scuffle. - - 'Constables came up for to take me into - Custody; they took me before the justice; - Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- - -Stocks for a vagrant. - - 'I should be glad to drink your Honour's health in - A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; - But for my part, I never love to meddle - With politics, sir.' - - - FRIEND OF HUMANITY. - - '_I_ give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn'd first-- - Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance; - Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, - Spiritless outcast!' - - [_Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit - in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and - universal philanthropy._] - - - - - JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE, GEORGE CANNING, - AND GEORGE ELLIS. - - - THE LOVES OF THE TRIANGLES. - - _A Mathematical and Philosophical Poem._ - - (ERASMUS 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![62] - Debased, corrupted, grovelling, and confin'd, - 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[63] sweet! - - For _me_, ye CISSOIDS,[64] 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,[65] 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! - - I see the fair fantastic forms appear, - The flaunting drapery and the languid leer; - Fair sylphish forms[66]--who, tall, erect, and slim, - Dart the keen glance, and stretch the length of limb; - To viewless harpings weave the meanless dance, - Wave the gay wreath, and titter as they prance. - - Such rich confusion[67] charms the ravish'd sight, - When vernal Sabbaths to the Park invite. - Mounts the thick dust, the coaches crowd along, - Presses round Grosvenor Gate th' impatient throng; - White-muslin'd misses and mammas are seen, - Link'd with gay cockneys, glittering o'er the green: - The rising breeze unnumber'd charms displays, - And the tight ankle strikes th' astonish'd gaze. - - 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 lengthen'd _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_. - - Lo! where the chimney's sooty tube ascends, - The fair TROCHAIS[68] from the corner bends! - Her coal-black eyes upturn'd, incessant mark - The eddying smoke, quick flame, and volant spark; - Mark with quick ken, where flashing in between - Her much-loved _Smoke-Jack_ glimmers thro' the scene: - Mark how his various parts together tend, - Point to one purpose,--in one object end: - The spiral _grooves_ in smooth meanders flow, - Drags the long _chain_, the polish'd axles glow, - While slowly circumvolves the piece of beef below: - The conscious fire with bickering radiance burns, - Eyes the rich joint, and roasts it as it turns. - - So youthful HORNER rolled the roguish eye, - Cull'd the dark plum from out his Christmas pie, - And cried in self-applause--'How good a boy am I.' - - So, the sad victim of domestic spite, - Fair CINDERELLA, pass'd the wintry night, - In the lone chimney's darksome nook immured, - Her form disfigured, and her charms obscured. - Sudden her godmother appears in sight, - Lifts the charm'd rod, and chants the mystic rite. - The chanted rite the maid attentive hears, - And feels new ear-rings deck her listening ears; - While 'midst her towering tresses, aptly set, - Shines bright, with quivering glance, the smart aigrette; - Brocaded silks the splendid dress complete, - And the Glass Slipper grasps her fairy feet. - Six cock-tail'd mice transport her to the ball, - And liveried lizards wait upon her call. - - Alas! that partial Science should approve - The sly RECTANGLE'S[69] too licentious love! - For _three_ bright nymphs the wily wizard burns;-- - _Three_ bright-ey'd nymphs requite his flame by turns. - Strange force of magic skill! combined of yore - With PLATO'S science and MENECMUS' lore. - In _Afric's_ schools, amid those sultry sands - High on its base where POMPEY'S pillar stands, - This learnt THE SEER; and learnt, alas! too well, - Each scribbled talisman and smoky spell: - What mutter'd charms, what soul-subduing arts, - Fell ZATANAI[70] to his sons imparts. - - Gins![71]--black and huge! who in DOM-DANIEL'S[72] cave - Writhe your scorch'd limbs on sulphur's azure wave, - Or, shivering, yell amidst eternal snows, - Where cloud-capp'd CAF[73] protrudes his granite toes - (Bound by _his_ will, _Judæa's_ fabled king,[74] - Lord of _Aladdin's_ lamp and mystic ring). - Gins! YE remember! for YOUR toil convey'd - Whate'er of drugs the powerful charm could aid; - Air, earth, and sea ye search'd, and where below - Flame embryo lavas, young volcanoes glow-- - GINS! ye beheld appall'd th' enchanter's hand - Wave in dark air th' _Hypothenusal_ wand: - Saw him the mystic _Circle_ trace, and wheel - With head erect, and far-extended heel; - Saw him, with speed that mock'd the dazzled eye, - Self-whirl'd, in quick gyrations eddying fly: - Till done the potent spell--behold him grown - Fair _Venus'_ emblem--the _Phœnician Cone_.[75] - - Triumphs THE SEER, and now secure observes - The kindling passions of the _rival_ CURVES. - - And first, the fair PARABOLA behold, - Her timid arms, with virgin blush, unfold! - Though, on one _focus_ fix'd, her eyes betray - A heart that glows with love's resistless sway, - Though, climbing oft, she strive with bolder grace - Round his tall neck to clasp her fond embrace, - Still ere she reach it, from his polish'd side - Her trembling hands in devious _Tangents_ glide. - - Not thus HYPERBOLA:--with subtlest art - The blue-eyed wanton plays her changeful part; - Quick as her _conjugated axes_ move - Through every posture of luxurious love, - Her sportive limbs with easiest grace expand; - Her charms unveil'd provoke the lover's hand: - Unveil'd, except in many a filmy ray, - Where light _Asymptotes_ o'er her bosom play, - Nor touch her glowing skin, nor intercept the day. - - Yet why, ELLIPSIS, at thy fate repine? - More lasting bliss, securer joys are thine. - Though to each Fair his treach'rous wish may stray, - Though each, in turn, may seize a transient sway, - 'Tis thine with mild coercion to restrain, - Twine round his struggling heart, and bind with endless chain. - - Thus, happy FRANCE! in thy regenerate land, - Where TASTE with RAPINE saunters hand in hand; - Where, nursed in seats of innocence and bliss, - REFORM greets TERROR with fraternal kiss; - Where mild PHILOSOPHY first taught to scan - The _wrongs_ of Providence, and _rights_ of MAN: - Where MEMORY broods o'er FREEDOM'S earlier scene, - The _Lantern_ bright, and brighter _Guillotine_; - _Three_ gentle swains evolve their longing arms, - And woo the young REPUBLIC'S virgin charms; - And though proud BARRAS with the Fair succeed, - Though not in vain th' Attorney REWBELL plead, - Oft doth th' impartial nymph their love forgo, - To clasp thy crooked shoulders, blest LEPEAUX! - - So, with dark dirge athwart the blasted heath, - _Three_ SISTER WITCHES hail'd th' appall'd Macbeth. - - So, the _Three_ FATES beneath grim _Pluto's_ roof, - Strain the dun warp, and weave the murky woof; - Till deadly ATROPOS with fatal shears - Slits the thin promise of th' expected years, - While midst the dungeon's gloom or battle's din, - Ambition's victims perish, as they spin. - - Thus, the _Three_ GRACES on the _Idalian_ green - Bow with deft homage to _Cythera's_ Queen; - Her polish'd arms with pearly bracelets deck, - Part her light locks, and bare her ivory neck; - Round her fair form ethereal odours throw, - And teach th' unconscious zephyrs where to blow; - Floats the thin gauze, and glittering as they play, - The bright folds flutter in phlogistic day. - - So, with his daughters _Three_, th' unsceptred LEAR - Heaved the loud sigh, and pour'd the glistering tear; - His DAUGHTERS _Three_, save one alone, conspire - (Rich in _his_ gifts) to spurn their generous sire; - Bid the rude storm his hoary tresses drench, - Stint the spare meal, the hundred knights retrench; - Mock his mad sorrow, and with alter'd mien - Renounce the daughter, and assert the queen. - A father's griefs his feeble frame convulse, - Rack his white head, and fire his feverous pulse; - Till kind CORDELIA soothes his soul to rest, - And folds the parent-monarch to her breast. - - Thus some fair spinster grieves in wild affright, - Vex'd with dull megrim, or vertigo light; - Pleas'd round the fair _Three_ dawdling doctors stand, - Wave the white wig, and stretch the asking hand, - State the grave doubt, the nauseous draught decree, - And all receive, tho' none deserve, a fee. - - So down thy hill, romantic Ashbourn, glides - The DERBY _dilly_, carrying _Three_ INSIDES. - One in each corner sits, and lolls at ease, - With folded arms, propt back, and outstretch'd knees; - While the press'd _Bodkin_, punch'd and squeez'd to death, - Sweats in the mid-most place, and pants for breath. - - 'Twas thine alone, O youth of giant frame, - ISOSCELES! that rebel heart to tame! - In vain coy MATHESIS[76] thy presence flies: - Still turn her fond hallucinating eyes; - Thrills with _Galvanic_ fires each tortuous nerve, - Throb her blue veins, and dies her cold reserve. - --Yet strives the Fair, till in the giant's breast - She sees the mutual passion flame confessed: - Where'er he moves, she sees his tall limbs trace - _Internal Angles equal at the base_; - Again she doubts him: but _produced at will_, - She sees _th' external Angles equal still_. - - Say, blest Isosceles! what favouring power, - Or love, or chance, at night's auspicious hour, - While to the _Asses'-Bridge_ entranced you stray'd, - Led to the _Asses'-Bridge_ th' enamour'd maid?-- - The _Asses'-Bridge_, for ages doom'd to hear - The deafening surge assault his wooden ear, - With joy repeats sweet sounds of mutual bliss, - The soft susurrant sigh, and gently-murmuring kiss. - - So thy dark arches, LONDON _Bridge_, bestride - Indignant THAMES, and part his angry tide, - There oft--returning from those green retreats, - Where fair _Vauxhallia_ decks her sylvan seats;-- - Where each spruce nymph, from city compters free, - Sips the froth'd syllabub, or fragrant tea; - While with sliced ham, scraped beef, and burnt champagne, - Her 'prentice lover soothes his amorous pain; - There oft, in well-trimm'd wherry, glide along - Smart beaux and giggling belles, a glittering throng: - Smells the tarr'd rope--with undulation fine - Flaps the loose sail--the silken awnings shine; - - 'Shoot we the bridge!' the venturous boatmen cry; - 'Shoot we the bridge!' th' exulting fare reply. - --Down the steep fall the headlong waters go, - Curls the white foam, the breakers roar below. - The veering helm the dextrous steersman stops, - Shifts the thin oar, the fluttering canvas drops; - Then with closed eyes, clench'd hands, and quick-drawn breath, - Darts at the central arch, nor heeds the gulf beneath. - --Full 'gainst the pier the unsteady timbers knock, - The loose planks, starting, own the impetuous shock; - The shifted oar, dropp'd sail, and steadied helm, - With angry surge the closing waters whelm, - --Laughs the glad THAMES, and clasps each fair one's charms, - That screams and scrambles in his oozy arms. - --Drench'd each smart garb, and clogg'd each struggling limb, - Far o'er the stream the Cockneys sink or swim; - While each badged boatman, clinging to his oar, - Bounds o'er the buoyant wave, and climbs the applauding shore. - - So, towering ALP! from thy majestic ridge - Young FREEDOM gazed on LODI'S blood-stain'd _Bridge_; - Saw, in thick throngs, conflicting armies rush, - Ranks close on ranks, and squadrons squadrons crush; - Burst in bright radiance through the battle's storm, - Waved her broad hands, display'd her awful form; - Bade at her feet regenerate nations bow, - And twin'd the wreath round Buonaparte's brow. - --Quick with new lights, fresh hopes, and alter'd zeal, - The slaves of despots dropp'd the blunted steel: - Exulting Victory crown'd her favourite child, - And freed LIGURIA, clapp'd her hands, and smiled. - - Nor long the time ere Britain's shores shall greet - The warrior-sage, with gratulation sweet: - Eager to grasp the wreath of naval fame, - The GREAT REPUBLIC plans the _Floating Frame_! - --O'er the huge frame gigantic TERROR stalks, - And counts with joy the close-compacted balks: - Of young-eyed MASSACRES the Cherub crew - Round their grim chief the mimic task pursue; - Turn the stiff screw,[77] apply the strengthening clamp, - Drive the long bolt, or fix the stubborn cramp, - Lash the reluctant beam, the cable splice, - Join the firm dove-tail with adjustment nice, - Thro' yawning fissures urge the willing wedge, - Or give the smoothing adze a sharper edge. - --Or group'd in fairy bands, with playful care, - The unconscious bullet to the furnace bear;-- - Or gaily tittering, tip the match with fire, - Prime the big mortar, bid the shell aspire; - Applaud, with tiny hands, and laughing eyes, - And watch the bright destruction as it flies. - - Now the fierce forges gleam with angry glare-- - The windmill[78] waves his woven wings in air; - Swells the proud sail, the exulting streamers fly, - Their nimble fins unnumber'd paddles ply: - --Ye soft airs breathe, ye gentle billows waft, - And, fraught with Freedom, bear the expected RAFT! - Perch'd on her back, behold the Patriot train, - MUIR, ASHLEY, BARLOW, BUONAPARTE, PAINE! - While ROWAN'S hand directs the blood-empurpled rein. - - Ye IMPS of MURDER! guard her angel form, - Check the rude surge, and chase the hovering storm; - Shield from contusive rocks her timber limbs, - And guide the SWEET ENTHUSIAST[79] as she swims; - - --And now, with web-foot oars, she gains the land, - And foreign footsteps press the yielding sand: - --The _Communes_ spread, the gay _Departments_ smile, - Fair _Freedom's Plant_ o'ershades the laughing isle: - Fired with new hopes, the exulting peasant sees - The Gallic streamer woo the British breeze; - While, pleased to watch its undulating charms, - The smiling infant[80] spreads his little arms. - - Ye Sylphs of DEATH! on demon pinions flit - Where the tall _Guillotine_ is rais'd for PITT: - To the pois'd plank tie fast the monster's back, - Close the nice slider, ope the expectant sack; - Then twitch, with fairy hands, the frolic pin-- - Down falls the impatient axe with deafening din; - The liberated head rolls off below, - And simpering FREEDOM hails the happy blow! - - - - - GEORGE CANNING AND GEORGE ELLIS. - - - SONG BY ROGERO. - - (GERMAN TRAGEDY) - - Whene'er with haggard eyes I view - This dungeon that I'm rotting in, - I think of those companions true - Who studied with me at the U- - -niversity of Gottingen-- - -niversity of Gottingen. - - [_Weeps, and pulls out a blue 'kerchief, with which he - wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds._] - - Sweet 'kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue, - Which once my love sat knotting in, - Alas, Matilda _then_ was true, - At least I thought so at the U- - -niversity of Gottingen-- - -niversity of Gottingen. - - [_At the repetition of this line_ ROGERO _clanks his chains - in cadence_.] - - Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew, - Her neat post-waggon trotting in! - Ye bore Matilda from my view; - Forlorn I languish'd at the U- - -niversity of Gottingen-- - -niversity of Gottingen. - - This faded form! this pallid hue! - This blood my veins is clotting in! - My years are many--They were few - When first I enter'd at the U- - -niversity of Gottingen-- - -niversity of Gottingen. - - There first for thee my passion grew, - Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen! - Thou wast the daughter of my tu- - -tor, Law Professor at the U- - -niversity of Gottingen-- - -niversity of Gottingen. - - Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu, - That kings and priests are plotting in; - Here doom'd to starve on water gru- - -el never shall I see the U- - -niversity of Gottingen!-- - -niversity of Gottingen! - - [_During the last stanza_ ROGERO _dashes his head repeatedly - against the walls of his prison, and, finally, so hard as - to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on - the floor in an agony. The curtain drops--the music still - continuing to play, till it is wholly fallen._] - - - - - JAMES HOGG. - - - WALSINGHAME'S SONG - - FROM 'WAT O' THE CLEUCH.' - - (SCOTT) - - O heard ye never of Wat o' the Cleuch? - The lad that has worrying tikes enow, - Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew, - And that's the cheer of Wat o' the Cleuch! - Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! - Woe's my heart for Wat o' the Cleuch! - - Wat o' the Cleuch sat down to dine - With two pint stoups of good red wine; - But when he look'd they both were dry; - O poverty parts good company! - Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! - O for a drink to Wat o' the Cleuch! - - Wat o' the Cleuch came down the Tine - To woo a maid both gallant and fine; - But as he came o'er by Dick o' the Side - He smell'd the mutton and left the bride. - Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! - What think ye now of Wat o' the Cleuch? - - Wat o' the Cleuch came here to steal, - He wanted milk and he wanted veal; - But ere he wan o'er the Beetleston brow - He hough'd the calf and eated the cow! - Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! - Well done, doughty Wat o' the Cleuch! - - Wat o' the Cleuch came here to fight, - But his whittle was blunt and his nag took fright, - And the braggart he did what I dare not tell, - But changed his cheer at the back of the fell. - Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! - O for a croudy to Wat o' the Cleuch! - - Wat o' the Cleuch kneel'd down to pray, - He wist not what to do or to say; - But he pray'd for beef, and he pray'd for bree, - A two-hand spoon and a haggis to pree. - Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! - That's the cheer for Wat o' the Cleuch! - - But the devil is cunning as I heard say, - He knew his right, and haul'd him away; - And he's over the Border and over the heuch, - And off to hell with Wat o' the Cleuch! - Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! - Lack-a-day for Wat o' the Cleuch! - - But of all the wights in poor Scotland, - That ever drew bow or Border brand, - That ever drove English bullock or ewe, - There never was thief like Wat o' the Cleuch. - Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! - Down for ever with Wat o' the Cleuch! - - - THE FLYING TAILOR. - - FURTHER EXTRACT FROM 'THE RECLUSE,' A POEM. - - (WORDSWORTH) - - If ever chance or choice thy footsteps lead - Into that green and flowery burial-ground - That compasseth with sweet and mournful smiles - The church of Grasmere,--by the eastern gate - Enter--and underneath a stunted yew, - Some three yards distant from the gravel-walk, - On the left-hand side, thou wilt espy a grave, - With unelaborate headstone beautified, - Conspicuous 'mid the other stoneless heaps - 'Neath which the children of the valley lie. - There pause--and with no common feelings read - This short inscription--'Here lies buried - The Flying Tailor, aged twenty-nine!' - - Him from his birth unto his death I knew, - And many years before he had attain'd - The fulness of his fame, I prophesied - The triumphs of that youth's agility, - And crown'd him with that name which afterwards - He nobly justified--and dying left - To fame's eternal blazon--read it here-- - 'The Flying Tailor!' - - It is somewhat strange - That his mother was a cripple, and his father - Long way declined into the vale of years - When their son Hugh was born. At first the babe - Was sickly, and a smile was seen to pass - Across the midwife's cheek, when, holding up - The sickly wretch, she to the father said, - 'A fine man-child!' What else could they expect? - The mother being, as I said before, - A cripple, and the father of the child - Long way declined into the vale of years. - - But mark the wondrous change--ere he was put - By his mother into breeches, Nature strung - The muscular part of his economy - To an unusual strength, and he could leap, - All unimpeded by his petticoats, - Over the stool on which his mother sat - When carding wool, or cleansing vegetables, - Or meek performing other household tasks. - Cunning he watch'd his opportunity, - And oft, as house-affairs did call her thence, - Overleapt Hugh, a perfect whirligig, - More than six inches o'er th' astonish'd stool. - What boots it to narrate, how at leap-frog - Over the breech'd and unbreech'd villagers - He shone conspicuous? Leap-frog do I say? - Vainly so named. What though in attitude - The Flying Tailor aped the croaking race - When issuing from the weed-entangled pool, - Tadpoles no more, they seek the new-mown fields, - A jocund people, bouncing to and fro - Amid the odorous clover--while amazed - The grasshopper sits idle on the stalk - With folded pinions and forgets to sing. - Frog-like, no doubt, in attitude he was; - But sure his bounds across the village green - Seem'd to my soul--(my soul for ever bright - With purest beams of sacred poesy)-- - Like bounds of red-deer on the Highland hill, - When, close-environed by the tinchels chain, - He lifts his branchy forehead to the sky, - Then o'er the many-headed multitude - Springs belling half in terror, half in rage, - And fleeter than the sunbeam or the wind - Speeds to his cloud-lair on the mountain-top. - - No more of this--suffice it to narrate, - In his tenth year he was apprenticed - Unto a Master Tailor by a strong - And regular indenture of seven years, - Commencing from the date the parchment bore, - And ending on a certain day, that made - The term complete of seven solar years. - Oft have I heard him say, that at this time - Of life he was most wretched; for, constrain'd - To sit all day cross-legg'd upon a board, - The natural circulation of the blood - Thereby was oft impeded, and he felt - So numb'd at times, that when he strove to rise - Up from his work he could not, but fell back - Among the shreds and patches that bestrew'd - With various colours, brightening gorgeously, - The board all round him--patch of warlike red - With which he patched the regimental-suits - Of a recruiting military troop, - At that time stationed in a market town - At no great distance--eke of solemn black - Shreds of no little magnitude, with which - The parson's Sunday-coat was then repairing, - That in the new-roof'd church he might appear - With fitting dignity--and gravely fill - The sacred seat of pulpit eloquence, - Cheering with doctrinal point and words of faith - The poor man's heart, and from the shallow wit - Of atheist drying up each argument, - Or sharpening his own weapons only to turn - Their point against himself, and overthrow - His idols with the very enginery - Reared 'gainst the structure of our English Church. - - Oft too, when striving all he could to finish - The stated daily task, the needle's point, - Slanting insidious from th' eluded stitch, - Hath pinched his finger, by the thimble's mail - In vain defended, and the crimson blood - Distain'd the lining of some wedding-suit; - A dismal omen! that to mind like his, - Apt to perceive in slightest circumstance - Mysterious meaning, yielded sore distress - And feverish perturbation, so that oft - He scarce could eat his dinner--nay, one night - He swore to run from his apprenticeship, - And go on board a first-rate man-of-war, - From Plymouth lately come to Liverpool, - Where, in the stir and tumult of a crew - Composed of many nations, 'mid the roar - Of wave and tempest, and the deadlier voice - Of battle, he might strive to mitigate - The fever that consumed his mighty heart. - - But other doom was his. That very night - A troop of tumblers came into the village, - Tumbler, equestrian, mountebank,--on wire, - On rope, on horse, with cup and balls, intent - To please the gaping multitude, and win - The coin from labour's pocket--small perhaps - Each separate piece of money, but when join'd - Making a good round sum, destined ere long - All to be melted, (so these lawless folk - Name spending coin in loose debauchery) - Melted into ale--or haply stouter cheer, - Gin diuretic, or the liquid flame - Of baneful brandy, by the smuggler brought - From the French coast in shallop many-oar'd, - Skulking by night round headland and through bay, - Afraid of the King's cutter, or the barge - Of cruising frigate, arm'd with chosen men, - And with her sweeps across the foamy waves - Moving most beautiful with measured strokes. - - It chanced that as he threw a somerset - Over three horses (each of larger size - Than our small mountain-breed) one of the troop - Put out his shoulder, and was otherwise - Considerably bruised, especially - About the loins and back. So he became - Useless unto that wandering company, - And likely to be felt a sore expense - To men just on the eve of bankruptcy, - So the master of the troop determined - To leave him in the workhouse, and proclaim'd - That if there was a man among the crowd - Willing to fill his place and able too, - Now was the time to show himself. Hugh Thwaites - Heard the proposal, as he stood apart - Striving with his own soul--and with a bound - He leapt into the circle, and agreed - To supply the place of him who had been hurt. - A shout of admiration and surprise - Then tore heaven's concave, and completely fill'd - The little field, where near a hundred people - Were standing in a circle round and fair. - Oft have I striven by meditative power, - And reason working 'mid the various forms - Of various occupations and professions, - To explain the cause of one phenomenon, - That, since the birth of science, hath remain'd - A bare enunciation, unexplain'd - By any theory, or mental light - Stream'd on it by the imaginative will, - Or spirit musing in the cloudy shrine, - The Penetralia of the immortal soul. - I now allude to that most curious fact, - That 'mid a given number, say threescore, - Of tailors, more men of agility - Will issue out, than from an equal show - From any other occupation--say - Smiths, barbers, bakers, butchers, or the like. - Let me not seem presumptuous, if I strive - This subject to illustrate; nor, while I give - My meditations to the world, will I - Conceal from it, that much I have to say - I learnt from one who knows the subject well - In theory and practice--need I name him? - The light-heel'd author of the Isle of Palms, - Illustrious more for leaping than for song. - - First, then, I would lay down this principle, - That all excessive action by the law - Of nature tends unto repose. This granted, - All action not excessive must partake - The nature of excessive action--so - That in all human beings who keep moving, - Unconscious cultivation of repose - Is going on in silence. Be it so. - Apply to men of sedentary lives - This leading principle, and we behold - That, active in their inactivity, - And unreposing in their long repose, - They are, in fact, the sole depositaries - Of all the energies by others wasted, - And come at last to teem with impulses - Of muscular motion, not to be withstood, - And either giving vent unto themselves - In numerous feats of wild agility, - Or terminating in despair and death. - - Now, of all sedentary lives, none seems - So much so as the tailor's.--Weavers use - Both arms and legs, and, we may safely add, - Their bodies too, for arms and legs can't move - Without the body--as the waving branch - Of the green oak disturbs his glossy trunk. - Not so the Tailor--for he sits cross-legg'd, - Cross-legg'd for ever! save at time of meals, - In bed, or when he takes his little walk - From shop to ale-house, picking, as he goes, - Stray patch of fustian, cloth, or cassimere, - Which, as by natural instinct, he discerns, - Though soil'd with mud, and by the passing wheel - Bruised to attenuation 'gainst the stones. - - Here then we pause--and need no farther go, - We have reach'd the sea-mark of our utmost sail. - Now let me trace the effect upon his mind - Of this despised profession. Deem not thou, - O rashly deem not, that his boyish days - Past at the shop-board, when the stripling bore - With bashful feeling of apprenticeship - The name of Tailor, deem not that his soul - Derived no genial influence from a life, - Which, although haply adverse in the main - To the growth of intellect, and the excursive power, - Yet in its ordinary forms possessed - A constant influence o'er his passing thoughts, - Moulded his appetences and his will, - And wrought out, by the work of sympathy, - Between his bodily and mental form, - Rare correspondence, wond'rous unity! - Perfect--complete--and fading not away. - While on his board cross-legg'd he used to sit, - Shaping of various garments, to his mind - An image rose of every character - For whom each special article was framed, - Coat, waistcoat, breeches. So at last his soul - Was like a storehouse, filled with images, - By musing hours of solitude supplied. - Nor did his ready fingers shape the cut - Of villager's uncouth habiliments - With greater readiness, than did his mind - Frame corresponding images of those - Whose corporal measurement the neat-mark'd paper - In many a mystic notch for ay retain'd. - Hence, more than any man I ever knew, - Did he possess the power intuitive - Of diving into character. A pair - Of breeches to his philosophic eye - Were not what unto other folks they seem, - Mere simple breeches, but in them he saw - The symbol of the soul--mysterious, high - Hieroglyphics! such as Egypt's Priest - Adored upon the holy Pyramid, - Vainly imagined tomb of monarchs old, - But raised by wise philosophy, that sought - By darkness to illumine, and to spread - Knowledge by dim concealment--process high - Of man's imaginative, deathless soul. - Nor, haply, in th' abasement of the life - Which stern necessity had made his own, - Did he not recognise a genial power - Of soul-ennobling fortitude. He heard - Unmoved the witling's shallow contumely, - And thus, in spite of nature, by degrees - He saw a beauty and a majesty - In this despised trade, which warrior's brow - Hath rarely circled--so that when he sat - Beneath his sky-light window, he hath cast - A gaze of triumph on the godlike sun, - And felt that orb, in all his annual round, - Beheld no happier nobler character - Than him, Hugh Thwaites, a little tailor-boy. - - Thus I, with no unprofitable song, - Have, in the silence of th' umbrageous wood, - Chaunted the heroic youthful attributes - Of him the Flying Tailor. Much remains - Of highest argument, to lute or lyre - Fit to be murmur'd with impassion'd voice; - And when, by timely supper and by sleep - Refresh'd, I turn me to the welcome task, - With lofty hopes,--Reader, do thou expect - The final termination of my lay. - For, mark my words,--eternally my name - Shall last on earth, conspicuous like a star - 'Mid that bright galaxy of favour'd spirits, - Who, laugh'd at constantly whene'er they publish'd, - Survived the impotent scorn of base Reviews, - Monthly or Quarterly, or that accursed - Journal, the Edinburgh Review, that lives - On tears, and sighs, and groans, and brains, and blood. - - - THE CHERUB. - - (COLERIDGE) - - Was it not lovely to behold - A Cherub come down from the sky, - A beauteous thing of heavenly mould, - With ringlets of the wavy gold, - Dancing and floating curiously? - To see it come down to the earth - This beauteous thing of heavenly birth! - Leaving the fields of balm and bliss, - To dwell in such a world as this! - - I heard a maiden sing the while, - A strain so holy, it might beguile - An angel from the radiant spheres, - That have swum in light ten thousand years; - Ten times ten thousand is too few-- - Child of heaven, can this be true? - And then I saw that beauteous thing - Slowly from the clouds descending, - Brightness, glory, beauty blending, - In the 'mid air hovering. - It had a halo round its head, - It was not of the rainbow's hue, - For in it was no shade of blue, - But a beam of amber mixed with red, - Like that which mingles in the ray - A little after the break of day. - Its raiment was the thousand dyes - Of flowers in the heavenly paradise; - Its track a beam of the sun refined, - And its chariot was the southern wind; - My heart danced in me with delight, - And my spirits mounted at the sight, - And I said within me it is well; - But where the bower, or peaceful dell, - Where this pure heavenly thing may dwell? - Then I bethought me of the place, - To lodge the messenger of grace; - And I chose the ancient sycamore, - And the little green by Greta's shore; - It is a spot so passing fair, - That sainted thing might sojourn there. - - Go tell yon stranger artisan, - Build as quickly as he can. - Heaven shield us from annoy! - What shall form this dome of joy? - The leaf of the rose would be too rude - For a thing that is not flesh and blood; - The walls must be of the sunny air, - And the roof the silvery gossamer, - And all the ceiling, round and round, - Wove half of light, and half of sound; - The sounds must be the tones that fly - From distant harp, just ere they die; - And the light the moon's soft midnight ray, - When the cloud is downy, and thin, and grey. - And such a bower of light and love, - Of beauty, and of harmonie, - In earth below, or heaven above, - No mortal thing shall ever see. - - The dream is past, it is gone away! - The rose is blighted on the spray; - I look behind, I look before, - The happy vision is no more! - But in its room a darker shade - Than eye hath pierced, or darkness made; - I cannot turn, yet do not know, - What I would, or whither go; - But I have heard, to heart of sin, - A small voice whispering within, - 'Tis all I know, and all I trust,-- - 'That man is weak, but God is just.' - - - ISABELLE. - - (COLERIDGE) - - Can there be a moon in heaven to-night, - That the hill and the grey cloud seem so light? - The air is whiten'd by some spell, - For there is no moon, I know it well; - On this third day, the sages say, - ('Tis wonderful how well they know,) - The moon is journeying far away, - Bright somewhere in a heaven below. - - It is a strange and lovely night, - A greyish pale, but not white! - Is it rain, or is it dew, - That falls so thick I see its hue? - In rays it follows, one, two, three, - Down the air so merrily, - Said Isabelle, so let it be! - - Why does the Lady Isabelle - Sit in the damp and dewy dell - Counting the racks of drizzly rain, - And how often the Rail cries over again? - For she's harping, harping in the brake, - Craik, craik--Craik, craik. - Ten times nine, and thrice eleven;-- - That last call was an hundred and seven. - Craik, craik--the hour is near-- - Let it come, I have no fear! - Yet it is a dreadful work, I wis, - Such doings in a night like this! - - Sounds the river harsh and loud? - The stream sounds harsh, but not loud. - There is a cloud that seems to hover, - By western hill the churchyard over, - What is it like?--'Tis like a whale; - 'Tis like a shark with half the tail, - Not half, but third and more; - Now 'tis a wolf, and now a boar; - Its face is raised--it cometh here; - Let it come--there is no fear. - There's two for heaven, and ten for hell, - Let it come--'tis well--'tis well! - Said the Lady Isabelle. - - What ails that little cut-tail'd whelp, - That it continues to yelp, yelp? - Yelp, yelp, and it turns its eye - Up to the tree and half to the sky, - Half to the sky and full to the cloud, - And still it whines and barks aloud. - Why I should dread I cannot tell; - There is a spirit; I know it well! - I see it in yon falling beam-- - Is it a vision, or a dream? - It is no dream, full well I know, - I have a woful deed to do! - Hush, hush, thou little murmurer; - I tell thee hush--the dead are near! - - If thou knew'st all, poor tailless whelp, - Well might'st thou tremble, growl, and yelp; - But thou know'st nothing, hast no part, - (Simple and stupid as thou art) - Save gratitude and truth of heart. - But they are coming by this way - That have been dead for a year and a day; - Without challenge, without change, - They shall have their full revenge! - They have been sent to wander in woe - In the lands of flame, and the lands of snow; - But those that are dead - Shall the green sward tread, - And those that are living - Shall soon be dead! - None to pity them, none to help! - Thou may'st quake, my cut-tail'd whelp! - - There are two from the grave - That I fain would save; - Full hard is the weird - For the young and the brave! - Perchance they are rapt in vision sweet, - While the passing breezes kiss their feet; - And they are dreaming of joy and love!-- - Well, let them go--there's room above. - - There are three times three, and three to these, - Count as you will, by twos or threes! - Three for the gallows, and three for the wave, - Three to roast behind the stone, - And three that shall never see the grave - Until the day and the hour are gone! - For retribution is mine alone! - The cloud is redder in its hue, - The hour is near, and vengeance due; - It cannot, and it will not fail,-- - 'Tis but a step to Borrowdale! - Why shouldst thou love and follow me, - Poor faithful thing? I pity thee! - - Up rose the Lady Isabelle, - I may not of her motion tell, - Yet thou may'st look upon her frame; - Look on it with a passing eye, - But think not thou upon the same, - Turn away, and ask not why; - For if thou darest look again, - Mad of heart and seared of brain, - Thou shalt never look again! - - What can ail that short-tail'd whelp? - 'Tis either behind or far before, - And it hath changed its whining yelp - To a shorten'd yuff--its little core - Seems bursting with terror and dismay, - Yuff, yuff,--hear how it speeds away. - Hold thy peace, thou yemering thing, - The very night-wind's slumbering, - And thou wilt wake to woe and pain - Those that must never wake again. - - Meet is its terror and its flight, - There's one on the left and two on the right! - But save the paleness of the face, - All is beauty, and all is grace! - The earth and air are tinged with blue; - There are no footsteps in the dew; - Is this to wandering spirits given, - Such stillness on the face of heaven? - The fleecy clouds that sleep above, - Are like the wing of beauteous dove, - And the leaf of the elm-tree does not move! - Yet they are coming! and they are three! - Jesu! Maria! can it be? - - - THE CONCLUSION. - - Sleep on, fair maiden of Borrowdale! - Sleep! O sleep! and do not wake! - Dream of the dance, till the foot so pale, - And the beauteous ancle shiver and shake; - Till thou shalt press, with feeling bland, - Thine own fair breast for lover's hand. - Thy heart is light as summer breeze, - Thy heart is joyous as the day; - Man never form of angel sees, - But thou art fair as they! - So lovers ween, and so they say, - So thine shall ween for many a day! - The hour's at hand, O woe is me! - For they are coming, and they are three! - - - THE CURSE OF THE LAUREATE. - - (SOUTHEY) - - CARMEN JUDICIALE. - - - I. - - In vale of Thirlemere, once on a time, - When birds sung sweet and flowers were in the spring, - While youth and fancy wanton'd in their prime, - I laid me down in happy slumbering; - The heavens in balmy breezes breathed deep, - My senses all were lull'd in grateful, joyous sleep. - - - II. - - Sleep had its visions-fancy all unsway'd - Revelled in fulness of creative power: - I ween'd that round me countless beings stray'd, - Things of delight, illusions of an hour; - So great the number of these things divine, - Scarce could my heart believe that all the imps were mine. - - - III. - - Yet mine they were, all motley as they moved; - Careless I viewed them, yet I loved to view; - The world beheld them, and the world approved, - And blest the train with smiles and plaudits due: - Proud of approval, to myself I said, - From out the group I'll chuse, and breed one favourite maid. - - - IV. - - Joan I chose, a maid of happy mien; - Her form and mind I polished with care; - A docile girl she proved, of moping vein, - Slow in her motions, haughty in her air; - Some mention'd trivial blame, or slightly frown'd; - Forth to the world she went, her heavenly birth it own'd. - - - V. - - The next, a son, I bred a Mussulman; - With creeds and dogmas I was hard bested, - For which was right or wrong I could not tell, - So I resolved my offspring should be bred - As various as their lives--the lad I loved, - A boy of wild unearthly mien he proved. - - - VI. - - Then first I noted in my mazy dream - A being scarcely of the human frame, - A tiny thing that from the north did seem, - With swaggering, fuming impotence he came; - I fled not, but I shudder'd at his look; - Into his tutelage my boy he took. - - - VII. - - Each principle of truth and purity, - And all that merited the world's acclaim, - This fiend misled--nor could I ever free - From his destroying grasp my darling's fame; - But yet I could not ween that heart of gall - Could be a foe to one, whose heart beat kind to all. - - - VIII. - - My third, a Christian and a warrior true, - A bold adventurer on foreign soil, - And next, his brother, a supreme Hindu, - I rear'd with hope, with joy, and painful toil. - Alas! my hopes were vain! I saw them both - Reft by an emmet!--crush'd before a moth! - - - IX. - - Still could I not believe his vengeful spite, - For in his guise a speciousness appear'd; - My bitterness of heart I feigned light; - But wholly as he urged my next I reared; - He said of all the gang he was the best, - And wrung his neck before mine eyes in jest. - - - X. - - From that time forth, an independent look, - A bold effrontery I did essay; - But of my progeny no pains I took, - Like lambs I rear'd them for the lion's prey; - And still as playful forth they pass'd from me, - I saw them mock'd and butcher'd wantonly. - - - XI. - - 'Just heaven!' said I, 'to thy awards I bow, - For truth and vengeance are thine own alone; - Are these the wreaths thou deignest to bestow - On bard, whose life and lays to virtue prone, - Have never turn'd aside on devious way? - Is this the high reward, to be of fools the prey?' - - - XII. - - A laugh of scorn the welkin seem'd to rend, - And by my side I saw a form serene; - 'Thou bard of honour, virtue's firmest friend,' - He said, 'can'st thou thus fret? or dost thou ween - That such a thing can work thy fame's decay? - Thou art no fading bloom--no flow'ret of a day! - - - XIII. - - 'When his o'erflowings of envenom'd spleen - An undistinguish'd dunghill mass shall lie, - The name of SOUTHEY, like an evergreen, - Shall spread, shall blow, and flourish to the sky; - To Milton and to Spenser next in fame, - O'er all the world shall spread thy laurell'd name,' - - - XIV. - - 'Friend of the bard,' I said, 'behold thou hast - The tears of one I love o'er blushes shed; - Has he not wrung the throb from parent's heart, - And stretch'd his hand to reave my children's bread? - For every tear that on their cheeks hath shone, - O may that Aristarch with tears of blood atone!' - - - XV. - - 'If cursing thou delight'st in,' he replied, - 'If rage and execration is thy meed, - Mount the tribunal--Justice be thy guide, - Before thee shall he come his rights to plead; - To thy awards his fate forthwith is given, - Only, be justice thine, the attribute of heaven,' - - - XVI. - - Gladly I mounted, for before that time - Merit had crown'd me with unfading bays. - Before me was brought in that man of crime, - Who with unblushing front his face did raise; - But when my royal laurel met his sight, - He pointed with his thumb, and laughed with all his might. - - - XVII. - - Maddening at impudence so thorough-bred, - I rose from off my seat with frown severe, - I shook my regal sceptre o'er his head-- - 'Hear, culprit, of thy crimes, and sentence hear! - Thou void of principle! of rule! of ruth! - Thou renegade from nature and from truth! - - - XVIII. - - 'Thou bane of genius!--party's sordid slave! - Mistaken, perverse, crooked is thy mind! - No humble son of merit thou wilt save, - Truth, virtue, ne'er from thee did friendship find; - And while of freedom thou canst fume and rave, - Of titles, party, wealth, thou art the cringing slave! - - - XIX. - - 'Thou hast renounced Nature for thy guide, - A thousand times hast given thyself the lie, - And raised thy party-curs to wealth and pride, - The very scavengers of poetry. - Thy quibbles are from ray of sense exempt, - Presumptuous, pitiful, below contempt! - - - XX. - - 'Answer me, viper! here do I arraign - Thy arrogant, self-crowned majesty! - Hast thou not prophesied of dole and pain, - Weakening the arms of nations and of me? - Thou foe of order!--Mercy lingers sick-- - False prophet! Canker! Damned heretic!' - - - XXI. - - Then pointing with my sceptre to the sky, - With vehemence that might not be restrain'd, - I gave the awful curse of destiny! - I was asleep, but sore with passion pain'd. - It was a dreadful curse; and to this day, - Even from my waking dreams it is not worn away. - - - THE CURSE. - - May heaven and earth, - And hell underneath, - Unite to ensting thee - In horrible wrath. - May scorning surround thee, - And conscience astound thee, - High genius o'erpower, - And the devil confound thee. - The curse be upon thee - In pen and in pocket, - Thy ink turn to puddle, - And gorge in the socket; - Thy study let rats destroy, - Vermin and cats annoy, - Thy base lucubrations - To tear and to gnaw, - Thy false calculations - In Empire and Law. - The printers shall harass, - The devils shall dun thee, - The trade shall despise thee, - And C--t--e shun thee. - The judge shall not hear thee, - But frown and pass by thee, - And clients shall fear thee, - And know thee, and fly thee! - I'll hunt thee, I'll chase thee, - To scorn and deride thee, - The cloud shall not cover, - The cave shall not hide thee; - The scorching of wrath - And of shame shall abide thee, - Till the herbs of the desert - Shall wither beside thee. - Thou shalt thirst for revenge - And misrule, as for wine, - But genius shall flourish! - And royalty shine! - And thou shalt remain - While the Laureate doth reign, - With a fire in thy heart, - And a fire in thy brain, - And Fame shall disown thee - And visit thee never, - And the curse shall be on thee - For ever and ever! - - - THE GUDE GREYE KATT. - - (JAMES HOGG) - - There wase ane katt, and ane gude greye katt, - That duallit in the touir oi Blain, - And mony haif hearit of that gude katt, - That neuir shall heare agayn. - - Scho had ane brynd upon her backe. - And ane brent abone hir bree; - Hir culoris war the merilit heuis - That dappil the krene-berrye. - - But scho had that withyn her ee - That man may neuir declaire, - For scho had that withyn hir ee - Quhich mortyl dochtna beare. - - Sumtymis ane ladye sochte the touir, - Of rych and fayre beautye: - Sumtymis are maukyn cam therin, - Hytchyng rycht wistfullye. - - But quhan they serchit the touir of Blain, - And socht it sayre and lang, - They fande nocht but the gude greye katt - Sittyng thrummyng at hir sang; - - And up scho rase and pacit hir wayis - Full stetlye oure the stene, - And streikit out hir braw hint-leg, - As nocht at all had bene. - - Weil mocht the wyfis in that kintrye - Rayse up ane grefous stir, - For neuir ane katt in all the lande - Durst moop or melle wyth hir. - - Quhaneuir theye lukit in hir fece - Their fearis greue se ryfe, - Theye snirtit and theye yollit throu frychte, - And rann for dethe and lyfe. - - The lairde of Blain he had ane spouis, - Beth cumlye, gude, and kynde; - But scho had gane to the landis of pece, - And left him sadd behynde; - - He had seuin dochteris all se fayre, - Of mayre than yerdlye grece, - Seuin bonnyer babis neuir braithit ayre, - Or smylit in parentis fece. - - Ane daye quhan theye war all alane, - He sayde with hevye mene; - 'Quhat will cum of ye, my deire babis, - Now quhan your moderis gene? - - 'O quha will leide your tendyr myndis, - The pethe of ladyhoode, - To thynke as ladye ocht to thynke, - And feele as mayden sholde? - - 'Weil mot it kythe in maydenis mynde, - And maydenis modestye, - The want of hir that weil wase fit - For taske unmeite for me!' - - But up then spak the gude greye katt, - That satt on the herthe stene, - 'O hald yer tung, my deire maister, - Nor mak se sayre ane mene; - - 'For I will breide your seuin dochteris, - To winsum ladyhoode, - To thynk as ladyis ocht to thynke, - And feile as maydenis sholde. - - 'I'll breide them fayre, I'll breide them free - From every seye of syn, - Fayre as the blumyng roz withoute, - And pure in herte withyn.' - - Rychte sayre astoundit wase the lairde, - Ane frychtenit man wase he; - But the sueite babyis war full faine, - And chicklit joyfullye. - - May Ella tooke the gude greye katt - Rychte fondlye on hir knee, - 'And hethe my pussye lernit to speike? - I troue scho lernit of me.' - - The katt, scho thrummyt at hir sang, - And turnit hir haffet sleike, - And drewe hir bonnye bassenyt side, - Againste the babyis cheike. - - But the lairde he was ane cunnyng lairde, - And he saide with speechis fayre, - 'I haif a feste in hall to nychte, - Sweite pussye, be you there.' - - The katt scho set ane luke on him, - That turnit his herte til stene; - 'If you haif feste in hall to nychte, - I shall be there for ane.' - - The feste wase laide, the tabil spread - With rych and nobil store, - And there wase set the Byschope of Blain, - With all his holy kore; - - He wase ane wyce and wylie wychte - Of wytch and warlockrye, - And mony ane wyfe had byrnit to coome, - Or hangit on ane tre. - - He kenit their merkis and molis of hell, - And made them joifully - Ryde on the reid-het gad of ern, - Ane pleasaunt sycht to se. - - The Byschope said ane holye grace, - Unpatiente to begyn, - But nathyng of the gude greye katt - Wase funde the touir withyn; - - But in there cam ane fayre ladye, - Cledd in the silken sheene, - Ane winsumer and bonnyer may - On yerde was neuir seene; - - Scho tuke her sete at tabil heide, - With courtlye modestye, - Quhill ilken bosome byrnit with lufe - And waulit ilken ee. - - Sueite wase hir voyce to all the ryng, - Unlesse the Lairde of Blain, - For he had hearit that very voyce, - From off his own herthe stene. - - He barrit the doris and windois fast, - He barrit them to the jynne; - 'Now in the grece of heuin,' said he, - 'Your excercyse begyn; - - 'There is no grece nor happynesse - For my poor babyis soulis - Until you trye that weirdlye wytch, - And roste hir on the colis. - - 'If this be scho,' the Byschope saide, - 'This beauteous cumlye may, - It is meite I try hir all alone - To heire quhat scho will saye.' - - 'No,' quod the Lairde, 'I suthelye sweire - None shall from this proceide, - Until I see that wycked wytch - Byrnt til ane izel reide.' - - The Byschope knelit doune and prayit, - Quhill all their hayris did creipe; - And aye he hoonit and he prayit, - Quhill all war faste asleipe; - - He prayit gain syn and Sauten bothe, - And deidis of shyft and schame; - But all the tyme his faithful handis - Pressit the cumlye dame. - - Weil saw the Lairde, but nething saide, - He kenit, in holye zele, - He grepit for the merkis of hell, - Whilk he did ken ful weile. - - And aye he pressit hir lillye hande, - And kyssit it ferventlye, - And prayit betweine, for och ane kynde - And lufyng preste was he! - - The Byschope stappit and sterted sore, - Wyde gaipen with affrychte, - For och that fayre and lillye hande - Had turned ane paw outrychte! - - Ane paw with long and crukit clawis! - That breste of heuinlye charme - Had turnit til brusket of ane katt, - Ful hayrie and ful warme! - - And there scho satt on lang-settil, - With een of glentyng flame, - And theye war on the Byschope sett - Lyke poynter on his game. - - The Byschope turnit him runde aboute - To se quhat he mocht se, - Scho strak ane clawe in ilken lug, - And throu the rofe did flee. - - The katt went throu withouten stop - Lyke schado throu the daye, - But the great Byschopis fleschlye forme - Made all the rofe gif waye; - - The silyng faldit lyke ane buke, - The serker crashit amayne, - And shredis and flenis of brokyn stenis - Fell to the grunde lyke rayne. - - The braide ful mone wase up the lyft, - The nychte wase lyke ane daye, - As the greate Byschope tuke his jante - Up throu the milkye-waye; - - He cryit se loude and lustilye - The hillis and skyis war riuen; - Och sicken cryis war neuir hearit - Atwene the yerde and heuin! - - They sawe him spurryng in the ayre, - And flynging horredlye, - And than he prayit and sang ane saum, - For ane fearit wycht was he; - - But ay his waylingis fainter greue - As the braide lyft he crossit, - Quhill sum saide that theye hearit them still, - And sum saide all wase loste. - - There was ane herd on Dollar-Lawe, - Turnyng his flockis by nychte, - Or stealyng in ane gude haggyse - Before the mornyng lychte. - - He hearit the cryis cum yont the heuin, - And sawe them bethe passe bye; - The katt scho skreuit up hir taile - As sayrlye pinchit to flye. - - But aye scho thrummyt at hir sang, - Though he wase sore in thrall, - Like katt that hethe are jollye mouse - Gaun murryng thro' the hall. - - That greye kattis sang it wase se sweete, - As on the nychte it fell, - The Murecokis dancit ane seuinsum ryng - Arunde the hether bell; - - The Foumartis jyggit by the brukis, - The Maukinis by the kaile, - And the Otar dancit ane minowaye - As he gaed ouir the daile; - - The Hurchanis helde ane kintrye dance - Alang the brumye knowe, - And the gude Toop-hogg rase fra his layre - And ualtzit with the youe. - - - THE GREYE KATTIS SANG. - - Murr, my Lorde Byschope, - I syng to you; - Murr, my Lorde Byschope, - Bawlillilu! - Murr, my Lorde Byschope, &c. - - That nycht ane hynde on Border syde - Chancit at his dore to be; - He spyit ane greate clypse of the mone, - And ben the house ran he; - - He laide ane wisp upon the colis, - And bleue full lang and sayre, - And rede the Belfaste Almanake, - But the clypse it wase not there. - - Och but that hynde wase sor aghaste, - And haf to madnesse driuen, - For he thochte he hearit ane drounyng man - Syching alangis the heuin. - - That nychte ane greate Filossofere - Had watchit on Etnyis height, - To merk the rysing of the sonne, - And the blythsum mornyng lychte; - - And all the lychtlye lynis of goude, - As on the se they fell, - And watch the fyir and the smoke, - Cum rummilyng up fra hell. - - He luket este, the daye cam on, - Upon his gladsum pethe, - And the braid mone hang in the west, - Her paleness wase lyke dethe; - - And by her sat are littil stern, - Quhan all the laife war gane, - It was lyke ane wee fadyng geme - In the wyde worild its lane. - - Then the Filossofere was sadde, - And he turnit his ee awaye, - For they mindit him of the yerdlye greate, - In dethe or in decaye. - - He turnit his face unto the north, - The fallyng teare to drie, - And he spyit ane thyng of wonderous maike, - Atwene the yerde and skie; - - It wase lyke ane burd withoutten wyng, - Rychte wonderous to beholde, - And it bure are forked thyng alang, - With swiftnesse manyfolde: - - But ay it greue as neare it dreue-- - His herte bete wondir sayre! - The sonne, the mone, and sternis war gaine, - He thocht of them ne mayre, - Quhan he behelde ane jollye preste - Cumyng swyggyng throu the ayre. - - The katt scho helde him by the luggis - Atour the ausum hole, - And och the drede that he wase in - Wase mayre than man colde thole; - - He cryit, 'O Pussye, hald your gryp, - O hald and dinna spaire; - O drap me in the yerde or se, - But dinna drap me there.' - - But scho wase ane doure and deidlye katt, - And scho saide with lychtsum ayre, - 'You kno heuin is ane blissit plece, - And all the prestis gang there.' - - 'Och sweete, sweete Pussye, hald your gryp, - Spaire nouther cleke nor clawe; - Is euir that lyke heuin abone, - In quhich am lyke to fa'? - - And aye scho hang him by the luggis - Abone the ausum den, - Till he fande the gryp rive slowlye out, - Sore was he quakyng then! - - Doune went the Byschope, doune lyke leide - Into the hollowe nychte, - His goune wase flapyng in the ayre, - Quhan he wase out of sychte. - - They hearit him honyng down the deep, - Till the croone it dyit awaye, - It wase lyke the stoune of ane greate bom-be - Gaun soundyng throu the daye. - - All wase in sloomeryng quietnesse, - Quhan he went doune to hell, - But seckn an houre wase neuir seine, - Quhan the gude lorde Byschope fell. - - Then cam the smouder and the smoke - Up roschyng vilentlye, - And it tourackit awaye til heuin - Ane gloryous sychte to se; - - For ay it rowed its fleecye curlis - Out to the rysing sonne, - And the estern syde was gildit goude, - And all the westlin dunne. - - Then the Filossofere wase muvit, - And he wist not quhat til say, - For he saw nochte of the gude greye katt; - But he saw ane ladye gay. - - Hir goune wase of the gress-greene sylk, - And hir ee wase lyke the deue, - And hir hayre wase lyke the threidis of goude - That runde her shoulderis fleue. - - Hir gairtenis war the raynbowis heme, - That scho tyit anethe hir knee, - And ay scho kemit hir yellow hayre, - And sang full pleasauntlye. - - 'I am the Queene of the Fairy Land, - I'll do ne harme to thee, - For I am the gardian of the gude, - Let the wycked be ware of me. - - 'There ar seuin pearlis in yonder touir, - Their number sune shall wane; - There are seuin flouris in fayre Scotland, - I'll pu them ane by ane; - - 'And the weeist burd in all the bouir - Shall be the last that is taene; - The Lairde of Blain hethe seuin dochteris, - But sune he shall haif nane. - - 'I'll bathe them all in the krystal streime - Throu the Fairy Land that flouis, - I'll seike the bouris of paradyce - For the bonnyest flouir that blouis. - - 'And I'll distil it in the deue - That fallis on the hillis of heuin, - And the hues that luvelye angelis weire - Shall to these maidis be giuen. - - 'And I'll trie how luvelye and how fayre - Their formis may be to see, - And I'll trie how pure the maydenis mynde - In this ill worild may be.' - - The Lairde of Blain he walkis the wode, - But he walkis it all alane; - The Lairde of Blain had seuin dochteris, - But now he hethe not ane. - - They neuir war on dethbed layde, - But they elyit all awaye; - He lost his babyis ane by ane - Atween the nychte and day. - - He kend not quhat to thynk or saye, - Or quhat did him beseime, - But he walkit throu this weirye worild - Lyke ane that is in a dreime. - - Quhan seuin lang yearis, and seuin lang daies, - Had slowlye cumit and gane, - He walkit throu the gude grene wode, - And he walkit all alane; - - He turnit his fece unto the skie, - And the teire stude in his ee, - For he thocht of the ladye of his lufe, - And his lost familye: - - But aye his fayth was firm and sure, - And his trust in Heuin still, - For he hopet to meite them all agayne - Beyond the reiche of ill: - - And ay the teiris fell on the grene, - As he knelit downe to praye, - But he wase se muvit with tendirnesse - That ane worde he colde not saye. - - He lukit oure his left shouldir - To se quhat he mocht se: - There he behelde seuin bonnye maydis - Cumyng tryppyng oure the le! - - Sic beautye ee had neuir seine, - Nor euir agayne shall se, - Sic luvelye formis of flesche and blude, - On yerde can neuir be; - - The joie that bemit in ilken ee - Wase lyke the risyng sonne, - The fayriste blumis in all the wode - Besyde their formis war dunne; - - There wase ane wrethe on ilken heide, - On ilken bosome thre, - And the brychtest flouris the worild e'er saw - War noddyng oure the bre. - - But cese yer strayne, my gude auld herpe, - O cese and syng ne mayre! - Gin ye wolde of that meityng teil, - O I mocht reue it sayre! - - There wolde ne ee in faire Scotland, - Nor luvelye cheike be drie; - The laveroke wolde forget hir sang, - And drap deide fra the skie; - - And the desye wolde ne mayre be quhyte, - And the lillye wolde chainge hir heue, - For the blude-drapis wolde fal fra the mone, - And reiden the mornyng deue. - - But quhan I tell ye oute my tale, - Ful playnlye ye will se, - That quhare there is ne syn nor schame - Ne sorroue there can be. - - - - - SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. - - SONNETS ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF CONTEMPORARY WRITERS. - - (COLERIDGE, LAMB, AND CHARLES LLOYD) - - - I. - - Pensive at eve on the _hard_ world I mus'd, - And _my poor_ heart was sad: so at the Moon - I gaz'd--and sigh'd, and sigh'd!--for, ah! how soon - Eve darkens into night. Mine eye perus'd - With tearful vacancy the _dampy_ grass - Which wept and glitter'd in the _paly_ ray; - And _I did pause me_ on my lonely way, - And _mused me_ on those _wretched ones_ who pass - _O'er the black heath_ of Sorrow. But, alas! - Most of _Myself_ I thought: when it befell - That the _sooth_ Spirit of the breezy wood - Breath'd in mine ear--'All this is very well; - But much of _one_ thing is for _no_ thing good.' - Ah! my _poor heart's_ INEXPLICABLE SWELL! - - - II. - - _To Simplicity._ - - O! I do love thee, meek _Simplicity_! - For of thy lays the lulling simpleness - Goes to my heart and soothes each small distress, - Distress though small, yet haply great to me! - 'Tis true on Lady Fortune's gentlest pad - I amble on; yet, though I know not why, - _So_ sad I am!--but should a friend and I - Grow cool and _miff_, O! I am _very_ sad! - And then with sonnets and with sympathy - My dreamy bosom's mystic woes I pall; - Now of my false friend plaining plaintively, - Now raving at mankind in general; - But, whether sad or fierce, 'tis simple all, - All very simple, meek Simplicity! - - - III. - - _On a Ruined House in a Romantic Country._ - - And this reft house is that the which he built, - Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil'd, - Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild, - Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt. - Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade? - Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn. - What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn, - Yet _aye_ she haunts the dale where _erst_ she stray'd; - And _aye_ beside her stalks her amorous knight! - Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, - And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn, - His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white; - As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon - Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-moon! - - - - - ROBERT SOUTHEY. - - THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. - - (THE DELLA CRUSCANS) - - - SONNET I. - - _Delia at Play._ - - She held a _Cup and Ball_ of ivory white, - _Less white_ the ivory than her _snowy_ hand! - Enrapt, I watch'd her from my secret stand, - As now, intent, in _innocent_ delight, - Her _taper_ fingers twirl'd the giddy ball, - Now tost it, following still with EAGLE _sight_, - Now on the pointed end _infix'd_ its fall. - Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd, - Methought the BALL she play'd with was my HEART; - (Alas! that sport like _that_ should be her pride!) - And the _keen point_ which steadfast still she eyed - Wherewith to pierce it, that was CUPID'S _dart_; - Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn - Who _on that dart_ IMPALES _my_ BOSOM'S GEM? - - - SONNET II. - - _To a Painter attempting Delia's Portrait._ - - Rash Painter! canst thou give the ORB OF DAY - In all its noontide glory? or portray - The DIAMOND, that athwart the _taper'd_ hall - _Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light_? - Even if thine art could boast such _magic might_, - Yet if it strove to paint _my Angel's_ EYE, - Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call - _Heaven's vengeance on thy sin_: Must thou be told - _The_ CRIME _it is to paint_ DIVINITY? - Rash Painter! should the world her charms behold, - Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be, - They to their _old idolatry_ would fall, - And bend before her form the _pagan_ knee, - Fairer than VENUS, DAUGHTER OF THE SEA. - - - SONNET III. - - _He proves the Existence of a Soul from his Love for Delia._ - - Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED. - Far from my Delia now by fate removed, - At home, abroad, I view her everywhere; - _Her_ ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see, - My _Goddess-Maid_, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR, - _For_ LOVE _annihilates the world to me_! - And when the weary SOL _around his bed_ - _Closes the_ SABLE CURTAINS _of the night_, - SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight - SHE shines confest. When _every sound is dead_, - The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to _roll_ - The _surge of music_ o'er my wavy brain. - Far, far from her my _Body_ drags its chain, - But sure with Delia _I exist_ A SOUL! - - - SONNET IV. - - _The Poet expresses his Feelings respecting a Portrait in - Delia's Parlour._ - - I would I were that portly gentleman - With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane, - Who hangs in Delia's parlour! For whene'er - From books or needlework her looks arise, - On him _converge the_ SUNBEAMS _of her eyes_, - And he _unblamed_ may gaze upon MY FAIR, - And oft MY FAIR his _favour'd_ form surveys. - O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze; - I envy him! and jealous fear alarms, - Lest the STRONG _glance_ of those _divinest_ charms - WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days, - When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms. - I would I were that portly gentleman - With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane. - - - LOVE ELEGIES. - - ELEGY I. - - _The Poet relates how he obtained Delia's Pocket-handkerchief._ - - 'Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare? - Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! - Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair, - That left the _tempting corner_ hanging out! - - I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, - After long travel to some distant shrine, - When at the relic of his saint he kneels, - For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE. - - When first with _filching fingers_ I drew near, - Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein; - And when the _finish'd deed_ removed my fear, - Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain. - - What though the Eighth Commandment rose to mind, - It only served a moment's qualm to move; - For thefts like this it could not be design'd, - _The Eighth Commandment_ WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE! - - Here when she took the macaroons from me, - She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet! - Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips in thee! - Lips _sweeter_ than the _macaroons_ she eat. - - And when she took that pinch of Mocabaw, - That made my Love so _delicately_ sneeze, - Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw, - And thou art doubly dear for things like these. - - No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er, - SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane; - For thou hast touch'd the _rubies_ of my fair, - And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again. - - - ELEGY II. - - _The Poet invokes the Spirits of the Elements to approach - Delia.--He describes Her Singing._ - - YE SYLPHS, who _banquet_ on my Delia's blush, - Who on her locks of FLOATING GOLD repose, - _Dip in her cheek your_ GOSSAMERY BRUSH, - And with its bloom of beauty _tinge_ THE ROSE. - - Hover around her lips on _rainbow wing_, - Load from her honey'd breath your _viewless_ feet, - Bear thence a richer fragrance for the Spring - And make the lily and the violet sweet. - - Ye GNOMES, whose toil through many a dateless year - Its nurture to the infant gem supplies, - From central caverns bring your diamonds here, - To _ripen in the sun_ OF DELIA'S EYES. - - And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs, - Spirits of fire! to see my love advance; - Fly, SALAMANDERS, on ASBESTOS' wings, - To wanton in my Delia's _fiery_ glance. - - She weeps, she weeps! her eye with anguish swells, - Some tale of sorrow melts my FEELING GIRL! - NYMPHS! catch the tears, and in Your lucid shells - Enclose them, EMBRYOS OF THE ORIENT PEARL. - - She sings! the Nightingale with envy hears, - The CHERUB listens from his starry throne, - And motionless are stopt the attentive SPHERES, - To hear _more heavenly music_ than their own. - - Cease, Delia, cease! for all the ANGEL THRONG, - Hearkening to thee, let sleep their golden wires! - Cease, Delia, cease, that _too surpassing_ song, - Lest, _stung to envy_, they should break their lyres. - - Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven - By the strong joy! Cease, Delia, lest my soul, - Enrapt, already THINK ITSELF IN HEAVEN, - _And burst the feeble Body's frail control_. - - - ELEGY III. - - _The Poet Expatiates on the Beauty of Delia's Hair._ - - The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains - The straitening curls of gold so _beamy bright_, - Not spotless merely from the touch remains, - But issues forth _more pure_, more _milky white_. - - The rose-pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads - Sometimes with honour'd fingers for my fair, - No added perfume on her tresses sheds, - _But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair_. - - Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair - With licensed fingers uncontrol'd may rove! - And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR, - Who died to make pomatum for my LOVE. - - Oh could I hope that e'er my favour'd lays - Might _curl those lovely locks_ with conscious pride, - Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan Shepherd's praise, - I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside. - - Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine, - The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart; - From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line - Wherewith the urchin _angled for_ MY HEART. - - Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads - That from the silk-worm, _self-interr'd_, proceed; - Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads - Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead. - - Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate - My captive _heart_ has _handcuff'd_ in a chain, - Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate, - THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN. - - The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair - In _flowing lustre_ bathe their brightening wings; - And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care - The ringlets rob for FAERY FIDDLE-STRINGS. - - - ELEGY IV. - - _The Poet relates how he stole a Lock of Delia's Hair, - and her Anger._ - - Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth! - Ye Seas, to swallow me in kindness rise! - Fall on me, Mountains! and thou merciful Earth, - Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes! - - Let universal Chaos now return, - Now let the central fires their prison burst, - AND EARTH AND HEAVEN AND AIR AND OCEAN burn... - For Delia FROWNS... SHE FROWNS, _and I am curst_! - - Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight - Where hostile MILLIONS sought my single life; - Would storm VOLCANO BATTERIES with delight, - And grapple with GRIM DEATH in glorious strife. - - Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove, - When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies; - What is _his wrath_ to that of HER I love? - What is his LIGHTNING to my DELIA'S EYES? - - Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind; - Ye _serpent_ CURLS, ye _poison-tendrils_, go! - Would I could tear thy memory from my mind, - ACCURSED LOCK,... thou cause of all my woe! - - Seize the CURST CURLS, ye Furies, as they fly! - Demons of Darkness, guard the infernal roll, - That thence your cruel vengeance when I die - May _knit the_ KNOTS OF TORTURE _for my_ SOUL. - - Last night,... oh, hear me, Heaven, and grant my prayer! - The BOOK OF FATE before thy suppliant lay, - And let me from its ample records tear - _Only the single_ PAGE OF YESTERDAY. - - Or let me meet OLD TIME upon his flight, - And I will STOP HIM on his restless way: - Omnipotent in Love's resistless might, - _I'll force him back the_ ROAD OF YESTERDAY. - - Last night, as o'er the page of Love's despair, - My Delia bent _deliciously_ to grieve, - I stood a _treacherous loiterer_ by her chair, - And drew the FATAL SCISSORS from my sleeve: - - And would that at that instant o'er my thread - The SHEARS OF ATROPOS had open'd then; - And when I reft the lock from Delia's head, - Had cut me sudden from the sons of men! - - She heard the scissors that fair lock divide, - And whilst my heart with transport panted big, - She cast a FURY frown on me, and cried, - 'You stupid PUPPY,... you have spoil'd my Wig!' - - - - - CHARLES LAMB. - - - EPICEDIUM--GOING OR GONE. - - (DRAYTON) - - Fine merry franions, - Wanton companions, - My days are ev'n banyans - With thinking upon ye; - How Death, that last stinger, - Finis-writer, end-bringer, - Has laid his chill finger, - Or is laying on ye. - - There's rich Kitty Wheatley, - With footing it featly - That took me completely, - She sleeps in the Kirk House; - And poor Polly Perkin, - Whose Dad was still firking - The jolly ale firkin, - She's gone to the Work-house; - - Fine gard'ner, Ben Carter - (In ten counties no smarter) - Has ta'en his departure - For Proserpine's orchards; - And Lily, postilion, - With cheeks of vermilion, - Is one of a million - That fill up the church-yards; - - And, lusty as Dido, - Fat Clemitson's widow - Flits now a small shadow - By Stygian hid ford; - And good Master Clapton - Has thirty years nap't on - The ground he last hap't on, - Intomb'd by fair Widford; - - And gallant Tom Dockwra, - Of nature's finest crockery, - Now but thin air and mockery, - Lurks by Avernus, - Whose honest grasp of hand - Still, while his life did stand, - At friend's or foe's command, - Almost did burn us. - - Roger de Coverley - Not more good man than he; - Yet has he equally - Push'd for Cocytus, - With drivelling Worral, - And wicked old Dorrell, - 'Gainst whom I've a quarrel, - Whose end might affright us!-- - - Kindly hearts have I known; - Kindly hearts, they are flown; - Here and there if but one - Linger yet uneffaced, - Imbecile tottering elves, - Soon to be wreck'd on shelves, - These scarce are half themselves, - With age and care crazed. - - But this day Fanny Hutton - Her last dress has put on; - Her fine lessons forgotten, - She died, as the dunce died: - And prim Betsy Chambers, - Decay'd in her members, - No longer remembers - Things, as she once did; - - And prudent Miss Wither - Not in jest now doth _wither_, - And soon must go--whither - Nor I well, nor you know; - And flaunting Miss Waller, - _That_ soon must befall her, - Whence none can recall her, - Though proud once as Juno! - - - HYPOCHONDRIACUS. - - (ROBERT BURTON) - - By myself walking, - To myself talking, - When as I ruminate - On my untoward fate, - Scarcely seem I - Alone sufficiently, - Black thoughts continually - Crowding my privacy; - They come unbidden, - Like foes at a wedding, - Thrusting their faces - In better guests' places, - Peevish and malecontent, - Clownish, impertinent, - Dashing the merriment: - So in like fashions - Dim cogitations - Follow and haunt me, - Striving to daunt me, - In my heart festering, - In my ears whispering, - 'Thy friends are treacherous, - Thy foes are dangerous, - Thy dreams ominous.' - Fierce Anthropophagi, - Spectra, Diaboli, - What scared St. Anthony - Hobgoblins, Lemures, - Dreams of Antipodes, - Night-riding Incubi - Troubling the fantasy, - All dire illusions - Causing confusions; - Figments heretical, - Scruples fantastical, - Doubts diabolical, - Abaddon vexeth me, - Mahu perplexeth me, - Lucifer teareth me-- - _Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici._ - - - NONSENSE VERSES. - - (LAMB) - - Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up, and peep! - The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep. - There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills; - Who is to give her her bolus and pills? - Twenty fine angels must come into town, - All for to help you to make your new gown: - Dainty Aerial Spinsters, and Singers; - Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers? - Delicate hands, unaccustomed to reels, - To set 'em a working a poor body's wheels? - Why they came down is to me all a riddle, - And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle; - Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut-- - To eke out the work of a lazy young slut. - Angel-duck, angel-duck, wingèd, and silly, - Pouring a watering-pot over a lily, - Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf, - Leave her to water her lily herself, - Or to neglect it to death if she choose it: - Remember the loss is her own, if she lose it. - - - - - THOMAS MOORE. - - THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY. - - (SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS) - - We want more Churches and more Clergymen.--_Bishop of London's - late Charge._ - - Rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus, augent.--CLAUDIAN _in Eutrop_. - - - Come, give us more Livings and Rectors, - For richer no realm ever gave; - But why, ye unchristian objectors, - Do ye ask us how many we crave? - - Oh, there can't be too many rich Livings - For souls of the Pluralist kind, - Who, despising old Cocker's misgivings, - To numbers can ne'er be confin'd. - - Count the cormorants hovering about, - At the time their fish season sets in, - When these models of keen diners-out - Are preparing their beaks to begin. - - Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses, - Flock round when the harvest's in play, - And, not minding the farmer's distresses, - Like devils in grain peck away. - - Go, number the locusts in heaven, - On their way to some titheable shore; - And when _so_ many Parsons you've given, - We still shall be craving for more. - - Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye - Must leave us in peace to augment, - For the wretch who could number the Clergy, - With few will be ever content. - - - - - THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - - A BORDER BALLAD. - - BY AN ENCHANTER UNKNOWN. - - (SCOTT) - - The Scot, to rival realms a mighty bar, - Here fixed his mountain home: a wide domain, - And rich the soil, had purple heath been grain; - But what the niggard ground of wealth denied, - From fields more blest his fearless arm supplied. - LEYDEN. - - The Scotts, Kerrs, and Murrays, and Deloraines all, - The Hughies o' Hawdon, and Wills-o'-the-Wall, - The Willimondswicks, and the hard-riding Dicks, - Are staunch to the last to their old Border tricks; - Wine flows not from heath, and bread grinds not from stone, - They must reeve for their living, or life they'll have none. - - When the Southron's strong arm with the steel and the law - Had tamed the moss-troopers, so bonny and braw; - Though spiders wove webs in the rusty sword-hilt, - In the niche of the hall which their forefathers built; - Yet with sly paper credit and promise to pay, - They still drove the trade which the wise call convey. - - They whitewashed the front of their old Border fort; - They widened its loopholes, and opened its court; - They put in sash-windows where none were before, - And they wrote the word 'BANK' o'er the new-painted door; - The cross-bow and matchlock aside they did lay, - And they shot the stout Southron with promise to pay. - - They shot him from far and they shot him from near, - And they laid him as flat as their fathers laid deer: - Their fathers were heroes, though some called them thieves - When they ransacked their dwellings and drove off their beeves; - But craft undermined what force battered in vain, - And the pride of the Southron was stretched on the plain. - - Now joy to the Hughies and Willies so bold! - The Southron, like Dickson, is bought and is sold; - To his goods and his chattels, his house, and his land, - Their promise to pay is as Harlequin's wand: - A touch and a word, and pass, presto, begone, - The Southron has lost, and the Willies have won. - - The Hughies and Willies may lead a glad life; - They reap without sowing, they win without strife: - The Bruce and the Wallace were sturdy and fierce, - But where Scotch steel was broken Scotch paper can pierce; - And the true meed of conquest our minstrels shall fix, - On the promise to pay of our Willimondswicks. - - - THE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM. - - BY S. T. C., ESQ., PROFESSOR OF MYSTICISM. - - (COLERIDGE) - - Σκιᾶς ὄναρ.--PINDAR. - - In a bowl to sea went wise men three, - On a brilliant night of June: - They carried a net, and their hearts were set - On fishing up the moon. - - The sea was calm, the air was balm, - Not a breath stirred low or high, - And the moon, I trow, lay as bright below, - And as round as in the sky. - - The wise men with the current went, - Nor paddle nor oar had they, - And still as the grave they went on the wave, - That they might not disturb their prey. - - Far, far at sea, were the wise men three, - When their fishing-net they threw; - And at the throw, the moon below - In a thousand fragments flew. - - The sea was bright with the dancing light - Of a million million gleams, - Which the broken moon shot forth as soon - As the net disturbed her beams. - - They drew in their net: it was empty and wet, - And they had lost their pain, - Soon ceased the play of each dancing ray, - And the image was round again. - - Three times they threw, three times they drew, - And all the while were mute; - And evermore their wonder grew, - Till they could not but dispute. - - Their silence they broke, and each one spoke - Full long, and loud, and clear; - A man at sea their voices three - Full three leagues off might hear. - - The three wise men got home again - To their children and their wives: - But touching their trip, and their net's vain dip, - They disputed all their lives. - - The wise men three could never agree, - Why they missed the promised boon; - They agreed alone that their net they had thrown, - And they had not caught the moon. - - I have thought myself pale o'er this ancient tale, - And its sense I could not ken; - But now I see that the wise men three - Were paper-money men. - - 'Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub,' - Is a mystic burthen old, - Which I've pondered about till my fire went out, - And I could not sleep for cold. - - I now divine each mystic sign, - Which robbed me oft of sleep, - Three men in a bowl, who went to troll, - For the moon in the midnight deep. - - Three men were they who science drank - From Scottish fountains free; - Tho cash they sank in the Gotham bank, - Was the moon beneath the sea. - - The breaking of the imaged moon, - At the fishing-net's first splash, - Was the breaking of the bank as soon - As the wise men claimed their cash. - - The dispute which lasted all their lives, - Was the economic strife, - Which the son's son's son of every one - Will maintain through all his life. - - The son's son's sons will baffled be, - As were their sires of old; - But they only agree, like the wise men three, - That they could not get their gold. - - And they'll build systems dark and deep, - And systems broad and high; - But two of three will never agree - About the reason why. - - And he who at this day will seek - The Economic Club, - Will find at least three sages there, - As ready as any that ever were - To go to sea in a tub. - - - PROEMIUM OF AN EPIC, - - WHICH WILL SHORTLY APPEAR IN QUARTO, UNDER THE TITLE OF - - 'FLY-BY-NIGHT.' - - BY R. S., ESQ., POET LAUREATE. - - (SOUTHEY) - - His promises were, as he once was, mighty; - And his performance, as he is now, nothing. - SHAKESPEARE: _Henry VIII._, Act IV., Sc. ii. - - How troublesome is day! - It calls us from our sleep away; - It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake, - And sends us forth to keep or break - Our promises to pay. - How troublesome is day! - - Now listen to my lay; - Much have I said, - Which few have heard or read, - And much have I to say, - Which hear ye while ye may. - Come listen to my lay, - Come, for ye know me, as a man - Who always praises, as he can, - All promisers to pay. - So they and I on terms agree, - And they but keep their faith with me, - Whate'er their deeds to others be, - They may to the minutest particle - Command my fingers for an ode or article. - - Come listen while I strike the Epic string, - And, as a changeful song I sing, - Before my eyes - Bid changeful Proteus rise, - Turning his coat and skin in countless forms and dyes. - - Come listen to my lay, - While I the wild and wondrous tale array, - How Fly-by-Night went down, - And set a bank up in a country town; - How like a king his head he reared; - And how the Coast of Cash he cleared; - And how one night he disappeared, - When many a scoffer jibed and jeered; - And many an old man rent his beard; - And many a young man cursed and railed; - And many a woman wept and wailed; - And many a mighty heart was quailed; - And many a wretch was caged and gaoled: - Because great Fly-by-Night had failed. - And many a miserable sinner - Went without his Sunday dinner, - Because he had not metal bright, - And waved in vain before the butcher's sight - The promises of Fly-by-Night. - And little Jackey Horner - Sat sulking in the corner, - And in default of Christmas pie - Whereon his little thumb to try, - He put his finger in his eye, - And blubbered long and lustily. - - Come listen to my lay, - And ye shall say, - That never tale of errant knight, - Or captive damsel bright, - Demon, or elf, or goblin sprite, - Fierce crusade, or feudal fight, - Or cloistral phantom all in white, - Or castle or accessless height, - Upreared by necromantic might, - Was half so full of rare delight, - As this whereof I now prolong, - The memory in immortal song-- - The wild and wondrous tale of Fly-by-Night. - - - YE KITE-FLYERS OF SCOTLAND. - - BY T. C. - - (THOMAS CAMPBELL) - - Quel chio vi debbo posso di parole - Pagare in parte, e d'opera d'inchiostro. - ARIOSTO. - - Ye kite-flyers of Scotland, - Who live from home at ease; - Who raise the wind, from year to year, - In a long and strong trade breeze: - Your paper kites let loose again - On all the winds that blow; - Through the shout of the rout - Lay the English ragmen low; - Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold, - And the English ragmen low. - - The spirits of your fathers - Shall peep from every leaf; - For the midnight was their noon of fame, - And their prize was living beef. - Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell, - Your paper kites shall show, - That a way to convey - Better far than theirs you know, - When you launch your kites upon the wind - And raise the wind to blow. - - Caledonia needs no bullion, - No coin in iron case; - Her treasure is a bunch of rags - And the brass upon her face; - With pellets from her paper mills - She makes the Southrons trow, - That to pay her sole way - Is by promising to owe, - By making promises to pay - When she only means to owe. - - The meteor ray of Scotland - Shall float aloft like scum, - Till credit's o'erstrained line shall crack, - And the day of reckoning come: - Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers, - Your hone-a-rie must flow, - While you drink your own ink - With your old friend Nick below, - While you burn your bills and singe your quills - In his bonny fire below. - - - LOVE AND THE FLIMSIES. - - BY T. M., ESQ. - - (MOORE) - - Ο δ' Ἔρως χιτῶνα δήσας - Ὑπὲρ αὐχένος ΠΑΠΥΡΩ. - ANACREON. - - Little Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating, - Above a green vale where a paper mill played; - And he hovered in ether, delightedly noting - The whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made. - - The air was all filled with the scent of the roses, - Round the miller's veranda that clustered and twined; - And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses, - This spot of the earth would be most to its mind. - - And forth came the miller, a Quaker in verity, - Rigid of limb and complacent of face, - And behind him a Scotchman was singing 'Prosperity,' - And picking his pocket with infinite grace. - - And 'Walth and prosparity,' 'Walth and prosparity,' - His bonny Scotch burthen arose on the air, - To a song all in praise of that primitive charity, - Which begins with sweet home and which terminates there. - - But sudden a tumult arose from a distance, - And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone, - And ere the scared miller could call for assistance, - The mill to a million of atoms was blown. - - Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle, - When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where; - And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle, - Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air. - - Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter, - Pursuing the fragments that floated on high, - As light as the fly that is christened from butter, - Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky. - - 'Oh, mother,' he cried, as he showed them to Venus, - 'What are these little talismans cyphered--One--One? - If you think them worth having, we'll share them between us, - Though their smell is like none of the sweetest, poor John.' - - 'My darling,' says Venus, 'away from you throw them, - They're a sort of fool's gold among mortals, 'tis true; - But we want them not here, though I think you might know them, - Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you.' - - - SONG BY MR. CYPRESS. - - (BYRON) - - There is a fever of the spirit, - The brand of Cain's unresting doom, - Which in the lone dark souls that bear it - Glows like the lamp in Tullia's tomb. - Unlike the lamp, its subtle fire - Burns, blasts, consumes its cell, the heart. - Till, one by one, hope, joy, desire, - Like dreams of shadowy smoke depart. - - When hope, love, life itself, are only - Dust--spectral memories--dead and cold-- - The unfed fire burns bright and lonely, - Like that undying lamp of old; - And by that drear illumination, - Till time its clay-built home has rent, - Thought broods on feeling's desolation-- - The soul is its own monument. - - - - - HORACE TWISS. - - - THE PATRIOT'S PROGRESS. - - (SHAKESPEARE) - - St. Stephen's is a stage, - And half the opposition are but players: - For clap-traps, and deceptions, and effects, - Fill up their thoughts throughout their many parts, - Their acts being sev'n. At first the Demagogue, - Railing and mouthing at the hustings' front: - And then the cogging Candidate, with beer, - Fibs, cringes, and cockades, giving to voters - Unwillingly a pledge. And then the Member, - Crackling like furnace, with a flaming story - Made on the country's fall. Then he turns Courtier, - Full of smooth words, and secret as a midwife, - Pleas'd with all rulers, zealous for the church, - Seeking the useful fame of orthodoxy, - Ev'n from the _Canon's_ mouth. And then a Secretary, - In fair white waistcoat, with boil'd chicken lin'd, - With placid smile, and speech of ready answer, - Lib'ral of promises and army contracts, - And so he rules the state. The sixth act brings him - To be a snug retired old baronet, - With ribband red on breast, and star on side: - His early zeal for change a world too hot - For his cool age: and his big eloquence, - Turning to gentler sounds, obedient pipes-- - And we must pay the piper. Scene the last, - That ends this comfortable history, - Is a fat pension and a pompous peerage, - With cash, with coronet--with all but conscience. - - - OUR PARODIES ARE ENDED. - - (SHAKESPEARE) - - Our parodies are ended. These our authors, - As we foretold you, were all Spirits, and - Are melted into air, into thin air. - And, like the baseless fabric of these verses, - The Critic's puff, the Trade's advertisement, - The Patron's promise, and the World's applause,-- - Yea, all the hopes of poets,--shall dissolve, - And, like this unsubstantial fable fated, - Leave not a groat behind! - - - FASHION. - - (MILTON) - - Hence, loath'd vulgarity, - Of ignorance and native dullness bred, - In low unwholesome shed, - 'Mongst thieves and drabs, and street-sweeps asking charity: - Find some suburban haunt, - Where the spruce 'prentice treats his flashy mate, - And smoking cits debate: - Or at a dowdy rout, or ticket-ball, - Giv'n at Freemasons' Hall, - With tawdry clothes and liveries ever flaunt. - But come, thou nymph of slender waist, - Known early by the name of Taste, - - * * * * * - - Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee - Steed, and light-hung Tilbury, - Undiscoverable rouge, - Polish'd boots, and neckcloth huge, - (Such as might deck a Dandy's cheek, - And draw the gazers for a week.) - Mackintosh's racy phrase, - And wit, that peerless Ward might praise. - Come, and let your steps be bent - With a lively measurement, - And bring the proper airs and graces, - That make their way in certain places: - And, if I give thee honour due, - Fashion, enroll me with the few, - With Spencer, Sydney Smith, and thee - In a select society: - To ride when many a lady fair in - Her morning veil begins her airing, - And with the nurse and children stow'd - Drives down the Park, or Chelsea road: - Then to stop in spite of sorrow, - And through the window bid good-morrow - Of vis-à-vis, or barouchette, - Or half-open landaulet: - While little Burke, with lively din, - Scatters his stock of trifles thin; - And at the Bridge, or Grosvenor Gate, - Briskly bids his horses wait; - Oft listening how the Catalani - Rouses at night th' applauding many, - In some opera of Mozart, - Winning the eye, the ear, the heart. - Then in the round room not unseen, - Attending dames of noble mien, - Right to the door in Market-lane, - Where chairmen range their jostling train, - And footmen stand with torch alight, - In their thousand liveries dight, - While the doorkeeper on the stairs, - Bawls for the Marchionesses' chairs - And young dragoons enjoy the crowd, - And dowagers inveigh aloud, - And lovers write a hasty scrawl - Upon the ticket of a shawl. - Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, - As the circling crowd it measures; - Virgins old with tresses grey, - That in corkscrew curls do stray; - Ladies, on whose softer breast - Gallants receive a hope of rest; - Little feet with sandals tied, - Shallow heads and shoulders wide; - Necks and throats of lovely form, - Bosom'd high in tippet warm, - Where some beauty spreads her snare, - The envy of surrounding fair. - Hard by, the Op'ra being past, - To some small supper let me haste, - Where ladies, wits, and poets met, - Are at their various banquet set, - Of fifty little tempting messes, - Which the neat-handed Gunter dresses: - And there with satisfaction see - The pullet and the early pea, - Or, if the sultry dog-star reign, - The melon ice and cool champagne. - Sometimes, to a late delight - Argyll advertisements invite, - Where the wreathèd waltz goes round, - Or English tunes more briskly sound, - To twice a hundred feet or more, - Dancing on the chalky floor: - And wise mamma, well pleased to see - Her daughter paired with high degree, - Stays till the daylight glares amain: - Then in the carriage home again, - With stories told, of many a bow, - And civil speech from so and so. - She was ask'd to dance, she said, - But scarcely down the middle led, - Because his Lordship only thought - How soonest to find out a spot, - Where, seated by her side, unheard, - He whisper'd many a pretty word, - Such as no poet could excel! - Then, having paid his court so well, - Most manifestly meaning marriage, - He fetch'd the shawls and call'd the carriage, - Handed her from the crowded door - And watch'd till she was seen no more. - Thus done the tales, the flutt'ring fair - Go up to bed, and curl their hair. - Country houses please me too, - And the jocund Christmas crew, - Where chiefs of adverse politics - Awhile in social circle mix, - And tenants come, whose county franchise - Connects them with the higher branches, - Since all the great alike contend - For votes, on which they all depend. - Let Affability be there, - With cordial hand and friendly air, - And private play and glittering fête, - To make the rustic gentry prate,-- - Such joys as fill young ladies' heads, - Who judge from books of masquerades. - Then will I to St. Stephen's stray, - If aught be moved by Castlereagh, - Or matchless Canning mean to roll - His thunders o'er the subject soul. - And sometimes, to divert my cares, - Give me some flirt, with joyous airs, - Married a girl, a widow now, - Such as will hear each playful vow, - Too young to lay upon the shelf: - Meaning--as little as myself:-- - Still speaking, singing, walking, running, - With wanton heed and giddy cunning. - With a good mien to testify - Her converse with good company, - That Chesterfield might lift his eyes - From the dark Tartarus where he lies, - Beholding, in her air and gait, - Graces that almost compensate - The blunders of his awkward son, - And half the harm his book has done. - These delights if thou canst give, - Fashion, with thee I wish to live. - - - VERSES. - - _Supposed to be written by the Editor of the---- Newspaper, during - his Solitary Abode in---- Prison._ - - (COWPER) - - I am tenant of nine feet by four, - My title no lawyer denies, - From the ceiling quite down to the floor - I am lord of the spiders and flies. - - Oh, Justice! how awkward it is - To be gripped by thy terrible squad! - I did but indulge in a _quiz_, - And the _Quorum_ have sent me to _quod_. - - Dear scandal is out of my reach, - I must pass my dull mornings alone, - Never hear Mr. Br----m make a speech, - Nor get audience for one of my own! - - The people, provokingly quiet, - My fate with indifference see: - They are so unaccustomed to riot, - Their tameness is shocking to me. - - Personality, libel, and lie, - Ye supports of our Jacobin train, - If I had but the courage to try, - How soon I would sport you again! - - My ranklings I then might assuage - By renewing my efforts to vex, - By profaning the rev'rence of age, - And attacking the weakness of sex. - - A libel! what treasure untold - Resides in that dear little word, - More rich than the silver and gold - Which the Bank is reported to hoard! - - But the Bench have no bowels for pity, - No stomach for high-season'd leaven, - And, though we be never so witty, - They trim us when judgement is given. - - O ye, who were present in Court, - In pity convey to me here - Some well-manufactured report - Of a lady, a prince, or a peer. - - Do my writings continue to tell? - Does the public attend to my lines? - O say that my Newspapers sell, - Though the money must go for my fines! - - How fleet is the growth of a fib! - The astonishing speed of its flight - Outstrips the less mischievous squib - Let off on a holiday night. - - Then who would not vamp up a fudge, - When he knows how it helps off his papers; - Were it not--that the thought of the judge - Overcasts him, and gives him the vapours? - - But Cobbett has got his discharge-- - _The beast_ is let loose from his cover: - Like him I shall yet be at large, - When a couple of years shall be over: - - For law must our liberty give, - Though _Law_ for a while may retard it: - Even I shall obtain it, who live - By sapping the bulwarks that guard it. - - - - - GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. - - - TO MR. MURRAY. - - (COWPER) - - Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, - Patron and publisher of rhymes, - For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, - My Murray. - - To thee, with hope and terror dumb, - The unfledged MS. authors come; - Thou printest all--and sellest some-- - My Murray. - - Upon thy table's baize so green - The last new Quarterly is seen,-- - But where is thy new Magazine, - My Murray? - - Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine - The works thou deemest most divine-- - The 'Art of Cookery,' and mine, - My Murray. - - Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, - And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist; - And then thou hast the 'Navy List,' - My Murray. - - And Heaven forbid I should conclude - Without 'the Board of Longitude,' - Although this narrow paper would, - My Murray. - - - PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS BY DR. PLAGIARY. - - (DR. BUSBY) - - _Half stolen_, with acknowledgements; to be spoken in an - inarticulate voice by Master---- at the opening of the next - new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of - quotation--thus '---- '. - - 'When energizing objects men pursue,' - Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. - 'A modest monologue you here survey,' - Hiss'd from the theatre the 'other day,' - As if Sir Fretful wrote 'the slumberous' verse, - And gave his son 'the rubbish' to rehearse. - 'Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed,' - Knew you the rumpus which the author raised: - 'Nor even here your smiles would be represt,' - Knew you these lines--the badness of the best, - 'Flame! fire! and flame!' (words borrowed from Lucretius,) - 'Dread metaphors which open wounds' like issues! - 'And sleeping pangs awake--and--but away' - (Confound me if I know what next to say). - 'Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings,' - And Master G---- recites what Dr. Busby sings!-- - 'If mighty things with small we may compare,' - (Translated from the grammar for the fair!) - Dramatic 'spirit drives a conquering car,' - And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of 'tar.' - 'This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain,' - To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. - 'Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story,' - And George and I will dramatize it for ye. - - 'In arts and sciences our isle hath shone' - (This deep discovery is mine alone). - 'Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire' - My verse--or I'm a fool--and Fame's a liar, - 'Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore' - With 'smiles,' and 'lyres,' and 'pencils,' and much more. - These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain - _Disgraces_, too! 'inseparable train!' - 'Three who have stolen their witching airs from Cupid' - (You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid): - 'Harmonious throng' that I have kept _in petto_ - Now to produce in a 'divine _sestetto_'!! - 'While Poesy,' with these delightful doxies, - 'Sustains her part' in all the 'upper' boxes! - 'Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along,' - Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; - 'Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play' - (For this last line George had a holiday). - 'Old Drury never, never soar'd so high,' - So says the manager, and so say I. - 'But hold,' you say, 'this self-complacent boast;' - Is this the poem which the public lost? - True--true--that lowers at once our mounting pride;' - But lo:--the papers print what you deride. - ''Tis ours to look on you--you hold the prize,' - 'Tis _twenty guineas_, as they advertise! - 'A _double_ blessing your rewards impart'-- - I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. - 'Our _twofold_ feeling _owns_ its twofold cause,' - Why son and I both beg for your applause. - 'When in your fostering beams you bid us live,' - My next subscription list shall say how much you give! - - - - - RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. - - ('THOMAS INGOLDSBY') - - - MARGATE. - - (BYRON) - - I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size - Inferior far to that described by Byron, - Where 'palaces and prisons on each hand rise,' - --That's too a stone one, this is made of iron-- - And little donkey-boys your steps environ, - Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack, - Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one, - For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack, - The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres--and back. - - And then, on many a raw and gusty day, - I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier, - And seen the crews, that did embark so gay - That self-same morn, now disembark so queer; - Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, 'Oh dear! - Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's a - London Jack Tar,--a Cheapside Buccaneer!'-- - But hold, my Muse!--for this terrific stanza - Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza. - - - NOT A _SOUS_ HAD HE GOT. - - (CHARLES WOLFE) - - Not a _sous_ had he got,--not a guinea or note, - And he look'd confoundedly flurried, - As he bolted away without paying his shot, - And the Landlady after him hurried. - - We saw him again at dead of night, - When home from the Club returning; - We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light - Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning. - - All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews, - Reclined in the gutter we found him; - And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze, - With his _Marshall_ cloak around him. - - 'The Doctor's as drunk as the d----,' we said, - And we managed a shutter to borrow; - We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head - Would 'consumedly ache' on the morrow. - - We bore him home, and we put him to bed, - And we told his wife and his daughter - To give him, next morning, a couple of red - Herrings, with soda-water. - - Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone, - And his Lady began to upbraid him; - But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on - 'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him. - - We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done - When, beneath the window calling, - We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun - Of a watchman 'One o'clock!' bawling. - - Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down - From his room in the uppermost story; - A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone, - And we left him alone in his glory. - - - THE DEMOLISHED FARCE; OR, 'WHO IS THE AUTHOR?' - - BY A NEWSPAPER CRITIC. - - [Lines suggested by the failure of Mr. Thomas Haines Bayly's - farce 'Decorum.'] - - (T. H. BAYLY) - - Oh no! we'll never mention him; - We won't, upon our word! - 'Decorum' now forbids to name - An unsuccessful bard. - From Drury Lane we'll toddle to - Our 'office' with regret, - And if they ask us, '_Who's_ been dished?' - We'll say that 'we forget!' - - We'll bid him now forsake 'the Scene,' - And try his ancient strain; - He'd better 'be a butterfly' - Than write a farce again. - 'Tis true that he can troll a song, - Or tender Canzonette; - But if you ask us, 'What beside?' - Why, really, 'we forget.' - - And, oh, there are so many now, - Who write good come-dy,-- - There's Mister Planché, Mister Peake, - And Poole, who wrote _Paul Pry_, - Moncrieff and Mister Buckstone join - To make a funny set, - With some half-dozen jokers more, - Whose names we quite forget. - - They tell us he has got, behind, - A bran-new five-act play; - They say that it is devilish droll, - But heed not what they say; - Perchance, indeed, 'twill struggle on - A night or two, but yet - If 'tis no better than his farce, - The pair you'll soon forget! - - - - - PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. - - - PETER BELL THE THIRD. - - BY MICHING MALLECHO, ESQ. - - (WORDSWORTH) - - Is it a party in a parlour, - Crammed just as they on earth were crammed, - Some sipping punch--some sipping tea; - But, as you by their faces see, - All silent, and all----damned! - _Peter Bell, by_ W. WORDSWORTH. - - OPHELIA. What means this, my lord? - HAMLET. Marry, this is Miching Mallecho; it means mischief. - SHAKESPEARE. - - PROLOGUE. - - Peter Bells, one, two and three, - O'er the wide world wandering be.-- - First, the antenatal Peter, - Wrapped in weeds of the same metre, - The so-long-predestined raiment - Clothed in which to walk his way meant - The second Peter; whose ambition - Is to link the proposition, - As the mean of two extremes-- - (This was learned from Aldric's themes) - Shielding from the guilt of schism - The orthodoxal syllogism; - The First Peter--he who was - Like the shadow in the glass - Of the second, yet unripe, - His substantial antitype.-- - Then came Peter Bell the Second, - Who henceforward must be reckoned - The body of a double soul, - And that portion of the whole - Without which the rest would seem - Ends of a disjointed dream.-- - And the Third is he who has - O'er the grave been forced to pass - To the other side, which is,-- - Go and try else,--just like this. - Peter Bell the First was Peter - Smugger, milder, softer, neater, - Like the soul before it is - Born from _that_ world into _this_. - The next Peter Bell was he, - Predevote, like you and me, - To good or evil as may come; - His was the severer doom,-- - For he was an evil Cotter, - And a polygamic Potter.[81] - And the last is Peter Bell, - Damned since our first parents fell, - Damned eternally to Hell-- - Surely he deserves it well! - - - PART THE FIRST. - - _Death._ - - I. - - And Peter Bell, when he had been - With fresh-imported Hell-fire warmed, - Grew serious--from his dress and mien - 'Twas very plainly to be seen - Peter was quite reformed. - - - II. - - His eyes turned up, his mouth turned down; - His accent caught a nasal twang; - He oiled his hair[82]; there might be heard - The grace of God in every word - Which Peter said or sang. - - - III. - - But Peter now grew old, and had - An ill no doctor could unravel; - His torments almost drove him mad;-- - Some said it was a fever bad-- - Some swore it was the gravel. - - - IV. - - His holy friends then came about, - And with long preaching and persuasion - Convinced the patient that, without - The smallest shadow of a doubt, - He was predestined to damnation. - - - V. - - They said--'Thy name is Peter Bell; - Thy skin is of a brimstone hue; - Alive or dead--ay, sick or well-- - The one God made to rhyme with hell; - The other, I think, rhymes with you.' - - - VI. - - Then Peter set up such a yell!-- - The nurse, who with some water gruel - Was climbing up the stairs, as well - As her old legs could climb them--fell, - And broke them both--the fall was cruel. - - - VII. - - The parson from the casement leapt - Into the lake of Windermere-- - And many an eel--though no adept - In God's right reason for it--kept - Gnawing his kidneys half a year. - - - VIII. - - And all the rest rushed through the door, - And tumbled over one another, - And broke their skulls.--Upon the floor - Meanwhile sat Peter Bell, and swore, - And cursed his father and his mother; - - - IX. - - And raved of God, and sin, and death, - Blaspheming like an infidel; - And said, that with his clenchèd teeth - He'd seize the earth from underneath, - And drag it with him down to hell. - - - X. - - As he was speaking came a spasm, - And wrenched his gnashing teeth asunder; - Like one who sees a strange phantasm - He lay,--there was a silent chasm - Between his upper jaw and under. - - - XI. - - And yellow death lay on his face; - And a fixed smile that was not human - Told, as I understand the case, - That he was gone to the wrong place:-- - I heard all this from the old woman. - - - XII. - - Then there came down from Langdale Pike - A cloud, with lightning, wind and hail; - It swept over the mountains like - An ocean,--and I heard it strike - The woods and crags of Grasmere vale. - - - XIII. - - And I saw the black storm come - Nearer, minute after minute; - Its thunder made the cataracts dumb; - With hiss, and dash, and hollow hum, - It neared as if the Devil was in it. - - - XIV. - - The Devil _was_ in it:--he had bought - Peter for half-a-crown; and when - The storm which bore him vanished, nought - That in the house that storm had caught - Was ever seen again. - - - XV. - - The gaping neighbours came next day-- - They found all vanished from the shore: - The Bible, whence he used to pray, - Half scorched under a hen-coop lay; - Smashed glass--and nothing more! - - - PART THE SECOND. - - _The Devil._ - - I. - - The Devil, I safely can aver, - Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting; - Nor is he, as some sages swear, - A spirit, neither here nor there, - In nothing--yet in everything. - - - II. - - He is--what we are; for sometimes - The Devil is a gentleman; - At others a bard bartering rhymes - For sack; a statesman spinning crimes; - A swindler, living as he can; - - - III. - - A thief, who cometh in the night, - With whole boots and net pantaloons, - Like some one whom it were not right - To mention;--or the luckless wight - From whom he steals nine silver spoons. - - - IV. - - But in this case he did appear - Like a slop-merchant from Wapping, - And with smug face, and eye severe, - On every side did perk and peer - Till he saw Peter dead or napping. - - - V. - - He had on an upper Benjamin - (For he was of the driving schism) - In the which he wrapped his skin - From the storm he travelled in, - For fear of rheumatism. - - - VI. - - He called the ghost out of the corse;-- - It was exceedingly like Peter,-- - Only its voice was hollow and hoarse-- - It had a queerish look of course-- - Its dress too was a little neater. - - - VII. - - The Devil knew not his name and lot; - Peter knew not that he was Bell: - Each had an upper stream of thought, - Which made all seem as it was not; - Fitting itself to all things well. - - - VIII. - - Peter thought he had parents dear, - Brothers, sisters, cousins, cronies, - In the fens of Lincolnshire; - He perhaps had found them there - Had he gone and boldly shown his - - - IX. - - Solemn phiz in his own village; - Where he thought oft when a boy - He'd climb the orchard walls to pillage - The produce of his neighbour's tillage, - With marvellous pride and joy. - - - X. - - And the Devil thought he had, - 'Mid the misery and confusion - Of an unjust war, just made - A fortune by the gainful trade - Of giving soldiers rations bad-- - The world is full of strange delusion-- - - - XI. - - That he had a mansion planned - In a square like Grosvenor Square, - That he was aping fashion, and - That he now came to Westmoreland - To see what was romantic there. - - - XII. - - And all this, though quite ideal,-- - Ready at a breath to vanish,-- - Was a state not more unreal - Than the peace he could not feel, - Or the care he could not banish. - - - XIII. - - After a little conversation, - The Devil told Peter, if he chose, - He'd bring him to the world of fashion - By giving him a situation - In his own service--and new clothes. - - - XIV. - - And Peter bowed, quite pleased and proud, - And after waiting some few days - For a new livery--dirty yellow - Turned up with black--the wretched fellow - Was bowled to Hell in the Devil's chaise. - - - PART THE THIRD. - - _Hell._ - - I. - - Hell is a city much like London-- - A populous and a smoky city; - There are all sorts of people undone, - And there is little or no fun done; - Small justice shown, and still less pity. - - - II. - - There is a Castles, and a Canning, - A Cobbett, and a Castlereagh; - All sorts of caitiff corpses planning - All sorts of cozening for trepanning - Corpses less corrupt than they. - - - III. - - There is a * * *, who has lost - His wits, or sold them, none knows which; - He walks about a double ghost, - And though as thin as Fraud almost-- - Ever grows more grim and rich. - - - IV. - - There is a Chancery Court; a King; - A manufacturing mob; a set - Of thieves who by themselves are sent - Similar thieves to represent; - An army; and a public debt. - - - V. - - Which last is a scheme of paper money, - And means--being interpreted-- - 'Bees, keep your wax--give us the honey, - And we will plant, while skies are sunny, - Flowers, which in winter serve instead.' - - - VI. - - There is a great talk of revolution-- - And a great chance of despotism-- - German soldiers--camps--confusion-- - Tumults--lotteries--rage--delusion-- - Gin--suicide--and methodism; - - - VII. - - Taxes too, on wine and bread, - And meat, and beer, and tea, and cheese, - From which those patriots pure are fed, - Who gorge before they reel to bed - The tenfold essence of all these. - - - VIII. - - There are mincing women, mewing, - (Like cats, who _amant miserè_[83],) - Of their own virtue, and pursuing - Their gentler sisters to that ruin, - Without which--what were chastity? - - - IX. - - Lawyers--judges--old hobnobbers - Are there--bailiffs--chancellors-- - Bishops--great and little robbers-- - Rhymesters--pamphleteers--stock-jobbers-- - Men of glory in the wars,-- - - - X. - - Things whose trade is, over ladies - To lean, and flirt, and stare, and simper, - Till all that is divine in woman - Grows cruel, courteous, smooth, inhuman, - Crucified 'twixt a smile and whimper. - - - XI. - - Thrusting, toiling, wailing, moiling, - Frowning, preaching--such a riot! - Each with never-ceasing labour, - Whilst he thinks he cheats his neighbour, - Cheating his own heart of quiet. - - - XII. - - And all these meet at levees;-- - Dinners convivial and political;-- - Suppers of epic poets;--teas, - Where small talk dies in agonies;-- - Breakfasts professional and critical; - - - XIII. - - Lunches and snacks so aldermanic - That one would furnish forth ten dinners, - Where reigns a Cretan-tonguèd panic, - Lest news Russ, Dutch, or Alemannic - Should make some losers, and some winners;-- - - - XIV. - - At conversazioni--balls-- - Conventicles--and drawing-rooms-- - Courts of law--committees--calls - Of a morning--clubs--book-stalls-- - Churches--masquerades--and tombs. - - - XV. - - And this is Hell--and in this smother - All are damnable and damned; - Each one damning, damns the other; - They are damned by one another, - By none other are they damned. - - - XVI. - - 'Tis a lie to say, 'God damns[84]!' - Where was Heaven's Attorney General - When they first gave out such flams? - Let there be an end of shams, - They are mines of poisonous mineral. - - - XVII. - - Statesmen damn themselves to be - Cursed; and lawyers damn their souls - To the auction of a fee; - Churchmen damn themselves to see - God's sweet love in burning coals. - - - XVIII. - - The rich are damned, beyond all cure, - To taunt, and starve, and trample on - The weak and wretched; and the poor - Damn their broken hearts to endure - Stripe on stripe, with groan on groan. - - - XIX. - - Sometimes the poor are damned indeed - To take,--not means for being blessed,-- - But Cobbett's snuff, revenge; that weed - From which the worms that it doth feed - Squeeze less than they before possessed. - - - XX. - - And some few, like we know who, - Damned--but God alone knows why-- - To believe their minds are given - To make this ugly Hell a Heaven; - In which faith they live and die. - - - XXI. - - Thus, as in a town, plague-stricken, - Each man be he sound or no - Must indifferently sicken; - As when day begins to thicken, - None knows a pigeon from a crow,-- - - - XXII. - - So good and bad, sane and mad, - The oppressor and the oppressed; - Those who weep to see what others - Smile to inflict upon their brothers; - Lovers, haters, worst and best; - - - XXIII. - - All are damned--they breathe an air, - Thick, infected, joy-dispelling: - Each pursues what seems most fair, - Mining like moles, through mind, and there - Scoop palace-caverns vast, where Care - In thronèd state is ever dwelling. - - - PART THE FOURTH. - - _Sin._ - - I. - - Lo, Peter in Hell's Grosvenor Square, - A footman in the Devil's service! - And the misjudging world would swear - That every man in service there - To virtue would prefer vice. - - - II. - - But Peter, though now damned, was not - What Peter was before damnation. - Men oftentimes prepare a lot - Which ere it finds them, is not what - Suits with their genuine station. - - - III. - - All things that Peter saw and felt - Had a peculiar aspect to him; - And when they came within the belt - Of his own nature, seemed to melt, - Like cloud to cloud, into him. - - - IV. - - And so the outward world uniting - To that within him, he became - Considerably uninviting - To those who, meditation slighting, - Were moulded in a different frame. - - - V. - - And he scorned them, and they scorned him; - And he scorned all they did; and they - Did all that men of their own trim - Are wont to do to please their whim, - Drinking, lying, swearing, play. - - - VI. - - Such were his fellow-servants; thus - His virtue, like our own, was built - Too much on that indignant fuss - Hypocrite Pride stirs up in us - To bully one another's guilt. - - - VII. - - He had a mind which was somehow - At once circumference and centre - Of all he might or feel or know; - Nothing went ever out, although - Something did ever enter. - - - VIII. - - He had as much imagination - As a pint-pot;--he never could - Fancy another situation, - From which to dart his contemplation, - Than that wherein he stood. - - - IX. - - Yet his was individual mind, - And new created all he saw - In a new manner, and refined - Those new creations, and combined - Them, by a master-spirit's law. - - - X. - - Thus--though unimaginative-- - An apprehension clear, intense, - Of his mind's work, had made alive - The things it wrought on; I believe - Wakening a sort of thought in sense. - - - XI. - - But from the first 'twas Peter's drift - To be a kind of moral eunuch, - He touched the hem of Nature's shift, - Felt faint--and never dared uplift - The closest, all-concealing tunic. - - - XII. - - She laughed the while, with an arch smile, - And kissed him with a sister's kiss. - And said--'My best Diogenes, - I love you well--but, if you please, - Tempt not again my deepest bliss. - - - XIII. - - ''Tis you are cold--for I, not coy, - Yield love for love, frank, warm, and true; - And Burns, a Scottish peasant boy-- - His errors prove it--knew my joy - More, learnèd friend, than you. - - - XIV. - - '_Bocca bacciata non perde ventura, - Anzi rinnuova come fa la luna_:-- - So thought Boccaccio, whose sweet words might cure a - Male prude, like you, from what you now endure, a - Low-tide in soul, like a stagnant laguna.' - - - XV. - - Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe, - And smoothed his spacious forehead down - With his broad palm;--'twixt love and fear, - He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer, - And in his dream sate down. - - - XVI. - - The Devil was no uncommon creature; - A leaden-witted thief--just huddled - Out of the dross and scum of nature; - A toad-like lump of limb and feature, - With mind, and heart, and fancy muddled. - - - XVII. - - He was that heavy, dull, cold thing, - The spirit of evil well may be: - A drone too base to have a sting; - Who gluts, and grimes his lazy wing, - And calls lust, luxury. - - - XVIII. - - Now he was quite the kind of wight - Round whom collect, at a fixed aera, - Venison, turtle, hock, and claret,-- - Good cheer,--and those who come to share it-- - And best East Indian madeira! - - - XIX. - - It was his fancy to invite - Men of science, wit, and learning, - Who came to lend each other light; - He proudly thought that his gold's might - Had set those spirits burning. - - - XX. - - And men of learning, science, wit, - Considered him as you and I - Think of some rotten tree, and sit - Lounging and dining under it, - Exposed to the wide sky. - - - XXI. - - And all the while, with loose fat smile, - The willing wretch sat winking there, - Believing 'twas his power that made - That jovial scene--and that all paid - Homage to his unnoticed chair. - - - XXII. - - Though to be sure this place was Hell; - He was the Devil--and all they-- - What though the claret circled well, - And wit, like ocean, rose and fell?-- - Were damned eternally. - - - PART THE FIFTH. - - _Grace._ - - I. - - Among the guests who often stayed - Till the Devil's petits-soupers - A man there came, fair as a maid, - And Peter noted what he said, - Standing behind his master's chair. - - - II. - - He was a mighty poet--and - A subtle-souled psychologist; - All things he seemed to understand, - Of old or new--of sea or land-- - But his own mind--which was a mist. - - - III. - - This was a man who might have turned - Hell into Heaven--and so in gladness - A Heaven unto himself have earned; - But he in shadows undiscerned - Trusted,--and damned himself to madness. - - - IV. - - He spoke of poetry, and how - 'Divine it was--a light--a love-- - A spirit which like wind doth blow - As it listeth, to and fro; - A dew rained down from God above; - - - V. - - 'A power which comes and goes like dream, - And which none can ever trace-- - Heaven's light on earth--Truth's brightest beam.' - And when he ceased there lay the gleam - Of those words upon his face. - - - VI. - - Now Peter, when he heard such talk, - Would, heedless of a broken pate, - Stand like a man asleep, or balk - Some wishing guest of knife or fork, - Or drop and break his master's plate. - - - VII. - - At night he oft would start and wake - Like a lover, and began - In a wild measure songs to make - On moor, and glen, and rocky lake, - And on the heart of man-- - - - VIII. - - And on the universal sky-- - And the wide earth's bosom green,-- - And the sweet, strange mystery - Of what beyond these things may lie, - And yet remain unseen. - - - IX. - - For in his thought he visited - The spots in which, ere dead and damned, - He his wayward life had led; - Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fed - Which thus his fancy crammed. - - - X. - - And these obscure remembrances - Stirred such harmony in Peter, - That, whensoever he should please, - He could speak of rocks and trees - In poetic metre. - - - XI. - - For though it was without a sense - Of memory, yet he remembered well - Many a ditch and quick-set fence; - Of lakes he had intelligence, - He knew something of heath and fell. - - - XII. - - He had also dim recollections - Of pedlars tramping on their rounds; - Milk-pans and pails; and odd collections - Of saws, and proverbs; and reflections - Old parsons make in burying-grounds. - - - XIII. - - But Peter's verse was clear, and came - Announcing from the frozen hearth - Of a cold age, that none might tame - The soul of that diviner flame - It augured to the Earth: - - - XIV. - - Like gentle rains, on the dry plains, - Making that green which late was gray, - Or like the sudden moon, that stains - Some gloomy chamber's window-panes - With a broad light like day. - - - XV. - - For language was in Peter's hand - Like clay while he was yet a potter, - And he made songs for all the land, - Sweet both to feel and understand, - As pipkins late to mountain Cotter. - - - XVI. - - And Mr. ----, the bookseller, - Gave twenty pounds for some;--then scorning - A footman's yellow coat to wear, - Peter, too proud of heart, I fear, - Instantly gave the Devil warning. - - - XVII. - - Whereat the Devil took offence, - And swore in his soul a great oath then, - 'That for his damned impertinence - He'd bring him to a proper sense - Of what was due to gentlemen!' - - - PART THE SIXTH. - - _Damnation._ - - - I. - - 'O that mine enemy had written - A book!'--cried Job:--a fearful curse, - If to the Arab, as the Briton, - 'Twas galling to be critic-bitten:-- - The Devil to Peter wished no worse. - - - II. - - When Peter's next new book found vent, - The Devil to all the first Reviews - A copy of it slyly sent, - With five-pound note as compliment, - And this short notice--'Pray abuse.' - - - III. - - Then _seriatim_, month and quarter, - Appeared such mad tirades.--One said-- - 'Peter seduced Mrs. Foy's daughter, - Then drowned the mother in Ullswater, - The last thing as he went to bed.' - - - IV. - - Another--'Let him shave his head! - Where's Dr. Willis?--Or is he joking? - What does the rascal mean or hope, - No longer imitating Pope, - In that barbarian Shakespeare poking?' - - - V. - - One more, 'Is incest not enough? - And must there be adultery too? - Grace after meat? Miscreant and Liar! - Thief! Blackguard! Scoundrel! Fool! Hell-fire - Is twenty times too good for you. - - - VI. - - 'By that last book of yours we think - You've double damned yourself to scorn; - We warned you whilst yet on the brink - You stood. From your black name will shrink - The babe that is unborn.' - - - VII. - - All these Reviews the Devil made - Up in a parcel, which he had - Safely to Peter's house conveyed. - For carriage, tenpence Peter paid-- - Untied them--read them--went half mad. - - - VIII. - - 'What!' cried he, 'this is my reward - For nights of thought, and days of toil? - Do poets, but to be abhorred - By men of whom they never heard, - Consume their spirits' oil? - - - IX. - - 'What have I done to them?--and who - _Is_ Mrs. Foy? 'Tis very cruel - To speak of me and Betty so! - Adultery! God defend me! Oh! - I've half a mind to fight a duel. - - - X. - - 'Or,' cried he, a grave look collecting, - 'Is it my genius, like the moon, - Sets those who stand her face inspecting, - That face within their brain reflecting, - Like a crazed bell-chime, out of tune?' - - - XI. - - For Peter did not know the town, - But thought, as country readers do, - For half a guinea or a crown, - He bought oblivion or renown - From God's own voice[85] in a review. - - - XII. - - All Peter did on this occasion - Was writing some sad stuff in prose. - It is a dangerous invasion - When poets criticize; their station - Is to delight, not pose. - - - XIII. - - The Devil then sent to Leipsic fair - For Born's translation of Kant's book; - A world of words, tail foremost, where - Right--wrong--false--true--and foul--and fair - As in a lottery-wheel are shook. - - - XIV. - - Five thousand crammed octavo pages - Of German psychologics,--he - Who his _furor verborum_ assuages - Thereon, deserves just seven months' wages - More than will e'er be due to me. - - - XV. - - I looked on them nine several days, - And then I saw that they were bad; - A friend, too, spoke in their dispraise,-- - He never read them;--with amaze - I found Sir William Drummond had. - - - XVI. - - When the book came, the Devil sent - It to P. Verbovale[86], Esquire, - With a brief note of compliment, - By that night's Carlisle mail. It went, - And set his soul on fire. - - - XVII. - - Fire, which _ex luce praebens fumum_, - Made him beyond the bottom see - Of truth's clear well--when I and you, Ma'am, - Go, as we shall do, _subter humum_, - We may know more than he. - - - XVIII. - - Now Peter ran to seed in soul - Into a walking paradox; - For he was neither part nor whole, - Nor good, nor bad--nor knave nor fool; - --Among the woods and rocks. - - - XIX. - - Furious he rode, where late he ran, - Lashing and spurring his tame hobby; - Turned to a formal puritan,-- - A solemn and unsexual man,-- - He half believed _White Obi_. - - - XX. - - This steed in vision he would ride, - High trotting over nine-inch bridges, - With Flibbertigibbet, imp of pride, - Mocking and mowing by his side-- - A mad-brained goblin for a guide-- - Over corn-fields, gates, and hedges. - - - XXI. - - After these ghastly rides, he came - Home to his heart, and found from thence - Much stolen of its accustomed flame; - His thoughts grew weak, drowsy, and lame - Of their intelligence. - - - XXII. - - To Peter's view, all seemed one hue; - He was no Whig, he was no Tory; - No Deist and no Christian he;-- - He got so subtle, that to be - Nothing, was all his glory. - - - XXIII. - - One single point in his belief - From his organization sprung, - The heart-enrooted faith, the chief - Ear in his doctrines' blighted sheaf, - That 'Happiness is wrong': - - - XXIV. - - So thought Calvin and Dominic; - So think their fierce successors, who - Even now would neither stint nor stick - Our flesh from off our bones to pick, - If they might 'do their do.' - - - XXV. - - His morals thus were undermined:-- - The old Peter--the hard, old Potter-- - Was born anew within his mind; - He grew dull, harsh, sly, unrefined, - As when he tramped beside the Otter.[87] - - - XXVI. - - In the death hues of agony - Lambently flashing from a fish, - Now Peter felt amused to see - Shades like a rainbow's rise and flee, - Mixed with a certain hungry wish.[88] - - - XXVII. - - So in his Country's dying face - He looked--and, lovely as she lay, - Seeking in vain his last embrace, - Wailing her own abandoned case, - With hardened sneer he turned away: - - - XXVIII. - - And coolly to his own soul said;-- - 'Do you not think that we might make - A poem on her when she's dead:-- - Or, no--a thought is in my head-- - Her shroud for a new sheet I'll take: - - - XXIX. - - 'My wife wants one.--Let who will bury - This mangled corpse! And I and you, - My dearest Soul, will then make merry, - As the Prince Regent did with Sherry,--' - 'Ay--and at last desert me too.' - - - XXX. - - And so his Soul would not be gay, - But moaned within him; like a fawn - Moaning within a cave, it lay - Wounded and wasting, day by day, - Till all its life of life was gone. - - - XXXI. - - As troubled skies stain waters clear, - The storm in Peter's heart and mind - Now made his verses dark and queer: - They were the ghosts of what they were, - Shaking dim grave-clothes in the wind. - - - XXXII. - - For he now raved enormous folly, - Of Baptisms, Sunday-schools, and Graves, - 'Twould make George Colman melancholy - To have heard him, like a male Molly, - Chanting those stupid staves. - - - XXXIII. - - Yet the Reviews, who heaped abuse - On Peter while he wrote for freedom, - So soon as in his song they spy - The folly which soothes tyranny, - Praise him, for those who feed 'em. - - - XXXIV. - - 'He was a man, too great to scan;-- - A planet lost in truth's keen rays:-- - His virtue, awful and prodigious;-- - He was the most sublime, religious, - Pure-minded Poet of these days.' - - - XXXV. - - As soon as he read that, cried Peter, - 'Eureka! I have found the way - To make a better thing of metre - Than e'er was made by living creature - Up to this blessèd day.' - - - XXXVI. - - Then Peter wrote odes to the Devil;-- - In one of which he meekly said: - 'May Carnage and Slaughter, - Thy niece and thy daughter, - May Rapine and Famine, - Thy gorge ever cramming, - Glut thee with living and dead! - - - XXXVII. - - 'May Death and Damnation, - And Consternation, - Flit up from Hell with pure intent! - Slash them at Manchester, - Glasgow, Leeds, and Chester; - Drench all with blood from Avon to Trent. - - - XXXVIII. - - 'Let thy body-guard yeomen - Hew down babes and women, - And laugh with bold triumph till Heaven be rent! - When Moloch in Jewry - Munched children with fury, - It was thou, Devil, dining with pure intent.'[89] - - - PART THE SEVENTH. - - _Double Damnation._ - - - I. - - The Devil now knew his proper cue.-- - Soon as he read the ode, he drove - To his friend Lord MacMurderchouse's, - A man of interest in both houses, - And said:--'For money or for love, - - - II. - - 'Pray find some cure or sinecure; - To feed from the superfluous taxes - A friend of ours--a poet--fewer - Have fluttered tamer to the lure - Than he.' His lordship stands and racks his - - - III. - - Stupid brains, while one might count - As many beads as he had boroughs,-- - At length replies; from his mean front, - Like one who rubs out an account, - Smoothing away the unmeaning furrows: - - - IV. - - 'It happens fortunately, dear Sir, - I can. I hope I need require - No pledge from you, that he will stir - In our affairs;--like Oliver, - That he'll be worthy of his hire.' - - - V. - - These words exchanged, the news sent off - To Peter, home the Devil hied,-- - Took to his bed; he had no cough, - No doctor,--meat and drink enough,-- - Yet that same night he died. - - - VI. - - The Devil's corpse was leaded down; - His decent heirs enjoyed his pelf, - Mourning-coaches, many a one, - Followed his hearse along the town:-- - Where was the Devil himself? - - - VII. - - When Peter heard of his promotion, - His eyes grew like two stars for bliss: - There was a bow of sleek devotion - Engendering in his back; each motion - Seemed a Lord's shoe to kiss. - - - VIII. - - He hired a house, bought plate, and made - A genteel drive up to his door, - With sifted gravel neatly laid,-- - As if defying all who said, - Peter was ever poor. - - - IX. - - But a disease soon struck into - The very life and soul of Peter-- - He walked about--slept--had the hue - Of health upon his cheeks--and few - Dug better--none a heartier eater. - - - X. - - And yet a strange and horrid curse - Clung upon Peter, night and day; - Month after month the thing grew worse, - And deadlier than in this my verse - I can find strength to say. - - - XI. - - Peter was dull--he was at first - Dull--oh, so dull--so very dull! - Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed-- - Still with this dullness was he cursed-- - Dull--beyond all conception--dull. - - - XII. - - No one could read his books--no mortal, - But a few natural friends, would hear him; - The parson came not near his portal; - His state was like that of the immortal - Described by Swift--no man could bear him. - - - XIII. - - His sister, wife, and children yawned, - With a long, slow, and drear ennui, - All human patience far beyond; - Their hopes of Heaven each would have pawned, - Anywhere else to be. - - - XIV. - - But in his verse, and in his prose, - The essence of his dullness was - Concentred and compressed so close, - 'Twould have made Guatimozin doze - On his red gridiron of brass. - - - XV. - - A printer's boy, folding those pages, - Fell slumbrously upon one side; - Like those famed Seven who slept three ages, - To wakeful frenzy's vigil-rages, - As opiates, were the same applied. - - - XVI. - - Even the Reviewers who were hired - To do the work of his reviewing, - With adamantine nerves, grew tired;-- - Gaping and torpid they retired, - To dream of what they should be doing. - - - XVII. - - And worse and worse, the drowsy curse - Yawned in him, till it grew a pest-- - A wide contagious atmosphere, - Creeping like cold through all things near; - A power to infect and to infest. - - - XVIII. - - His servant-maids and dogs grew dull; - His kitten, late a sportive elf; - The woods and lakes so beautiful, - Of dim stupidity were full. - All grew dull as Peter's self. - - - XIX. - - The earth under his feet--the springs, - Which lived within it a quick life, - The air, the winds of many wings, - That fan it with new murmurings, - Were dead to their harmonious strife. - - - XX. - - The birds and beasts within the wood, - The insects, and each creeping thing, - Were now a silent multitude; - Love's work was left unwrought--no brood - Near Peter's house took wing. - - - XXI. - - And every neighbouring cottager - Stupidly yawned upon the other: - No jackass brayed; no little cur - Cocked up his ears;--no man would stir - To save a dying mother. - - - XXII. - - Yet all from that charmed district went - But some half-idiot and half-knave, - Who rather than pay any rent, - Would live with marvellous content, - Over his father's grave. - - - XXIII. - - No bailiff dared within that space, - For fear of the dull charm, to enter; - A man would bear upon his face, - For fifteen months in any case, - The yawn of such a venture. - - - XXIV. - - Seven miles above--below--around-- - This pest of dullness holds its sway; - A ghastly life without a sound; - To Peter's soul the spell is bound-- - How should it ever pass away? - - - - - WILLIAM MAGINN. - - THE RIME OF THE AUNCIENT WAGGONERE. - - (COLERIDGE) - - - PART FIRST. - -[Sidenote: An auncient waggonere stoppoth ane tailore going to a -wedding, whereat he hath been appointed to be best manne, and to take a -hand in the casting of the slippere.] - - It is an auncient Waggonere, - And hee stoppeth one of nine:-- - 'Now wherefore dost thou grip me soe - With that horny fist of thine? - -[Sidenote: The waggonere in mood for chat, and admits of no excuse.] - - 'The bridegroom's doors are opened wide, - And thither I must walke; - Soe, by youre leave, I must be gone, - I have noe time for talke!' - -[Sidenote: The tailore seized with the ague.] - - Hee holds him with his horny fist-- - 'There was a wain,' quothe hee, - 'Hold offe, thou raggamouffine tykke.' - Eftsoones his fist dropped hee. - -[Sidenote: He listeneth like a three years and a half child.] - - Hee satte him downe upon a stone, - With ruefulle looks of feare; - And thus began this tippsye manne, - The red-nosed waggonere. - -[Sidenote: The appetite of the tailore whetted by the smell of cabbage.] - - 'The waine is fulle, the horses pulle, - Merrilye did we trotte - Alonge the bridge, alonge the road, - A jolly crewe, I wotte;'-- - And here the tailore smotte his breaste, - He smelte the cabbage potte! - -[Sidenote: The waggonere in talking anent Boreas, maketh bad -orthographye.] - - 'The night was darke, like Noe's arke, - Oure waggone moved alonge; - The hail pour'd faste, loude roared the blaste, - Yet stille we moved alonge; - And sung in chorus, "Cease, loud Borus," - A very charminge songe. - -[Sidenote: Their mirth interrupted.] - - '"Bravoe, bravissimoe," I cried, - The sounde was quite elatinge; - But, in a trice, upon the ice, - We hearde the horses skaitinge. - -[Sidenote: And the passengers exercise themselves in the pleasant art -of swimminge, as doeth also their prog, to witte, great store of colde -roasted beef; item, ane beef-stake pye: item, viii choppines of -usquebaugh.] - - 'The ice was here, the ice was there, - It was a dismale mattere, - To see the cargoe, one by one, - Flounderinge in the wattere! - - 'With rout and roare, we reached the shore, - And never a soul did sinke; - But in the rivere, gone for evere, - Swum our meate and drinke. - -[Sidenote: The waggonere hailethe ane goose with ane novel salutatione.] - - 'At lengthe we spied a goode grey goose, - Thorough the snow it came; - And with the butte ende of my whippe, - I hailed it in Goddhis name. - - 'It staggered as it had been drunke, - So dexterous was it hitte; - Of brokene boughs we made a fire, - Thomme Loncheone roasted itte.'-- - -[Sidenote: The tailore impatient to be gone, but is forcibly persuaded -to remain.] - - 'Be done, thou tipsye waggonere, - To the feaste I must awaye.'-- - The waggonere seized him bye the coatte, - And forced him there to staye, - Begginge, in gentlemanlie style, - Butte halfe ane hour's delaye. - - - PART SECOND. - -[Sidenote: The waggonere's bowels yearn towards the sunne.] - - 'The crimson sunne was rising o'ere - The verge of the horizon; - Upon my worde, as faire a sunne - As ever I clapped eyes onne. - -[Sidenote: The passengers throwe the blame of the goose massacre on the -innocent waggonere.] - - '"'Twill bee ane comfortable thinge," - The mutinous crewe 'gan crye; - "'Twill be ane comfortable thinge, - Within the jaile to lye; - Ah! execrable wretche," saide they, - "Thatte caused the goose to die!" - -[Sidenote: The sunne sufferes ane artificial eclipse, and horror -follows, the same not being mentioned in the Belfaste Almanacke.] - - 'The day was drawing near itte's close, - The sunne was well nighe settinge; - When lo! it seemed as iffe his face - Was veiled with fringe-warke-nettinge. - -[Sidenote: Various hypotheses on the subject, frome which the -passengeres draw wronge conclusions.] - - 'Somme saide itte was ane apple tree, - Laden with goodlye fruite, - Somme swore itte was ane foreigne birde, - Some said it was ane brute; - Alas! it was ane bumbailiffe - Riding in pursuite! - -[Sidenote: Ane lovelye sound ariseth; ittes effects described.] - - A hue and crye sterte uppe behind, - Whilke smote our ears like thunder. - Within the waggone there was drede, - Astonishmente and wonder. - -[Sidenote: The passengers throw somersets.] - - 'One after one, the rascalls rann, - And from the carre did jump; - One after one, one after one, - They felle with heavy thump. - - 'Six miles ane houre theye offe did scoure, - Like shippes on ane stormye ocean, - Theire garments flappinge in the winde, - With ane shorte uneasy motion. - -[Sidenote: The waggonere complimenteth the bumbailiffe with ane -Mendoza.] - - 'Their bodies with their legs did flye, - Theye fled with feare and glyffe; - Why star'st thoue soe?--With one goode blow, - I felled the bumbailiffe!' - - - PART THIRD. - -[Sidenote: The tailore meeteth Corporal Feare.] - - 'I feare thee, auncient waggonere, - I feare thy hornye fiste, - For itte is stained with goose's gore, - And bailiffe's blood, I wist. - - 'I fear to gette ane fisticuffe - From thy leathern knuckles brown'; - With that the tailore strove to ryse-- - The waggonere thrusts him down. - - 'Thou craven, if thou mov'st a limbe, - I'll give thee cause for feare;' - And thus went on that tipsye man, - The red-billed waggonere. - -[Sidenote: The bailiffe complaineth of considerable derangement of his -animal economye.] - - The bumbailiffe so beautiful - Declared itte was no joke, - For, to his knowledge, both his legs - And fifteen ribbes were broke. - -[Sidenote: Policemen with their lanthornes pursue the waggonere.] - - 'The lighte was gone, the nighte came on, - Ane hundrede lantherns' sheen - Glimmerred upon the kinge's highwaye-- - Ane lovelye sighte, I ween. - - '"Is it he," quoth one, "is this the manne? - I'll laye the rascalle stiffe;"-- - With cruel stroke the beak he broke - Of the harmless bumbailiffe. - -[Sidenote: Steppeth twenty feete in imitatione of the Admirable -Crichtovn.] - - 'The threatening of the saucye rogue - No more I coulde abide; - Advancing forthe my goode right legge - Three paces and a stride, - I sent my lefte foot dexterously - Seven inches thro' his side. - -[Sidenote: Complaineth of foul play and falleth down in ane trance.] - - 'Up came the seconde from the vanne; - We had scarcely fought a round, - When someone smote me from behinde, - And I fell down in a swound: - -[Sidenote: One acteth the parte of Job's comfortere.] - - 'And when my head began to clear, - I heard the yemering crew-- - Quoth one, "this man hath penance done, - And penance more shall do."' - - - PART FOURTH. - -[Sidenote: The waggonere maketh ane shrewd observation.] - - 'O Freedom is a glorious thing!-- - And, tailore, by the by, - I'd rather in a halter swing, - Than in a dungeon lie. - -[Sidenote: The waggonere tickleth the spleen of the jailer, who daunces -ane Fandango.] - - 'The jailere came to bring me foode, - Forget it will I never, - How he turned up the white o' his eye - When I stuck him in the liver. - -[Sidenote: Rejoicethe in the fragrance of the aire.] - - 'His threade of life was snapt: once more - I reached the open streete; - The people sung out "Gardyloo" - As I ran down the streete. - Methought the blessed air of heaven - Never smelte so sweete. - -[Sidenote: Dreadeth Shoan Dhu, the corporal of the guarde.] - - 'Once more upon the broad highwaye, - I walked with feare and drede; - And every fifteen steppes I tooke - I turned about my heade, - For feare the corporal of the guarde - Might close behind me trede! - - 'Behold, upon the western wave - Setteth the broad bright sunne; - So I must onward, as I have - Full fifteen miles to runne;-- - -[Sidenote: The waggonere taketh leave of the tailore, to whome ane -small accidente happeneth. Whereupon followeth the morale very proper -to be had in minde by all members of the Dilettanti Society when they -come over the bridge at these houres. Wherefore let them take heed and -not lay blame where it lyeth nott.] - - - 'And should the bailiffes hither come - To aske whilke way I've gone, - Tell them I took the othere road,' - Said hee, and trotted onne. - - The tailore rushed into the roome, - O'erturning three or foure; - Fractured his skulle against the walle, - And worde spake never more!! - - - MORALE. - - Such is the fate of foolish men, - The danger all may see, - Of those, who list to waggonere, - And keepe bad companye. - - - TO A BOTTLE OF OLD PORT. - - (MOORE) - - When he who adores thee has left but the dregs - Of such famous old stingo behind, - Oh! say will he bluster and weep? No, 'ifegs! - He'll seek for some more of the kind. - He'll laugh and though doctors perhaps may condemn-- - Thy tide shall efface the decree, - For many can witness, though subject to phlegm, - He has always been faithful to thee! - - With thee were the dreams of his earliest love, - Every rap in his pocket was thine, - And his very last prayer, every morning, by Jove! - Was to finish the evening in wine. - How blest are the tipplers whose heads can outlive - The effects of four bottles of thee, - But the next dearest blessing that heaven can give, - Is to stagger home muzzy from three! - - - THE LAST LAMP OF THE ALLEY. - - (MOORE) - - The last lamp of the alley - Is burning alone! - All its brilliant companions - Are shivered and gone. - No lamp of her kindred, - No burner is nigh, - To rival her glimmer, - Or light to supply. - - I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! - To vanish in smoke; - As the bright ones are shattered, - Thou too shalt be broke: - Thus kindly I scatter - Thy globe o'er the street; - Where the watch in his rambles - Thy fragments shall meet. - - Then home will I stagger, - As well as I may; - By the light of my nose sure - I'll find out the way. - When thy blaze is extinguished, - Thy brilliancy gone, - Oh! my beak shall illumine - The alley alone. - - - THE GALIONGEE. - - A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. - - (BYRON) - - The Pacha sat in his divan, - With silver-sheathed ataghan; - And called to him a Galiongee, - Come lately from the Euxine Sea - To Stamboul; chains were on his feet, - And fetters on his hands were seen, - Because he was a Nazarene: - When, duly making reverence meet, - With haughty glance on that divan, - And curling lip, he thus began: - - 'By broad Phingari's silver light, - When sailing at the noon of night, - Bismillah! whom did we descry - But dark corsairs, who, bent on spoil, - Athwart the deep sea ever toil! - We knew their blood-red flags on high: - The Capitan he called, belike, - With gesture proud, to bid us strike, - And told his Sonbachis to spare - Of not one scalp a single hair, - Though garbs of green showed Emirs there! - It boots not, Pacha, to relate - What souls were sent to Eblis throne, - How Azrael's arrows scattered fate, - How wild, wet, wearied, and alone, - When all my crew were drench'd in blood, - Or floated lifeless on the flood, - I fought unawed, nor e'er thought I - To shout "Amaun!" the craven's cry-- - I took my handkerchief to wipe - My burning brow, and then I took, - With placid hand, my long chibouque, - That is to say, my Turkish pipe, - And having clapp'd it in my cheek - Disdaining e'er a word to speak, - I shouted to the pirate, "Now, - You've fairly beat me, I allow,"' &c. - - - - - JOHN KEATS. - - - STANZAS ON CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN. - - (SPENSER) - - He is to weet a melancholy carle: - Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair, - As hath the seeded thistle when in parle - It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair - Its light balloons into the summer air; - Therto his beard had not begun to bloom, - No brush had touch'd his chin, or razor sheer; - No care had touch'd his cheek with mortal doom, - But new he was and bright as scarf from Persian loom. - - Ne cared he for wine, or half and half, - Ne cared he for fish or flesh or fowl, - And sauces held he worthless as the chaff; - He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl; - Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl; - Ne with sly Lemans in the scorner's chair; - But after water-brooks this Pilgrim's soul - Panted, and all his food was woodland air - Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare. - - The slang of cities in no wise he knew, - _Tipping the wink_ to him was heathen Greek; - He sipp'd no olden Tom or ruin blue, - Or nantz or cherry-brandy drank full meek - By many a damsel hoarse and rouge of cheek; - Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat, - Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek - For curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat, - Who as they walk abroad make tinkling with their feet. - - - ON OXFORD. - - (WORDSWORTH) - - The Gothic looks solemn, - The plain Doric column - Supports an old Bishop and Crosier; - The mouldering arch, - Shaded o'er by a larch - Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier. - - Vicè--that is, by turns,-- - O'er pale faces mourns - The black tassell'd trencher and common hat; - The Chantry boy sings, - The Steeple-bell rings, - And as for the Chancellor--_dominat_. - - There are plenty of trees, - And plenty of ease, - And plenty of fat deer for Parsons; - And when it is venison, - Short is the benison,-- - Then each on a leg or thigh fastens. - - - - - HARTLEY COLERIDGE. - - - HE LIVED AMIDST TH' UNTRODDEN WAYS. - - (WORDSWORTH) - - He lived amidst th' untrodden ways - To Rydal Lake that lead; - A bard whom there were none to praise, - And very few to read. - - Behind a cloud his mystic sense, - Deep hidden, who can spy? - Bright as the night when not a star - Is shining in the sky. - - Unread his works--his 'Milk White Doe' - With dust is dark and dim; - It's still in Longman's shop, and oh! - The difference to him! - - - - - JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. - - - PETER BELL: A LYRICAL BALLAD. - - (WORDSWORTH) - - I do affirm that I am the REAL SIMON PURE.--_Bold Stroke for - a Wife._ - - I. - - It is the thirty-first of March, - A gusty evening--half-past seven; - The moon is shining o'er the larch, - A simple shape--a cock'd-up arch, - Rising bigger than a star, - Though the stars are thick in Heaven. - - - II. - - Gentle moon! how canst thou shine - Over graves and over trees, - With as innocent a look - As my own grey eyeball sees, - When I gaze upon a brook? - - - III. - - Od's me! how the moon doth shine: - It doth make a pretty glitter, - Playing in the waterfall; - As when Lucy Gray doth litter - Her baby-house with bugles small. - - - IV. - - Beneath the ever blessed moon - An old man o'er an old grave stares, - You never look'd upon his fellow; - His brow is covered with grey hairs, - As though they were an umbrella. - - - V. - - He hath a noticeable look,[90] - This old man hath--this grey old man; - He gazes at the graves, and seems, - With over waiting, over wan, - Like Susan Harvey's[91] pan of creams. - - - VI. - - 'Tis Peter Bell--'t is Peter Bell, - Who never stirreth in the day; - His hand is wither'd--he is old! - On Sundays he is us'd to pray, - In winter he is very cold.[92] - - - VII. - - I've seen him in the month of August, - At the wheatfield, hour by hour, - Picking ear,--by ear,--by ear,-- - Through wind,--and rain,--and sun,--and shower, - From year,--to year,--to year,--to year. - - - VIII. - - You never saw a wiser man, - He knows his Numeration Table; - He counts the sheep of Harry Gill,[93] - Every night that he is able, - When the sheep are on the hill. - - - IX. - - Betty Foy--_My_ Betty Foy,-- - Is the aunt of Peter Bell; - And credit me, as I would have you, - Simon Lee was once his nephew, - And his niece is Alice Fell.[94] - - - X. - - He is rurally related; - Peter Bell hath country cousins, - (He had once a worthy mother) - Bells and Peters by the dozens, - But Peter Bell he hath no brother. - - - XI. - - Not a brother owneth he, - Peter Bell he hath no brother, - His mother had no other son, - No other son e'er call'd her mother; - Peter Bell hath brother none. - - - XII. - - Hark! the churchyard brook is singing - Its evening song amid the leaves; - And the peering moon doth look - Sweetly on that singing brook, - Round[95] and sad as though it grieves. - - - XIII. - - Peter Bell doth lift his hand, - That thin hand, which in the light - Looketh like to oiled paper; - Paper oiled,--oily bright,-- - And held up to a waxen taper. - - - XIV. - - The hand of Peter Bell is busy, - Under the pent-house of his hairs; - His eye is like a solemn sermon; - The little flea severely fares, - 'Tis a sad day for the vermin. - - - XV. - - He is thinking of the Bible-- - Peter Bell is old and blest; - He doth pray and scratch away, - He doth scratch, and bitten, pray - To _flee_ away, and be at rest. - - - XVI. - - At home his foster child is cradled-- - Four brown bugs are feeding there[96]; - Catch as many, sister Ann, - Catch as many as you can[97] - And yet the little insects spare. - - - XVII. - - Why should blessed insects die? - The flea doth skip o'er Betty Foy, - Like a little living thing: - Though it hath not fin or wing, - Hath it not a moral joy? - - - XVIII. - - I the poet of the mountain, - Of the waterfall and fell, - I the mighty mental medlar, - I the lonely lyric pedlar, - I the Jove of Alice Fell, - - - XIX. - - I the Recluse--a gentle man,[98] - A gentle man--a simple creature, - Who would not hurt--God shield the thing,-- - The merest, meanest May-bug's wing, - Am tender in my tender nature. - - - XX. - - I do doat on my dear wife, - On the linnet, on the worm, - I can see sweet written salads - Growing in the Lyric Ballads, - And always find them green and firm. - - - XXI. - - Peter Bell is laughing now, - Like a dead man making faces; - Never saw I smile so old, - On face so wrinkled and so cold, - Since the Idiot Boy's grimaces. - - - XXII. - - He is thinking of the moors, - Where I saw him in his breeches; - Bagged though they were, a pair - Fit for a grey old man to wear; - Saw him poking,--gathering leeches.[99] - - - XXIII. - - And gather'd leeches are to him, - To Peter Bell, like gather'd flowers; - They do yield him such delight, - As roses poach'd from porch at night, - Or pluck'd from oratoric[100] bowers. - - - XXIV. - - How that busy smile doth hurry - O'er the cheek of Peter Bell; - He is surely in a flurry, - Hurry skurry--hurry skurry, - Such delight I may not tell. - - - XXV. - - His stick is made of wilding wood, - His hat was formerly of felt, - His duffel cloak of wool is made, - His stockings are from stock in trade, - His belly's belted with a belt. - - - XXVI. - - His father was a bellman once, - His mother was a beldame old; - They kept a shop at Keswick Town, - Close by the Bell, (beyond the Crown.) - And pins and peppermint they sold. - - - XXVII. - - He is stooping now about - O'er the gravestones one and two; - The clock is now a striking eight, - Four more hours and 't will be late. - And Peter Bell hath much to do. - - - XXVIII. - - O'er the gravestones three and four. - Peter stoopeth old and wise; - He counteth with a wizard glee - The graves of all his family, - While the hooting owlet cries. - - - XXIX. - - Peter Bell, he readeth ably, - All his letters he can tell; - Roman W,--Roman S, - In a minute he can guess, - Without the aid of Dr. Bell. - - - XXX. - - Peter keeps a gentle pony, - But the pony is not here; - Susan who is very tall,[101] - And very sick and sad withal, - Rides it slowly far and near. - - - XXXI. - - Hark! the voice of Peter Bell, - And the belfry bell is knelling; - It soundeth drowsily and dead, - As though a corse th' 'Excursion' read; - Or Martha Ray her tale was telling. - - - XXXII. - - Do listen unto Peter Bell, - While your eyes with tears do glisten: - Silence! his old eyes do read - All, on which the boys do tread - When holidays do come--Do listen! - - - XXXIII. - - The ancient Marinere lieth here, - Never to rise, although he pray'd,-- - But all men, all, must have their fallings; - And, like the Fear of Mr. Collins,[102] - He died 'of sounds himself had made.' - - - XXXIV. - - Dead mad mother,--Martha Ray, - Old Matthew too, and Betty Foy, - Lack-a-daisy! here's a rout full; - Simon Lee whose age was doubtful,[103] - Simon even the Fates destroy. - - - XXXV. - - Harry Gill is gone to rest, - Goody Blake is food for maggot; - They lie sweetly side by side, - Beautiful as when they died; - Never more shall she pick faggot. - - - XXXVI. - - Still he reads, and still the moon - On the churchyard's mounds doth shine; - The brook is still demurely singing, - Again the belfry bell is ringing, - 'Tis nine o'clock, six, seven, eight, nine! - - - XXXVII. - - Patient Peter pores and proses - On, from simple grave to grave; - Here marks the children snatch'd to heaven, - None left to blunder 'we are seven';-- - Even Andrew Jones[104] no power could save. - - - XXXVIII. - - What a Sexton's work[105] is here, - Lord! the Idiot Boy is gone; - And Barbara Lewthwaite's fate the same, - And cold as mutton is her lamb; - And Alice Fell is bone by bone. - - - XXXIX. - - And tears are thick with Peter Bell, - Yet still he sees one blessed tomb; - Tow'rds it he creeps with spectacles, - And bending on his leather knees, - He reads the _Lake_iest Poet's doom. - - - XL. - - The letters printed are by fate, - The death they say was suicide; - He reads--'Here lieth W. W. - Who never more will trouble you, trouble you': - The old man smokes who 'tis that died. - - - XLI. - - Go home, go home--old Man, go home; - Peter, lay thee down at night, - Thou art happy, Peter Bell, - Say thy prayers for Alice Fell, - Thou hast seen a blessed sight. - - - XLII. - - He quits that moonlight yard of skulls, - And still he feels right glad, and smiles - With moral joy at that old tomb; - Peter's cheek recalls its bloom, - And as he creepeth by the tiles, - He mutters ever--'W. W. - Never more will trouble you, trouble you.' - - _Here endeth the ballad of Peter Bell._ - - - - - ROBERT GILFILLAN. - - - BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER. - - (SCOTT) - - Read, read, _Woodstock_ and _Waverley_, - Turn every page and read forward in order; - Read, read, every tale cleverly, - All the old novels are over the border. - Many a book lies dead, - Dusty and never read, - Many a chiel wants a thread to his story; - While Walter, that king o' men, - Just with his single pen, - Like a giant, well _grogged_, marches on in his glory! - - Come from your tales full of murders amazing, - Come from romaunts gone to bed long ago; - Come from the scribblers whom pye-men are praising, - Come to _Redgauntlet_ and brave _Ivanhoe_! - Scott's fame is sounding, - Readers abounding, - May laurels long circle his locks thin and hoary! - Scotland shall many a day - Speak of her bard, and say, - He lived for his country, and wrote for her glory! - - - - - THOMAS HOOD. - - - THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. - - (SPENSER) - - - I. - - Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to think - How Learning doth in rugged states abide, - And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink, - In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied; - Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride, - Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen, - But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide, - In midst of foggy moors and mosses green, - In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen! - - - II. - - This College looketh South and West alsoe, - Because it hath a cast in windows twain; - Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blow - Thorough transparent holes in every pane, - Which Dan, with many paines, makes whole again - With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach - To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain - Stormeth, he puts, 'once more unto the breach,' - Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each. - - - III. - - And in the midst a little door there is, - Whereon a board that doth congratulate - With painted letters, red as blood I wis, - Thus written, - 'CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE.' - And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate, - Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak, - And moans of infants that bemoan their fate, - In midst of sounds of Latin, French, and Greek, - Which, all i' the Irish tongue, he teacheth them to speak. - - - IV. - - For some are meant to right illegal wrongs, - And some for Doctors of Divinitie, - Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues, - And so win academical degree; - But some are bred for service of the sea, - Howbeit, their store of learning is but small. - For mickle waste he counteth it would be - To stock a head with bookish wares at all, - Only to be knocked off by ruthless cannon ball. - - - V. - - Six babes he sways,--some little and some big, - Divided into classes six;--alsoe, - He keeps a parlour boarder of a pig, - That in the College fareth to and fro, - And picketh up the urchins' crumbs below,-- - And eke the learned rudiments they scan, - And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know,-- - Hereafter to be shown in caravan, - And raise the wonderment of many a learned man. - - - VI. - - Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls, - Whereof, above his head, some two or three - Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva's owls, - But on the branches of no living tree, - And overlook the learned family; - While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch, - Drops feather on the nose of Dominie, - Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research - In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge--now a birch. - - - VII. - - No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue, - Such as would magisterial hams imbed, - But sitteth lowly on a beechen log, - Secure in high authority and dread: - Large, as a dome for learning, seems his head, - And like Apollo's, all beset with rays, - Because his locks are so unkempt and red, - And stand abroad in many several ways:-- - No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize. - - - VIII. - - And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows - O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue, - That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows - A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue; - His nose,--it is a coral to the view; - Well nourished with Pierian Potheen,-- - For much he loves his native mountain dew;-- - But to depict the dye would lack, I ween, - A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green. - - - IX. - - As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short - As Spencer had, ere he composed his Tales; - But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught, - So that the wind his airy breast assails; - Below, he wears the nether garb of males, - Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;-- - Thence further down the native red prevails, - Of his own naked fleecy hosiery:-- - Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pee. - - - X. - - Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap - His function in a magisterial gown, - That shows more countries in it than a map,-- - Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown, - Besides some blots, standing for country-town; - And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide; - But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown, - He turns the garment of the other side, - Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied! - - - XI. - - And soe he sits, amidst the little pack, - That look for shady or for sunny noon, - Within his visage, like an almanack,-- - His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon: - But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon, - With horrid chill each little heart unwarms, - Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon, - And with forebodings of near wrath and storms - They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms. - - - XII. - - Ah! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat - 'Corduroy Colloquy,'--or 'Ki, Kæ, Kod,'-- - Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat - More sodden, tho' already made of sod, - For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,-- - Severe by rule, and not by nature mild, - He never spoils the child and spares the rod, - But spoils the rod and never spares the child, - And soe with holy rule deems he is reconcil'd. - - - XIII. - - But, surely, the just sky will never wink - At men who take delight in childish throe, - And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink - Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe; - Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know, - By useless birches, that forlorn recess, - Which is no holiday, in Pit below, - Will hell not seem designed for their distress,-- - A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse? - - - XIV. - - Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use - Of needful discipline, in due degree. - Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce, - Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree. - This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be, - Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands, - And Learning's help be used for infamie, - By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands, - In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands. - - - XV. - - But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarm - The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam, - All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm, - And cackling chorus with the human scream; - Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam, - In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin, - Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem, - That falsely lets the fierce besieger in, - Nor seeks the pedagogue by other course to win. - - - XVI. - - No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;-- - Alas! his parent dear is far aloof, - And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies, - Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof; - Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof, - Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle, - Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy-woof, - Dreaming he sees his home,--his Phelim smile; - Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while! - - - XVII. - - Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time, - When first the scholar lists in learning's train, - And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb, - Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain, - From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane, - Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell, - For this the while one stripling's sluices drain - Another weepeth over chilblains fell, - Always upon the heel, yet never to be well! - - - XVIII. - - Anon a third, for his delicious root, - Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit, - So soon is human violence afoot, - So hardly is the harmless biter bit! - Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit - And mouthing face, derides the small one's moan, - Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit, - Alack,--mischance comes seldomtimes alone, - But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one. - - - XIX. - - For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub, - Smites his scald head, that is already sore,-- - Superfluous wound,--such is Misfortune's rub! - Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar, - And sheds salt tears twice faster than before, - That still, with backward fist he strives to dry; - Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er, - His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby, - Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky. - - - XX. - - So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace, - And with his natural untender knack, - By new distress, bids former grievance cease, - Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback, - That sets the mournful visage all awrack; - Yet soon the childish countenance will shine - Even as thorough storms the soonest slack, - For grief and beef in adverse ways incline, - This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brine. - - - XXI. - - Now all is hushed, and, with a look profound, - The Dominie lays ope the learned page - (So be it called); although he doth expound - Without a book, both Greek and Latin sage; - Now telleth he of Rome's rude infant age, - How Romulus was bred in savage wood, - By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolfish rage; - And laid foundation-stone of walls of mud, - But watered it, alas! with warm fraternal blood. - - - XXII. - - Anon, he turns to that Homeric war, - How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town; - And stout Achilles, at his jaunting-car, - Dragged mighty Hector with a bloody crown: - And eke the bard, that sung of their renown, - In garb of Greece most beggar-like and torn, - He paints, with collie, wand'ring up and down: - Because, at once, in seven cities born; - And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn. - - - XXIII. - - Anon, through old Mythology he goes, - Of gods defunct, and all their pedigrees, - But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows - How Plato wise, and clear-ey'd Socrates, - Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes; - But thro' the clouds of the Olympic cope - Beheld St. Peter, with his holy keys, - And own'd their love was naught, and bow'd to Pope, - Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope. - - - XXIV. - - From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside, - To new philosophies, that still are green, - And shows what rail-roads have been track'd to guide - The wheels of great political machine; - If English corn should grow abroad, I ween, - And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet; - How many pigs be born to each spalpeen; - And, ah! how man shall thrive beyond his meat,-- - With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat! - - - XXV. - - Here, he makes end; and all the fry of youth, - That stood around with serious look intense, - Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth, - Which they had opened to his eloquence, - As if their hearing were a threefold sense; - But now the current of his words is done, - And whether any fruits shall spring from thence, - In future time, with any mother's son, - It is a thing, God wot! that can be told by none. - - - XXVI. - - Now by the creeping shadows of the noon, - The hour is come to lay aside their lore; - The cheerful pedagogue perceives it soon, - And cries, 'Begone!' unto the imps,--and four - Snatch their two hats, and struggle for the door, - Like ardent spirits vented from a cask, - All blythe and boisterous,--but leave two more, - With Reading made Uneasy for a task, - To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask. - - - XXVII. - - Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant sod, - With tender moss so sleekly overgrown, - That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod, - So soothly kind is Erin to her own! - And one, at Hare and Hound, plays all alone,-- - For Phelim's gone to tend his step-dame's cow; - Ah! Phelim's step-dame is a canker'd crone! - Whilst other twain play at an Irish row, - And, with shillelagh small, break one another's brow! - - - XXVIII. - - But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift, - Now changeth ferula for rural hoe; - But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift - His college gown, because of solar glow, - And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow: - Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean, - Or trains the young potatoes all a-row, - Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green, - With that crisp curly herb, call'd Kale in Aberdeen. - - - XXIX. - - And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours, - Linked each to each by labour, like a bee; - Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs;-- - Would there were many more such wights as he, - To sway each capital academie - Of Cam and Isis, for, alack! at each - There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie, - That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach, - But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'ry speech! - - - HUGGINS AND DUGGINS. - - A PASTORAL AFTER POPE. - - Two swains or clowns--but call them swains-- - While keeping flocks on Salisbury Plains, - For all that tend on sheep as drovers, - Are turned to songsters, or to lovers, - Each of the lass he call'd his dear - Began to carol loud and clear. - First Huggins sang, and Duggins then, - In the way of ancient shepherd men; - Who thus alternate hitch'd in song, - 'All things by turns, and nothing long.' - - _Huggins._ - - Of all the girls about our place, - There's one beats all in form and face; - Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead - You'll only find one Peggy Plumstead. - - _Duggins._ - - To groves and streams I tell my flame; - I make the cliffs repeat her name: - When I'm inspired by gills and noggins, - The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins! - - _Huggins._ - - When I am walking in the grove, - I think of Peggy as I rove. - I'd carve her name on every tree, - But I don't know my A, B, C. - - _Duggins._ - - Whether I walk in hill or valley, - I think of nothing else but Sally. - I'd sing her praise, but I can sing - No song, except 'God save the King.' - - _Huggins._ - - My Peggy does all nymphs excel, - And all confess she bears the bell,-- - Where'er she goes swains flock together, - Like sheep that follow the bellwether. - - _Duggins._ - - Sally is tall and not too straight,-- - Those very poplar shapes I hate; - But something twisted like an S,-- - A crook becomes a shepherdess. - - _Huggins._ - - When Peggy's dog her arms emprison, - I often wish my lot was hisn; - How often I should stand and turn, - To get a pat from hands like hern. - - _Duggins._ - - I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be, - To stand about and stare at she; - But when I look, she turns and shies, - And won't bear none but their sheep's-eyes! - - _Huggins._ - - Love goes with Peggy where she goes,-- - Beneath her smile the garden grows; - Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts, - 'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts! - - _Duggins._ - - Where Sally goes it's always Spring, - Her presence brightens everything; - The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is, - It makes brass farthings look like guineas. - - _Huggins._ - - For Peggy I can have no joy, - She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy, - And keeps me, by her wayward tricks, - As comfortless as sheep with ticks. - - _Duggins._ - - Sally is ripe as June or May, - And yet as cold as Christmas day; - For when she's asked to change her lot, - Lamb's wool,--but Sally, she wool not. - - _Huggins._ - - Only with Peggy and with health, - I'd never wish for state or wealth; - Talking of having health and more pence, - I'd drink her health if I had four pence. - - _Duggins._ - - Oh, how that day would seem to shine, - If Sally's banns were read with mine; - She cries, when such a wish I carry, - 'Marry come up!' but will not marry. - - - SEA SONG. - - (DIBDIN) - - Pure water it plays a good part in - The swabbing the decks and all that-- - And it finds its own level for sartin-- - For it sartinly drinks very flat:-- - For my part a drop of the creatur - I never could think was a fault, - For if Tars should swig water by natur, - The sea would have never been salt!-- - Then off with it into a jorum - And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet, - For if I've any sense of decorum, - It never was meant to be neat!-- - - One day when I was but half sober,-- - Half measures I always disdain-- - I walk'd into a shop that sold Soda, - And ax'd for some Water Champagne:-- - Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys, - Till I'd shipped my six bottles or more, - And blow off my last limb but it's true, boys, - Why, I warn't half so drunk as afore!-- - Then off with it into a jorum, - And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet, - For if I've any sense of decorum, - It never was meant to be neat. - - - 'WE MET--'TWAS IN A CROWD.' - - (T. H. BAYLY) - - We met--'twas in a mob--and I thought he had done me-- - I felt--I could not feel--for no watch was upon me; - He ran--the night was cold--and his pace was unalter'd, - I too longed much to pelt--but my small-boned legs falter'd. - I wore my bran new boots--and unrivall'd their brightness; - They fit me to a hair--how I hated their tightness! - I call'd, but no one came, and my stride had a tether, - Oh _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather! - - And once again we met--and an old pal was near him, - He swore, a something low--but 'twas no use to fear him; - I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only, - And stept--as he deserv'd--to cells wretched and lonely: - And there he will be tried--but I shall ne'er receive her, - The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver; - The world may think me gay,--heart and feet ache together, - Oh _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather! - - - THOSE EVENING BELLS. - - (MOORE) - - Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells, - How many a tale their music tells, - Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime, - And letters only just in time!-- - - The Muffin-boy has pass'd away, - The Postman gone--and I must pay, - For down below Deaf Mary dwells, - And does not hear those Evening Bells. - - And so 'twill be when she is gone, - That tuneful peal will still ring on, - And other maids with timely yells - Forget to stay those Evening Bells. - - - THE WATER PERI'S SONG. - - (MOORE) - - Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter, - The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave; - The _Mussul_-man coming to fish in this water - Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave. - - This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, - This greyish _bath_ cloak is her funeral pall; - And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hear - Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all! - - Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan, - My mother's own daughter--the last of her race-- - She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin, - And sleeps in the water that washes her face. - - - - - WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. - - - CABBAGES. - - (LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON) - - Cabbages! bright green cabbages! - April's loveliest gifts, I guess. - There is not a plant in the garden laid, - Raised by the dung, dug by the spade, - None by the gardener watered, I ween, - So sweet as the cabbage, the cabbage green. - - I do remember how sweet a smell - Came with the cabbage I loved so well, - Served up with the beef that beautiful looked, - The beef that the dark-eyed Ellen cooked. - I have seen beef served with radish of horse, - I have seen beef served with lettuce of Cos, - But it is far nicer, far nicer, I guess, - As bubble and squeak, beef and cabbages. - - And when the dinner-bell sounds for me-- - I care not how soon that time may be-- - Carrots shall never be served on my cloth; - They are far too sweet for a boy of my broth; - But let me have there a mighty mess - Of smoking hot beef and cabbages. - - - LARRY O'TOOLE. - - (LEVER) - - You've all heard of Larry O'Toole, - Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole; - He had but one eye, - To ogle ye by-- - Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l! - A fool - He made of de girls, dis O'Toole. - - 'Twas he was the boy didn't fail, - That tuck down pataties and mail; - He never would shrink - From any sthrong dthrink, - Was it whisky or Drogheda ale; - I'm bail - That Larry would swallow a pail. - - Oh, many a night, at the bowl, - With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl; - He's gone to his rest, - Where there's dthrink of the best, - And so let us give his old sowl - A howl, - For 'twas he made the noggin to rowl. - - - THE WILLOW TREE. - - (THACKERAY) - - Long by the willow-trees - Vainly they sought her, - Wild rang the mother's screams - O'er the grey water: - 'Where is my lovely one? - Where is my daughter? - - 'Rouse thee, sir constable-- - Rouse thee and look; - Fisherman, bring your net, - Boatman, your hook. - Beat in the lily-beds, - Dive in the brook!' - - Vainly the constable - Shouted and called her; - Vainly the fisherman - Beat the green alder, - Vainly he flung the net, - Never it hauled her! - - Mother, beside the fire - Sat, her nightcap in; - Father, in easy-chair, - Gloomily napping, - When at the window-sill - Came a light tapping! - - And a pale countenance - Looked through the casement. - Loud beat the mother's heart, - Sick with amazement, - And at the vision, which - Came to surprise her, - Shrieked in an agony-- - 'Lor'! it's Elizar!' - - Yes, 'twas Elizabeth-- - Yes, 'twas their girl; - Pale was her cheek, and her - Hair out of curl. - 'Mother!' the loving one, - Blushing, exclaimed, - 'Let not your innocent - Lizzy be blamed. - - 'Yesterday, going to Aunt - Jones's to tea, - Mother, dear mother, I - _Forgot the door-key_! - And as the night was cold, - And the way steep, - Mrs. Jones kept me to - Breakfast and sleep.' - - Whether her pa and ma - Fully believed her, - That we shall never know: - Stern they received her; - And for the work of that - Cruel, though short, night, - Sent her to bed without - Tea for a fortnight. - - - _Moral._ - - Hey diddle diddlety, - Cat and the Fiddlety! - Maidens of England, take caution by she! - Let love and suicide - Never tempt you aside, - And always remember to take the door-key! - - - DEAR JACK. - - (FRANCIS FAWKES) - - Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill, - And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill, - Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot, - As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot-- - In drinking, all round 'twas his joy to surpass, - And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass. - - One morning in summer, while seated so snug, - In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug, - Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear, - And said, 'Honest Thomas, come take your last bier;' - We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can, - From which let us drink to the health of my Nan. - - - THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE-SONG. - - - I. _The Rocks._ - - I was a timid little antelope; - My home was in the rocks, the lonely rocks. - - I saw the hunters scouring on the plain; - I lived among the rocks, the lonely rocks. - - I was a-thirsty in the summer-heat; - I ventured to the tents beneath the rocks. - - Zuleikah brought me water from the well; - Since then I have been faithless to the rocks. - - I saw her face reflected in the well; - Her camels since have marched into the rocks. - - I look to see her image in the well; - I only see my eyes, my own sad eyes. - My mother is alone among the rocks. - - - II. _The Merry Bard._ - -Zuleikah! The young Agas in the bazaar are slim-waisted and wear yellow -slippers. I am old and hideous. One of my eyes is out, and the hairs of -my beard are mostly grey. Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard. - -There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's chief wife. Praise be to -Allah! He has emeralds on his neck, and a ruby tail. I am a merry bard. -He deafens me with his diabolical screaming. - -There is a little brown bird in the basket-maker's cage. Praise be to -Allah! He ravishes my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard. - -The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a Bulbul. - -I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moonlight. Praise be -to Allah! I am a merry bard. - - - III. _The Caïque._ - - Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek, - Paddle the swift caïque. - Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek, - Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak! - - Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores, - Swift bending to your oars. - Beneath the melancholy sycamores, - Hark! what a ravishing note the lovelorn Bulbul pours. - - Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight, - The stars themselves more bright, - As 'mid the waving branches out of sight - The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night. - - Under the boughs I sat and listened still, - I could not have my fill. - 'How comes,' I said, 'such music to his bill? - Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill.' - - 'Once I was dumb,' then did the Bird disclose, - 'But looked upon the Rose; - And in the garden where the loved one grows, - I straightway did begin sweet music to compose.' - - 'O bird of song, there's one in this caïque - The Rose would also seek, - So he might learn like you to love and speak.' - Then answered me the bird of dusky beak, - 'The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek.' - - - THE ALMACK'S ADIEU. - - ('WAPPING OLD STAIRS') - - Your Fanny was never false-hearted, - And this she protests and she vows, - From the _triste moment_ when we parted - On the staircase at Devonshire House! - I blushed when you asked me to marry, - I vowed I would never forget; - And at parting I gave my dear Harry - A beautiful _vinegarette_! - - We spent _en province_ all December, - And I ne'er condescended to look - At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, - Or even at that darling old Duke. - You were busy with dogs and with horses, - Alone in my chamber I sat, - And made you the nicest of purses, - And the smartest black satin cravat! - - At night with that vile Lady Frances - (_Je faisais moi tapisserie_) - You danced every one of the dances, - And never once thought of poor me! - _Mon pauvre petit cœur!_ what a shiver - I felt as she danced the last set, - And you gave, _ô mon Dieu!_ to revive her, - _My_ beautiful _vinegarette_! - - Return, love! away with coquetting; - This flirting disgraces a man! - And ah! all the while you're forgetting - The heart of your poor little Fan! - _Reviens!_ break away from these Circes, - _Reviens_ for a nice little chat; - And I've made you the sweetest of purses, - And a lovely black satin cravat! - - - THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON. - - ('WAPPING OLD STAIRS') - - Untrue to my Ulric I never could be, - I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie. - Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore, - And your dark galley waited to carry you o'er, - My faith then I plighted, my love I confessed, - As I gave you the BATTLE-AXE marked with your Crest. - - When the bold barons met in my father's old hall, - Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball? - In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride, - Was there ever a smile save with THEE at my side? - Alone in my turret I loved to sit best, - To blazon your BANNER and broider your crest. - - The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay! - Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-_mêlée_. - In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was done, - And you gave to another the wreath you had won! - Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast, - As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest! - - But away with remembrance, no more will I pine - That others usurped for a time what was mine! - There's a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me; - Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee; - Once more by the side of the knight I love best - Shall I blazon his BANNER and broider his CREST. - - - - - WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN. - - - THE MASSACRE OF THE MACPHERSON. - - ('FROM THE GAELIC') - - Fhairshon swore a feud - Against the clan M'Tavish; - Marched into their land - To murder and to rafish; - For he did resolve - To extirpate the vipers, - With four-and-twenty men - And five-and-thirty pipers. - - But when he had gone - Half-way down Strath Canaan, - Of his fighting tail - Just three were remainin'. - They were all he had, - To back him in ta battle; - All the rest had gone - Off, to drive ta cattle. - - 'Fery coot!' cried Fhairshon, - 'So my clan disgraced is; - Lads, we'll need to fight - Pefore we touch the peasties. - Here's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh - Coming wi' his fassals, - Gillies seventy-three - And sixty Dhuinéwassails!' - - 'Coot tay to you, sir; - Are you not ta Fhairshon? - Was you coming here - To fisit any person? - You are a plackguard, sir! - It is now six hundred - Coot long years, and more, - Since my glen was plunder'd.' - - 'Fat is tat you say? - Dare you cock your peaver? - I will teach you, sir, - Fat is coot pehaviour! - You shall not exist - For another day more; - I will shoot you, sir, - Or stap you with my claymore!' - - 'I am fery glad - To learn what you mention, - Since I can prevent - Any such intention.' - So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh - Gave some warlike howls, - Trew his skhian-dhu, - An' stuck it in his powels. - - In this fery way - Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, - Who was always thought - A superior person. - Fhairshon had a son, - Who married Noah's daughter, - And nearly spoil'd ta Flood, - By trinking up ta water: - - Which he would have done, - I at least believe it, - Had ta mixture peen - Only half Glenlivet. - This is all my tale: - Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye! - Here's your fery good healths, - And tamn ta whusky duty! - - - A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION - - (BULWER LYTTON) - - Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! - Another board of oysters, ladye mine! - To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. - These mute inglorious Miltons are divine! - And as I here in slipper'd ease recline, - Quaffing of Perkins's Entire my fill, - I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill. - - A nobler inspiration fires my brain, - Caught from Old England's fine time-hallow'd drink; - I snatch the pot again, and yet again, - And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, - Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink! - This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-- - This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm! - - But these remarks are neither here nor there. - Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead! - They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, - And drain the annual butt--and oh, what head - More fit with laurel to be garlanded - Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, - Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil? - - I know a grace is seated on my brow, - Like young Apollo's with his golden beams - There should Apollo's bays be budding now:-- - And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams - That marks the poet in his waking dreams, - When, as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, - He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor. - - They throng around me now, those things of air, - That from my fancy took their being's stamp: - There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, - There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; - There pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, - Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, - Where all is everything, and everything is nought. - - Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won - The gentle ear of pensive Madeline! - How love and murder hand in hand may run, - Cemented by philosophy serene, - And kisses bless the spot where gore has been! - Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, - And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime! - - Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed - Obscure philosophy's enchanting light! - Until the public, 'wildered as they read, - Believed they saw that which was not in sight-- - Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; - For in my nether heart convinced I am, - Philosophy's as good as any other bam. - - Novels three-volumed I shall write no more-- - Somehow or other now they will not sell; - And to invent new passions is a bore-- - I find the Magazines pay quite as well. - Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, - Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, - And given the astonish'd bard a meaning all my own. - - Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grass'd: - Batter'd and broken are their early lyres. - Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, - Warm'd his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, - And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires. - But these are things would suit me to the letter, - For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better. - - A fico for your small poetic ravers, - Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! - Shall they compete with him who wrote 'Maltravers,' - Prologue to 'Alice or the Mysteries'? - No! Even now my glance prophetic sees - My own high brow girt with the bays about. - What ho! within there, ho! another pint of Stout! - - - THE HUSBAND'S PETITION. - - (AYTOUN) - - Come hither, my heart's darling, - Come, sit upon my knee, - And listen, while I whisper - A boon I ask of thee. - You need not pull my whiskers - So amorously, my dove; - 'Tis something quite apart from - The gentle cares of love. - - I feel a bitter craving-- - A dark and deep desire, - That glows beneath my bosom - Like coals of kindled fire. - The passion of the nightingale, - When singing to the rose, - Is feebler than the agony - That murders my repose! - - Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, - Though madly thus I speak-- - I feel thy arms about me, - Thy tresses on my cheek: - I know the sweet devotion - That links thy heart with mine,-- - I know my soul's emotion - Is doubly felt by thine: - - And deem not that a shadow - Hath fallen across my love: - No, sweet, my love is shadowless, - As yonder heaven above. - These little taper fingers-- - Ah, Jane! how white they be!-- - Can well supply the cruel want - That almost maddens me. - - Thou wilt not sure deny me - My first and fond request; - I pray thee, by the memory - Of all we cherish best-- - By all the dear remembrance - Of those delicious days - When, hand in hand, we wander'd - Along the summer braes; - - By all we felt, unspoken, - When 'neath the early moon, - We sat beside the rivulet, - In the leafy month of June; - And by the broken whisper - That fell upon my ear, - More sweet than angel music, - When first I woo'd thee, dear! - - By that great vow which bound thee - For ever to my side, - And by the ring that made thee - My darling and my bride! - Thou wilt not fail nor falter, - But bend thee to the task-- - A BOILED SHEEP'S HEAD ON SUNDAY - Is all the boon I ask! - - - - - CHARLES WILLIAM SHIRLEY BROOKS. - - - SONNET CCCI. - - TO MY FIVE NEW KITTENS. - - (TUPPER) - - Soft little beasts, how pleasantly ye lie - Snuggling and snoozling by your purring sire, - Mother I mean (but sonnet-rhymes require - A shorter word, and boldly I defy - Those who would tie the bard by pedant rule). - O kittens, you're not thinking, I'll be bound, - How three of you had yesterday been drowned - But that my little boy came home from school, - And begged your lives, though Cook remonstrance made, - Declaring we were overrun with cats, - That licked her cream-dish and her butter-pats, - But childhood's pleadings won me, and I said-- - 'O Cook, we'll keep the innocents alive; - They're five, consider, and you've fingers five.' - - - FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. - - A NEW VERSION, RESPECTFULLY RECOMMENDED TO SUNDRY WHOM - IT CONCERNS. - - (BURNS) - - More luck to honest poverty, - It claims respect, and a' that; - But honest wealth's a better thing, - We dare be rich for a' that. - For a' that, and a' that, - And spooney cant and a' that, - A man may have a ten-pun note, - And be a brick for a' that. - - What though on soup and fish we dine, - Wear evening togs and a' that, - A man may like good meat and wine, - Nor be a knave for a' that. - For a' that, and a' that, - Their fustian talk and a' that, - A gentleman, however clean, - May have a heart for a' that. - - You see yon prater called a Beales, - Who bawls and brays and a' that, - Tho' hundreds cheer his blatant bosh, - He's but a goose for a' that. - For a' that, and a' that, - His Bubblyjocks, and a' that, - A man with twenty grains of sense, - He looks and laughs at a' that. - - A prince can make a belted knight, - A marquis, duke, and a' that, - And if the title's earned, all right, - Old England's fond of a' that. - For a' that, and a' that, - Beales' balderdash, and a' that, - A name that tells of service done - Is worth the wear, for a' that. - - Then let us pray that come it may - And come it will for a' that, - That common sense may take the place - Of common cant and a' that. - For a' that, and a' that, - Who cackles trash and a' that, - Or be he lord, or be he low, - The man's an ass for a' that. - - - - - SIR THEODORE MARTIN. - - - THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN. - - (TENNYSON) - - Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, - I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. - - Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer; - Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer. - - Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad! - When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I'm to be had. - - Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock; - Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock. - - In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes-- - Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a brace of moons! - - See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty - glare, - Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair. - - Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it! - I must wear the mournful willow--all around my heart I've bound - it.[106] - - Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, - Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love! - - Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever - Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver? - - Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, - Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay. - - As the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued and old; - And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold. - - When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then - Something lower than his hookah,--something less than his cayenne. - - What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no,-- - Bless your soul! it was the salmon,--salmon always makes him so. - - Take him to thy dainty chamber--soothe him with thy lightest - fancies; - He will understand thee, won't he?--pay thee with a lover's glances? - - Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, - Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride. - - Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge, - Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge.[107] - - Better thou wert dead before me,--better, better that I stood, - Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good![107] - - Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead, - With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed! - - Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin! - Cursed be the want of acres,--doubly cursed the want of tin! - - Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! - Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed! - - Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! - Cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern! - - * * * * * - - Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster,--much I'm like to make of that; - Better comfort have I found in singing 'All Around my Hat.' - - But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. - 'Twill not do to pine for ever,--I am getting up in years. - - Can I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, - And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?[108] - - Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew, - When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two! - - When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide, - With the many larks of London flaring up on every side; - - When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come; - Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;[109] - - Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens! - Brandies at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans'![110] - - Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, - Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years! - - Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again, - Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain. - - Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in - awe, - Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of - law.[111] - - In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was - rusted, - And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted! - - Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse, - Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse. - - Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum; - They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em. - - Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed - In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade. - - I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields - Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spitalfields. - - Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, - I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride; - - Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root, - Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit. - - Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main - Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent of Cockaigne. - - There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; - Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the Three per - Cents! - - There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, - my cousin! - I will wed some savage woman--nay, I'll wed at least a dozen. - - There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are - reared: - They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard-- - - Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, - Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon. - - I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, - Ride a-tiger-hunting, mounted on a thoroughbred giraffe. - - Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he - crosses, - Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses. - - Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad, - For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad. - - I the swell--the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,-- - I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces! - - I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed--very near-- - To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer! - - Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away; - Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may. - - _Morning Post_ (_The Times_ won't trust me), help me, as I know you - can; - I will pen an advertisement,--that's a never-failing plan. - - 'Wanted--By a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman: - Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming! - - 'Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters; - Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.--You must pay the letters.' - - That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the - balmy,-- - Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy! - - - - - TOM TAYLOR. - - - THE LAUREATE'S BUST AT TRINITY. - - A FRAGMENT OF AN IDYLL. - - (TENNYSON) - - --So the stately bust abode - For many a month, unseen, among the Dons. - Nor in the lodge, nor in the library, - Upon its pedestal appeared, to be - A mark for reverence of green gownsman-hood, - Of grief to ancient fogies, and reproof - To those who knew not Alfred, being hard - And narrowed in their honour to old names - Of poets, who had vogue when _they_ were young, - And not admitting later bards; but now, - Last week, a rumour widely blown about, - Walking the windy circle of the Press, - Came, that stern Whewell, with the Seniors, - Who rule the destinies of Trinity, - Had of the sanctuary barred access - Unto the bust of Alfred Tennyson, - By Woolner carved, subscribed for by the youth - Who loved the Poet, hoped to see him set - Within the Library of Trinity, - One great man more o' the house, among the great, - Who grace that still Valhalla, ranged in row, - Along the chequered marbles of the floor, - Two stately ranks--to where the fragrant limes - Look thro' the far end window, cool and green. - A band it is, of high companionship,-- - Chief, Newton, and the broad-browed Verulam, - And others only less than these in arts - Or science: names that England holds on high. - Among whom, hoped the youth, would soon be set, - The living likeness of a living Bard,-- - Great Alfred Tennyson, the Laureate, - Whom Trinity most loves of living sons. - But other thought had Whewell and the Dons, - Deeming such honour only due to those - Upon whose greatness Death had set his seal. - So fixed their faces hard, and shut the doors - Upon the living Poet: for, said one, - 'It is too soon,' and when they heard the phrase, - Others caught up the cue, and chorussed it, - Until, the Poet echoing 'Soon? too soon?' - As if in wrath, Whewell looked up, and said:-- - 'O Laureate, if indeed you list to try, - Try, and unfix our purpose in this thing.' - Whereat full shrilly sang th' excluded bard: - - 'Soon, soon, so soon! Whewell looks stern and chill, - Soon, soon, so soon! but I can enter still.' - 'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.' - - 'I am not dead: of that I do repent. - But to my living prayer, oh now relent.' - 'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.' - - 'Honour in life is sweet: my fame is wide, - Let me to stand at Dryden's, Byron's side.' - 'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now!' - - 'Honour that comes in life is rare as sweet; - I cannot taste it long: for life is fleet.' - 'No, no, too soon! You cannot enter now!' - - So sang the Laureate, while all stonily, - Their chins upon their hands, as men that had - No entrails to be moved, sat the stern Dons. - - - - - FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON. - - - UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY. - - AN EXPERIMENT. - - (TENNYSON) - - When he whispers, 'O Miss Bailey, - Thou art brightest of the throng'-- - She makes murmur, softly-gaily-- - 'Alfred, I have loved thee long.' - - Then he drops upon his knees, a - Proof his heart is soft as wax; - She's--I don't know who, but he's a - Captain bold from Halifax. - - Though so loving, such another - Artless bride was never seen; - Coachee thinks that she's his mother - --Till they get to Gretna Green. - - There they stand, by him attended, - Hear the sable smith rehearse - That which links them, when 'tis ended, - Tight for better--or for worse. - - Now her heart rejoices--ugly - Troubles need disturb her less-- - Now the Happy Pair are snugly - Seated in the night express. - - So they go with fond emotion, - So they journey through the night-- - London is their land of Goshen-- - See, its suburbs are in sight! - - Hark! the sound of life is swelling, - Pacing up, and racing down, - Soon they reach her simple dwelling-- - Burley Street, by Somers Town. - - What is there to so astound them? - She cries 'Oh!' for he cries 'Hah!' - When five brats emerge, confound them! - Shouting out, 'Mamma!--Papa!' - - While at this he wonders blindly, - Nor their meaning can divine, - Proud she turns them round, and kindly, - 'All of these are mine and thine!' - - * * * * * - - Here he pines, and grows dyspeptic, - Losing heart he loses pith-- - Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic-- - Swears that Moses was a myth. - - Sees no evidence in Paley-- - Takes to drinking ratafia: - Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey - While she's pouring out the tea. - - One day, knocking up his quarters, - Poor Miss Bailey found him dead, - Hanging in his knotted garters, - Which she knitted ere they wed. - - - - - PHOEBE CARY. - - - 'THE DAY IS DONE.' - - (LONGFELLOW) - - The day is done, and darkness - From the wing of night is loosed, - As a feather is wafted downward - From a chicken going to roost. - - I see the lights of the baker - Gleam through the rain and mist, - And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me - That I cannot well resist. - - A feeling of sadness and _longing_, - That is not like being sick, - And resembles sorrow only - As a brickbat resembles a brick. - - Come, get for me some supper,-- - A good and regular meal, - That shall soothe this restless feeling, - And banish the pain I feel. - - Not from the pastry baker's, - Not from the shops for cake, - I wouldn't give a farthing - For all that they can make. - - For, like the soup at dinner, - Such things would but suggest - Some dishes more substantial, - And to-night I want the best. - - Go to some honest butcher, - Whose beef is fresh and nice - As any they have in the city, - And get a liberal slice. - - Such things through days of labour, - And nights devoid of ease, - For sad and desperate feelings - Are wonderful remedies. - - They have an astonishing power - To aid and reinforce, - And come like the 'Finally, brethren,' - That follows a long discourse. - - Then get me a tender sirloin - From off the bench or hook, - And lend to its sterling goodness - The science of the cook. - - And the night shall be filled with comfort, - And the cares with which it begun - Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, - And silently cut and run. - - - (SHAKESPEARE) - - That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not,) - Walking between the garden and the barn, - Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took - At a young chicken, standing by a post, - And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun, - As he would kill a hundred thousand hens. - But I might see young Reuben's fiery shot - Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence, - And the domesticated fowl passed on, - In henly meditation, bullet free. - - - 'WHEN LOVELY WOMAN.' - - (GOLDSMITH) - - When lovely woman wants a favour, - And finds, too late, that man won't bend, - What earthly circumstance can save her - From disappointment in the end? - - The only way to bring him over, - The last experiment to try, - Whether a husband or a lover, - If he have feeling, is, to cry! - - - - - EDWARD BRADLEY ('CUTHBERT BEDE'). - - - ON A TOASTED MUFFIN. - - (BY SIR E. L. B. L. B. L. B. LITTLE, BART., AUTHOR OF 'THE - NEW SIMON,' ETC.) - - (LYTTON) - - Object belov'd! when day to eve gives place, - And Life's best nectar thy fond vot'ry sips, - How sweet to gaze upon thy shining face, - And press thy tender form unto my lips! - - Fair as the Naiad of the Grecian stream, - And beautiful as Oread of the lawn; - Bright-beaming as the iv'ry-palac'd dream, - And melting as the dewy Urns of Dawn. - - For thee I strike the sounding Lyre of Song, - And hymn the Beautiful, the Good, the True; - The dying notes of thankfulness prolong, - And light the Beacon-fires of Praise for you. - - Butter'd Ideal of Life's coarser food! - Thou calm Egeria in a world of strife! - Antigone of crumpets! mild as good, - Decent in death, and beautiful in life! - - Fairest where all is _fare_! shine on me still, - And gild the dark To-Morrow of my days; - In public Marts and crowded Senates thrill, - My soul, with Tea-time thoughts and Muffin lays. - - - IN IMMEMORIAM. - -[Ascribed to the author of 'In Memoriam,' but not believed to be his.] - - (TENNYSON) - - We seek to know, and, knowing, seek; - We seek, we know, and every sense - Is trembling with the great intense, - And vibrating to what we speak. - - We ask too much, we seek too oft; - We know enough, and should no more; - And yet we skim through Fancy's lore, - And look to earth, and not aloft. - - A something comes from out the gloom-- - I know it not, nor seek to know-- - I only see it swell and grow, - And more than this would not presume. - - Meseems, a circling void I fill, - And I unchanged where all is change; - It seems unreal--I own it strange-- - Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill. - - I hear the ocean's surging tide - Raise, quiring on, its carol-tune; - I watch the golden-sickled moon, - And clearer voices call beside. - - O sea! whose ancient ripples lie - On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone; - O moon! whose golden sickle's gone, - O voices all! like you, I die! (_Dies._) - - - - - BAYARD TAYLOR. - - - ODE ON A JAR OF PICKLES. - - (KEATS) - - - 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, forgo. - - - 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. - - - GWENDOLINE. - - (E. B. BROWNING) - - 'Twas not the brown of chestnut boughs - That shadowed her so finely; - It was the hair that swept her brows - And framed her face divinely; - Her tawny hair, her purple eyes, - The spirit was ensphered in, - That took you with such swift surprise, - Provided you had peered in. - - Her velvet foot amid the moss - And on the daisies patted, - As, querulous with sense of loss, - It tore the herbage matted: - 'And come he early, come he late,' - She saith, 'it will undo me; - The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fate - Already quivers through me. - - 'When I beheld his red-roan steed, - I knew what aim impelled it; - And that dim scarf of silver brede, - I guessed for whom he held it; - I recked not, while he flaunted by, - Of Love's relentless vi'lence, - Yet o'er me crashed the summer sky, - In thunders of blue silence. - - 'His hoof-prints crumbled down the vale, - But left behind their lava; - What should have been my woman's mail, - Grew jellied as guava: - I looked him proud, but 'neath my pride - I felt a boneless tremor; - He was the Beër, I descried, - And I was but the Seemer! - - 'Ah, how to be what then I seemed, - And bid him seem that is so! - We always tangle threads we dreamed, - And contravene our bliss so. - I see the red-roan steed again! - He looks, as something sought he: - Why, hoity toity!--_he_ is fain, - So _I_'ll be cold and haughty!' - - - ANGELO ORDERS HIS DINNER. - - (R. BROWNING) - - I, Angelo, obese, black-garmented, - Respectable, much in demand, well fed - With mine own larder's dainties,--where, indeed, - Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed, - Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o' the top, - Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop - Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests - Which my recondite recipe invests - With cold conglomerate tidbits--ah, the bill! - (You say,) but given it were mine to fill - My chests, the case so put were yours, we'll say, - (This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day,) - And you've an eye to luxuries, what harm - In smoothing down your palate with the charm - Yourself concocted? There we issue take; - And see! as thus across the rim I break - This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake, - So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chaps - And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps; - But that's my secret. Find me such a man - As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan - Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat - From his own giblets' oil, an Ararat - Uplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughts - From Noah's vineyard,--... crisp, enticing wafts - Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense - Somewhat abate the fear of old events, - Qualms to the stomach,--I, you see, am slow - Unnecessary duties to forgo,-- - You understand? A venison haunch, _haut goût_, - Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew, - And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provoke - To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke - Just as it suits,--my liking, I confess, - More to receive, and to partake no less, - Still more obese, while through thick adipose - Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes - Far-off, dim-conscious, at the body's verge, - Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge - On the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seat - Is bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat. - - - THE SHRIMP-GATHERERS. - - (JEAN INGELOW) - - 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 grey 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! - - - CIMABUELLA. - - (D. G. ROSSETTI) - - - I. - - Fair-tinted cheeks, clear eyelids drawn - In crescent curves above the light - Of eyes, whose dim, uncertain dawn - Becomes not day: a forehead white - Beneath long yellow heaps of hair: - She is so strange she must be fair. - - - II. - - Had she sharp, slant-wise wings outspread, - She were an angel; but she stands - With flat dead gold behind her head, - And lilies in her long thin hands: - Her folded mantle, gathered in, - Falls to her feet as it were tin. - - - III. - - Her nose is keen as pointed flame; - Her crimson lips no thing express; - And never dread of saintly blame - Held down her heavy eyelashes: - To guess what she were thinking of, - Precludeth any meaner love. - - - IV. - - An azure carpet, fringed with gold, - Sprinkled with scarlet spots, I laid - Before her straight, cool feet unrolled: - But she nor sound nor movement made - (Albeit I heard a soft, shy smile, - Printing her neck a moment's while); - - - V. - - And I was shamed through all my mind - For that she spake not, neither kissed, - But stared right past me. Lo! behind - Me stood, in pink and amethyst, - Sword-girt and velvet-doubleted, - A tall, gaunt youth, with frowzy head, - - - VI. - - Wide nostrils in the air, dull eyes, - Thick lips that simpered, but, ah me! - I saw, with most forlorn surprise, - He was the Thirteenth Century, - I but the Nineteenth: then despair - Curdled beneath my curling hair. - - - VII. - - O, Love and Fate! How could she choose - My rounded outlines, broader brain, - And my resuscitated Muse? - Some tears she shed, but whether pain - Or joy in him unlocked their source, - I could not fathom which, of course. - - - VIII. - - But I from missals, quaintly bound, - With cither and with clavichord - Will sing her songs of sovran sound: - Belike her pity will afford - Such faint return as suits a saint - So sweetly done in verse and paint. - - - FROM 'THE TAMING OF THEMISTOCLES.' - - (WILLIAM MORRIS) - - 'He must be holpen; yet how help shall I, - Steeped to the lips in ancient misery, - And by the newer grief apparellèd? - If that I throw these ashes on mine head, - Do this thing for thee,--while about my way - A shadow gathers, and the piteous day, - So wan and bleak for very loneliness, - Turneth from sight of such untruthfulness?' - Therewith he caught an arrow from the sheaf, - And brake the shaft in witlessness of grief; - But Chiton's vest, such dismal fear she had, - Shook from the heart that sorely was a-drad, - And she began, withouten any pause, - To say: 'Why break the old Ætolian laws? - Send this man forth, that never harm hath done, - Between the risen and the setten sun.' - - And next, they wandered to a steepy hill, - Whence all the land was lying grey and still, - And not a living creature there might be - From the cold mountains to the salt, cold sea; - Only, within a little cove, one sail - Shook, as it whimpered at the cruel gale, - And the mast moaned from chafing of the rope; - So all was pain: they saw not any hope. - - - ALL OR NOTHING. - - (EMERSON) - - Whoso answers my questions - Knoweth more than me; - Hunger is but knowledge - In a less degree: - Prophet, priest, and poet - Oft prevaricate, - And the surest sentence - Hath the greatest weight. - - When upon my gaiters - Drops the morning dew, - Somewhat of Life's riddle - Soaks my spirit through. - I am buskined by the goddess - Of Monadnock's crest, - And my wings extended - Touch the East and West. - - Or ever coal was hardened - In the cells of earth, - Or flowed the founts of Bourbon, - Lo! I had my birth. - I am crowned coeval - With the Saurian eggs, - And my fancy firmly - Stands on its own legs. - - Wouldst thou know the secret - Of the barberry-bush, - Catch the slippery whistle - Of the moulting thrush, - Dance upon the mushrooms, - Dive beneath the sea, - Or anything else remarkable, - Thou must follow me! - - - THE BALLAD OF HIRAM HOVER. - - (WHITTIER) - - Where the Moosatockmaguntic - Pours its waters in the Skuntic, - Met, along the forest-side, - Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde. - - She, a maiden fair and dapper, - He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper, - Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk, - In the woodlands of Squeedunk. - - She, Pentucket's pensive daughter, - Walked beside the Skuntic water, - Gathering, in her apron wet, - Snakeroot, mint, and bouncing-bet. - - 'Why,' he murmured, loath to leave her, - 'Gather yarbs for chills and fever, - When a lovyer, bold and true, - Only waits to gather you?' - - 'Go,' she answered, 'I'm not hasty; - I prefer a man more tasty: - Leastways, one to please me well - Should not have a beasty smell.' - - 'Haughty Huldah!' Hiram answered; - 'Mind and heart alike are cancered: - Jest look here! these peltries give - Cash, wherefrom a pair may live. - - 'I, you think, am but a vagrant, - Trapping beasts by no means fragrant: - Yet--I'm sure it's worth a thank-- - I've a handsome sum in bank.' - - Turned and vanished Hiram Hover; - And, before the year was over, - Huldah, with the yarbs she sold, - Bought a cape, against the cold. - - Black and thick the furry cape was; - Of a stylish cut the shape was, - And the girls, in all the town, - Envied Huldah up and down. - - Then, at last, one winter morning, - Hiram came, without a warning: - 'Either,' said he, 'you are blind, - Huldah, or you've changed your mind. - - 'Me you snub for trapping varmints, - Yet you take the skins for garments: - Since you wear the skunk and mink, - There's no harm in me, I think.' - - 'Well,' she said, 'we will not quarrel, - Hiram: I accept the moral, - Now the fashion's so, I guess - I can't hardly do no less.' - - Thus the trouble all was over - Of the love of Hiram Hover; - Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde - Huldah Hover as his bride. - - Love employs, with equal favour, - Things of good and evil savour; - That, which first appeared to part, - Warmed, at last, the maiden's heart. - - Under one impartial banner, - Life, the hunter, Love, the tanner, - Draw, from every beast they snare, - Comfort for a wedded pair! - - - THE SEWING-MACHINE. - - (LONGFELLOW) - - A strange vibration from the cottage window - My vagrant steps delayed, - And half abstracted, like an ancient Hindoo, - I paused beneath the shade. - - What is, I said, this unremitted humming, - Louder than bees in spring? - As unto prayer the murmurous answer coming, - Shed from Sandalphon's wing. - - Is this the sound of unimpeded labour, - That now usurpeth play? - Our harsher substitute for pipe and tabor, - Ghittern and virelay? - - Or, is it yearning for a higher vision, - By spiritual hearing heard? - Nearer I drew, to listen with precision, - Detecting not a word. - - Then, peering through the pane, as men of sin do, - Myself the while unseen, - I marked a maiden seated by the window, - Sewing with a machine. - - Her gentle foot propelled the tireless treadle, - Her gentle hand the seam: - My fancy said, it were a bliss to peddle - Those shirts, as in a dream! - - Her lovely fingers lent to yoke and collar - Some imperceptible taste; - The rural swain, who buys it for a dollar, - By beauty is embraced. - - O fairer aspect of the common mission! - Only the Poet sees - The true significance, the high position - Of such small things as these. - - Not now doth Toil, a brutal Boanerges, - Deform the maiden's hand; - Her implement its soft sonata merges - In songs of sea and land. - - And thus the hum of the unspooling cotton, - Blent with her rhythmic tread, - Shall still be heard, when virelays are forgotten, - And troubadours are dead. - - - - - MORTIMER COLLINS. - - - IF. - - (SWINBURNE) - - If life were never bitter, - And love were always sweet, - Then who would care to borrow - A moral from to-morrow-- - If Thames would always glitter, - And joy would ne'er retreat, - If life were never bitter, - And love were always sweet? - - If Care were not the waiter - Behind a fellow's chair, - When easy-going sinners - Sit down to Richmond dinners, - And life's swift stream flows straighter-- - By Jove, it would be rare - If Care were not the waiter - Behind a fellow's chair. - - If wit were always radiant, - And wine were always iced, - And bores were kicked out straightway - Through a convenient gateway; - Then down the years' long gradient - 'Twere sad to be enticed; - If wit were always radiant, - And wine were always iced. - - - SALAD. - - (SWINBURNE) - - _Brow._ - - O cool in the summer is salad, - And warm in the winter is love; - And a poet shall sing you a ballad - Delicious thereon and thereof. - A singer am I, if no sinner, - My Muse has a marvellous wing, - And I willingly worship at dinner - The Sirens of Spring. - - Take endive... like love it is bitter; - Take beet... for like love it is red; - Crisp leaf of the lettuce shall glitter, - And cress from the rivulet's bed; - Anchovies foam-born, like the Lady - Whose beauty has maddened this bard; - And olives, from groves that are shady; - And eggs--boil 'em hard. - - - (R. BROWNING) - - _Beard._ - - Waitress, with eyes so marvellous black, - And the blackest possible lustrous gay tress, - This is the month of the Zodiac - When I want a pretty deft-handed waitress. - Bring a china-bowl, you merry young soul; - Bring anything green, from worsted to celery; - Bring pure olive-oil, from Italy's soil... - Then your china-bowl we'll well array. - When the time arrives chip choicest chives, - And administer quietly chili and capsicum... - (Young girls do not quite know what 's what - Till as a Poet into their laps I come). - Then a lobster fresh as fresh can be - (When it screams in the pot I feel a murderer); - After which I fancy we - Shall want a few bottles of Heidsieck or Roederer. - - - (TENNYSON) - - _Hair._ - - King Arthur, growing very tired indeed - Of wild Tintagel, now that Lancelot - Had gone to Jersey or to Jericho, - And there was nobody to make a rhyme, - And Cornish girls were christened Jennifer, - And the Round Table had grown rickety, - Said unto Merlin (who had been asleep - For a few centuries in Broceliande, - But woke, and had a bath, and felt refreshed): - 'What shall I do to pull myself together?' - Quoth Merlin, 'Salad is the very thing, - And you can get it at the "Cheshire Cheese."' - King Arthur went there: _verily_, I believe - That he has dined there every day since then. - Have you not marked the portly gentleman - In his cool corner, with his plate of greens? - The great knight Lancelot prefers the 'Cock,' - Where port is excellent (in pints), and waiters - Are portlier than kings, and steaks are tender, - And poets have been known to meditate... - Ox-fed orating ominous octastichs. - - - - - ROBERT BARNABAS BROUGH. - - - I'M A SHRIMP. - - ('I'M AFLOAT, I'M AFLOAT') - - I'm a shrimp! I'm a shrimp, of diminutive size: - Inspect my antennæ, and look at my eyes; - I'm a natural syphon, when dipped in a cup, - For I drain the contents to the latest drop up. - I care not for craw-fish, I heed not the prawn, - From a flavour especial my fame has been drawn; - Nor e'en to the crab or the lobster do yield, - When I'm properly cook'd and efficiently peeled. - Quick! quick! pile the coals--let your saucepan be deep, - For the weather is warm, and I'm sure not to keep; - Off, off with my head--split my shell into three-- - I'm a shrimp! I'm a shrimp--to be eaten with tea. - - - - - DANTE, GABRIEL ROSSETTI. - - - MACCRACKEN. - - (TENNYSON) - - Getting his pictures, like his supper, cheap, - Far, far away in Belfast by the sea, - His watchful one-eyed uninvaded sleep - MacCracken sleepeth. While the P.R.B. - Must keep the shady side, he walks a swell - Through spungings of perennial growth and height: - And far away in Belfast out of sight, - By many an open do and secret sell, - Fresh daubers he makes shift to scarify, - And fleece with pliant shears the slumbering 'green.' - There he has lied, though aged, and will lie, - Fattening on ill-got pictures in his sleep, - Till some Preraphael prove for him too deep. - Then, once by Hunt and Ruskin to be seen, - Insolvent he will turn, and in the Queen's Bench die. - - - THE BROTHERS. - - _By a Scotch Bard and English Reviewer._ - - (TENNYSON) - - I am two brothers with one face, - So which is the real man who can trace? - (My wrongs are raging inside of me.) - Here are some poets and they sell, - Therefore revenge becomes me well. - (Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.) - - Of course you know it's a burning shame, - But of my last books the press makes game! - (My wrongs are boiling inside of me.) - So at least all other bards I'll slate - Till no one sells but the Laureate. - (Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.) - - I took a beast of a poet's tome - And nailed a cheque, and brought them home; - (My wrongs were howling inside of me.) - And after supper, in lieu of bed, - I wound wet towels round my head. - (Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.) - - Of eyelids kissed and all the rest, - And rosy cheeks that lie on one's breast, - (My wrongs were yelling inside of me.) - I told the worst that pen can tell,-- - And Strahan and Company loved me well. - (Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.) - - I crowed out loud in the silent night, - I made my digs so sharp and bright: - (My wrongs were gnashing inside of me.) - In our Contemptible Review - I struck the beggar through and through. - (Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.) - - I tanned his hide and combed his head, - And that bard, for one, I left for dead. - (My wrongs are hooting inside of me.) - And now he's wrapped in a printer's sheet, - Let's fling him at our Public's feet. - (Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.) - - - - - CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY. - - - ODE TO TOBACCO. - - (LONGFELLOW) - - Thou who, when fears attack, - Bid'st them avaunt, and Black - Care, at the horseman's back - Perching, unseatest; - Sweet when the morn is grey; - Sweet, when they've cleared away - Lunch; and at close of day - Possibly sweetest: - - I have a liking old - For thee, though manifold - Stories, I know, are told, - Not to thy credit; - How one (or two at most) - Drops make a cat a ghost-- - Useless, except to roast-- - Doctors have said it: - - How they who use fusees - All grow by slow degrees - Brainless as chimpanzees, - Meagre as lizards; - Go mad, and beat their wives; - Plunge (after shocking lives) - Razors and carving knives - Into their gizzards. - - Confound such knavish tricks! - Yet know I five or six - Smokers who freely mix - Still with their neighbours; - Jones--who, I'm glad to say, - Asked leave of Mrs. J.-- - Daily absorbs a clay - After his labours. - - Cats may have had their goose - Cooked by tobacco-juice; - Still why deny its use - Thoughtfully taken? - We're not as tabbies are: - Smith, take a fresh cigar! - Jones, the tobacco-jar! - Here's to thee, Bacon! - - - BEER. - - (BYRON) - - In those old days which poets say were golden-- - (Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves: - And, if they did, I'm all the more beholden - To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves, - Who talk to me 'in language quaint and olden' - Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves, - Pan with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards, - And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:) - - In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette - (Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born. - They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet, - No fashions varying as the hues of morn. - Just as they pleased they dressed and drank and ate, - Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn) - And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked, - And were no doubt extremely incorrect. - - Yet do I think their theory was pleasant: - And oft, I own, my 'wayward fancy roams' - Back to those times, so different from the present; - When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes, - Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant, - Nor 'did' their hair by means of long-tailed combs, - Nor migrated to Brighton once a year, - Nor--most astonishing of all--drank Beer. - - No, they did not drink Beer, 'which brings me to' - (As Gilpin said) 'the middle of my song.' - Not that 'the middle' is precisely true, - Or else I should not tax your patience long: - If I had said 'beginning' it might do; - But I have a dislike to quoting wrong: - I was unlucky--sinned against, not sinning-- - When Cowper wrote down 'middle' for 'beginning.' - - So to proceed. That abstinence from Malt - Has always struck me as extremely curious. - The Greek mind must have had some vital fault, - That they should stick to liquors so injurious-- - (Wine, water, tempered p'raps with Attic salt)-- - And not at once invent that mild, luxurious, - And artful beverage, Beer. How the digestion - Got on without it, is a startling question. - - Had they digestions? and an actual body - Such as dyspepsia might make attacks on? - Were they abstract ideas--(like Tom Noddy - And Mr. Briggs)--or men, like Jones and Jackson? - Then Nectar--was that beer, or whisky-toddy? - Some say the Gaelic mixture, _I_ the Saxon: - I think a strict adherence to the latter - Might make some Scots less pigheaded, and fatter. - - Besides, Bon Gaultier definitely shows - That the real beverage for feasting gods on - Is a soft compound, grateful to the nose - And also to the palate, known as 'Hodgson.' - I know a man--a tailor's son--who rose - To be a peer: and this I would lay odds on, - (Though in his Memoirs it may not appear,) - That that man owed his rise to copious Beer. - - O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsopp, Bass! - Names that should be on every infant's tongue! - Shall days and months and years and centuries pass, - And still your merits be unrecked, unsung? - Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass, - And wished that lyre could yet again be strung - Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her - Misguided sons that 'the best drink was water.' - - How would he now recant that wild opinion, - And sing--as would that I could sing--of you! - I was not born (alas!) the 'Muses' minion,' - I'm not poetical, not even blue: - And he (we know) but strives with waxen pinion, - Whoe'er he is that entertains the view - Of emulating Pindar, and will be - Sponsor at last to some now nameless sea. - - Oh! when the green slopes of Arcadia burned - With all the lustre of the dying day, - And on Cithaeron's brow the reaper turned, - (Humming, of course, in his delightful way, - How Lycidas was dead, and how concerned - The Nymphs were when they saw his lifeless clay; - And how rock told to rock the dreadful story - That poor young Lycidas was gone to glory:) - - What would that lone and labouring soul have given, - At that soft moment, for a pewter pot! - How had the mists that dimmed his eye been riven, - And Lycidas and sorrow all forgot! - If his own grandmother had died unshriven, - In two short seconds he'd have recked it not; - Such power hath Beer. The heart which Grief hath canker'd - Hath one unfailing remedy--the Tankard. - - Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa; - Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen: - When 'Dulce est desipere in loco' - Was written, real Falernian winged the pen. - When a rapt audience has encored 'Fra Poco' - Or 'Casta Diva,' I have heard that then - The Prima Donna, smiling herself out, - Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout. - - But what is coffee, but a noxious berry, - Born to keep used-up Londoners awake? - What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry, - But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache? - Nay stout itself--(though good with oysters, very)-- - Is not a thing your reading man should take. - He that would shine, and petrify his tutor, - Should drink draught Allsopp in its 'native pewter.' - - But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear-- - A soft and silvery sound--I know it well. - Its tinkling tells me that a time is near - Precious to me--it is the Dinner Bell. - O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer, - Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell: - Seared is (of course) my heart--but unsubdued - Is, and shall be, my appetite for food. - - I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen: - But on one statement I may safely venture: - That few of our most highly gifted men - Have more appreciation of the trencher. - I go. One pound of British beef, and then - What Mr. Swiveller called 'a modest quencher'; - That, home-returning, I may 'soothly say,' - 'Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.' - - - WANDERERS. - - (TENNYSON) - - As o'er the hill we roam'd at will, - My dog and I together, - We mark'd a chaise, by two bright bays - Slow-moved along the heather: - - Two bays arch-neck'd, with tails erect - And gold upon their blinkers; - And by their side an ass I spied; - It was a travelling tinker's. - - The chaise went by, nor aught cared I; - Such things are not in my way; - I turn'd me to the tinker, who - Was loafing down a by-way: - - I ask'd him where he lived--a stare - Was all I got in answer, - As on he trudged: I rightly judged - The stare said, 'Where I can, sir.' - - I ask'd him if he'd take a whiff - Of 'bacco; he acceded; - He grew communicative too, - (A pipe was all he needed,) - Till of the tinker's life, I think, - I knew as much as he did. - - 'I loiter down by thorp and town, - For any job I'm willing; - Take here and there a dusty brown, - And here and there a shilling. - - 'I deal in every ware in turn, - I've rings for buddin' Sally - That sparkle like those eyes of her'n; - I've liquor for the valet. - - 'I steal from th' parson's strawberry-plots, - I hide by th' squire's covers; - I teach the sweet young housemaids what's - The art of trapping lovers. - - 'The things I've done 'neath moon and stars - Have got me into messes: - I've seen the sky through prison bars, - I've torn up prison dresses: - - 'I've sat, I've sigh'd, I've gloom'd, I've glanced - With envy at the swallows - That through the window slid, and danced - (Quite happy) round the gallows; - - 'But out again I come, and show - My face nor care a stiver, - For trades are brisk and trades are slow, - But mine goes on for ever.' - - Thus on he prattled like a babbling brook. - Then I, 'The sun hath slipped behind the hill, - And my aunt Vivian dines at half-past six.' - So in all love we parted; I to the Hall, - They to the village. It was noised next noon - That chickens had been miss'd at Syllabub Farm. - - - PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY. - - (TUPPER) - - - INTRODUCTORY. - - Art thou beautiful, O my daughter, as the budding rose of April? - Are all thy motions music, and is poetry throned in thine eye? - Then hearken unto me; and I will make the bud a fair flower, - I will plant it upon the bank of Elegance, and water it with the - water of Cologne; - And in the season it shall 'come out,' yea bloom, the pride of the - parterre; - Ladies shall marvel at its beauty, and a Lord shall pluck it at - the last. - - - OF PROPRIETY. - - Study first Propriety: for she is indeed the Polestar - Which shall guide the artless maiden through the mazes of Vanity - Fair; - Nay, she is the golden chain which holdeth together Society; - The lamp by whose light young Psyche shall approach unblamed her - Eros. - Verily Truth is as Eve, which was ashamed being naked; - Wherefore doth Propriety dress her with the fair foliage of - artifice: - And when she is drest, behold! she knoweth not herself again.-- - I walked in the Forest; and above me stood the yew, - Stood like a slumbering giants shrouded in impenetrable shade; - Then I pass'd into the citizen's garden, and marked a tree clipt - into shape, - (The giant's locks had been shorn by the Dalilah-shears of Decorum;) - And I said, 'Surely nature is goodly; but how much goodlier is Art!' - I heard the wild notes of the lark floating far over the blue sky, - And my foolish heart went after him, and, lo! I blessed him as he - rose; - Foolish! for far better is the trained boudoir bullfinch, - Which pipeth the semblance of a tune, and mechanically draweth up - water: - And the reinless steed of the desert, though his neck be clothed - with thunder, - Must yield to him that danceth and 'moveth in the circles' at - Astley's. - For verily, O my daughter, the world is a masquerade, - And God made thee one thing, that thou mightest make thyself - another: - A maiden's heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling - upwards, - And it needed that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of - Propriety: - He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure, - Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of - the cork. - - - OF FRIENDSHIP. - - Choose judiciously thy friends; for to discard them is undesirable, - Yet it is better to drop thy friends, O my daughter, than to drop - thy 'H's.' - Dost thou know a wise woman? yea, wiser than the children of light? - Hath she a position? and a title? and are her parties in the - _Morning Post_? - If thou dost, cleave unto her, and give up unto her thy body and - mind; - Think with her ideas, and distribute thy smiles at her bidding: - So shalt thou become like unto her; and thy manners shall be - 'formed,' - And thy name shall be a Sesame, at which the doors of the great - shall fly open: - Thou shalt know every Peer, his arms, and the date of his creation, - His pedigree and their intermarriages, and cousins to the sixth - remove: - Thou shalt kiss the hand of Royalty, and lo! in next morning's - papers, - Side by side with rumours of wars, and stories of shipwrecks and - sieges, - Shall appear thy name, and the minutiæ of thy head-dress and - petticoat, - For an enraptured public to muse upon over their matutinal muffin. - - - OF READING. - - Read not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shakespeare, for he wrote of - common life: - Nor Scott, for his romances, though fascinating, are yet - intelligible: - Nor Thackeray, for he is a Hogarth, a photographer who flattereth - not: - Nor Kingsley, for he shall teach thee that thou shouldest not dream, - but do. - Read incessantly thy Burke; that Burke who, nobler than he of old, - Treateth of the Peer and Peeress, the truly Sublime and Beautiful: - Likewise study the 'creations' of 'the Prince of modern Romance'; - Sigh over Leonard the Martyr, and smile on Pelham the puppy: - Learn how 'love is the dram-drinking of existence'; - And how we 'invoke, in the Gadara of our still closets, - The beautiful ghost of the Ideal, with the simple wand of the pen.' - Listen how Maltravers and the orphan 'forgot all but love,' - And how Devereux's family chaplain 'made and unmade kings': - How Eugene Aram, though a thief, a liar, and a murderer, - Yet, being intellectual, was amongst the noblest of mankind. - So shalt thou live in a world peopled with heroes and - master-spirits; - And if thou canst not realize the Ideal, thou shalt at least - idealize the Real. - - - THE COCK AND THE BULL. - - (BROWNING) - - You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I bought - Of a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day-- - I like to dock the smaller parts-o'-speech, - As we curtail the already cur-tail'd cur - (You catch the paronomasia, play 'po' words?), - Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days. - Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern, - And clapt it i' my poke, having given for same - By way o' chop, swop, barter or exchange-- - 'Chop' was my snickering dandiprat's own term-- - One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm. - O-n-e one and f-o-u-r four - Pence, one and fourpence--you are with me, sir?-- - What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock, - One day (and what a roaring day it was - Go shop or sight-see--bar a spit o' rain!) - In February, eighteen sixty nine, - Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei - Hm--hm--how runs the jargon? being on throne. - - Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, - The basis or substratum--what you will-- - Of the impending eighty thousand lines. - 'Not much in 'em either,' quoth perhaps simple Hodge. - But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit. - Mark first the rationale of the thing: - Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed. - That shilling--and for matter o' that, the pence-- - I had o' course upo' me--wi' me say-- - (_Mecum's_ the Latin, make a note o' that) - When I popp'd pen i' stand, scratch'd ear, wip'd snout, - (Let everybody wipe his own himself) - Sniff'd--tch!--at snuffbox; tumbled up, he-heed, - Haw-haw'd (not hee-haw'd, that's another guess thing:) - Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door, - I shoved the timber ope wi' my omoplat; - And _in vestibulo_, i' the lobby to-wit, - (Iacobi Facciolati's rendering, sir,) - Donn'd galligaskins, antigropeloes, - And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves, - One on and one a-dangle i' my hand, - And ombrifuge (Lord love you!), case o' rain, - I flopp'd forth, 'sbuddikins! on my own ten toes, - (I do assure you there be ten of them,) - And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale - To find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy. - Put case I hadn't 'em on me, could I ha' bought - This sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call toy, - This pebble-thing, o' the boy-thing? Q.E.D. - That's proven without aid from mumping Pope, - Sleek porporate or bloated Cardinal. - (Isn't it, old Fatchaps? You're in Euclid now.) - So, having the shilling--having i' fact a lot-- - And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them, - I purchased, as I think I said before, - The pebble (_lapis, lapidis, -di, -dem, -de_-- - What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?) - O' the boy, a bare-legg'd beggarly son of a gun, - For one-and-fourpence. Here we are again. - - Now Law steps in, bigwigg'd, voluminous-jaw'd; - Investigates and re-investigates. - Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head. - Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case. - - At first the coin was mine, the chattel his. - But now (by virtue of the said exchange - And barter) _vice versa_ all the coin, - _Per juris operationem_, vests - I' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom; - (_In sæcula sæculo-o-o-orum_; - I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.) - To have and hold the same to him and them.... - _Confer_ some idiot on Conveyancing. - Whereas the pebble and every part thereof, - And all that appertained thereunto, - _Quodcunque pertinet ad eam rem_, - (I fancy, sir, my Latin's rather pat) - Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would or should, - (_Subaudi cætera_--clap we to the close-- - For what's the good of law in a case o' the kind) - Is mine to all intents and purposes. - This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale. - - Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality. - He says a gen'lman bought a pebble of him, - (This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand)-- - And paid for't, _like_ a gen'lman, on the nail. - 'Did I o'ercharge him a ha'penny? Devil a bit. - Fiddlepin's end! Get out, you blazing ass! - Gabble o' the goose. Don't bugaboo-baby _me_! - Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what's the odds?' - --There's the transaction view'd i' the vendor's light. - - Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by, - With her three frowsy blowsy brats o' babes, - The scum o' the kennel, cream o' the filth-heap--Faugh! - Aie, aie, aie, aie! ὀτοτοτοτοτοῖ, - ('Stead which we blurt out Hoighty toighty now)-- - And the baker and candlestickmaker, and Jack and Gill, - Blear'd Goody this and queasy Gaffer that. - Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first. - - He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad - A stone, and pay for it _rite_, on the square, - And carry it off _per saltum_, jauntily, - _Propria quæ maribus_, gentleman's property now - (Agreeably to the law explain'd above), - _In proprium usum_, for his private ends. - The boy he chuck'd a brown i' the air, and bit - I' the face the shilling: heaved a thumping stone - At a lean hen that ran cluck clucking by, - (And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door,) - Then _abiit_--what's the Ciceronian phrase?-- - _Excessit, evasit, erupit_--off slogs boy; - Off like bird, _avi similis_--(you observed - The dative? Pretty i' the Mantuan!)--Anglice, - Off in three flea skips. _Hactenus_, so far, - So good, _tam bene. Bene, satis, male_--, - Where was I with my trope 'bout one in a quag? - I did once hitch the syntax into verse: - _Verbum personale_, a verb personal, - _Concordat_--ay, 'agrees,' old Fatchaps--_cum_ - _Nominativo_, with its nominative, - _Genere_, i' point o' gender, _numero_; - O' number, _et persona_, and person. _Ut_, - Instance: _Sol ruit_, down flops sun, _et_ and, - _Montes umbrantur_, out flounce mountains. Pah! - Excuse me, sir, I think I'm going mad. - You see the trick on't though, and can yourself - Continue the discourse _ad libitum_. - It takes up about eighty thousand lines, - A thing imagination boggles at; - And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands, - Extend from here to Mesopotamy. - - - LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION. - - (JEAN INGELOW) - - 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; - - Through God's own heather we wonned 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! - - Through the rare red heather we danced together, - (O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers: - I must mention again it was gorgeous weather, - Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:-- - - By rises that flushed with their purple favours, - Through 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 snapped--(it was perfectly charming weather)-- - Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms: - - And Willie 'gan sing (O, his notes were fluty; - Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged' sea)-- - Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty - Rhymes (better to put it) of 'ancientry': - - Bowers of flowers encountered showers - In William's carol--(O love my Willie!) - Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow - I quite forget 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: - - Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories, - And all least furlable things got 'furled'; - Not with any design to conceal their 'glories,' - But simply and solely to rhyme with 'world.' - - * * * * * - - 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! - - - BALLAD. - - (JEAN INGELOW) - - 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 aproned knees. - - The piper he piped on the hill-top high, - (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) - Till the cow said 'I die,' and the goose asked 'Why?' - And the dog said nothing, but searched for fleas. - - The farmer he strove through the square farmyard; - (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) - His last brew of ale was a trifle hard-- - The connexion of which with the plot one sees. - - The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes; - (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) - She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, - As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas. - - The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips; - (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) - If you try to approach her, away she skips - Over tables and chairs with apparent ease. - - The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair; - (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) - And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, - Which wholly consisted of lines like these. - - - PART II. - - She sat, with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, - (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) - And spake not a word. While a lady speaks - There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze. - - She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks, - (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) - She gave up mending her father's breeks, - And let the cat roll in her new chemise. - - She sat, with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks, - (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) - And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; - Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas. - - Her sheep followed her, as their tails did them. - (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) - And this song is considered a perfect gem, - And as to the meaning, it's what you please. - - - - - CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON ('LEWIS CARROLL') - - - HOW DOTH THE LITTLE CROCODILE - - (ISAAC WATTS) - - How doth the little crocodile - Improve his shining tail, - And pour the waters of the Nile - On every golden scale! - - How cheerfully he seems to grin, - How neatly spreads his claws, - And welcomes little fishes in, - With gently smiling jaws! - - - 'TIS THE VOICE OF THE LOBSTER. - - (ISAAC WATTS) - - 'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, - 'You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.' - As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose - Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes. - - - TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE BAT. - - (JANE TAYLOR) - - Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! - How I wonder what you're at! - Up above the world you fly, - Like a tea-tray in the sky. - - - YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM. - - (SOUTHEY) - - 'You are old, Father William,' the young man said, - 'And your hair has become very white; - And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- - Do you think, at your age, it is right?' - - 'In my youth,' Father William replied to his son, - 'I feared it might injure the brain; - But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, - Why, I do it again and again.' - - 'You are old,' said the youth, 'as I mentioned before, - And have grown most uncommonly fat; - Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- - Pray, what is the reason of that?' - - 'In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, - 'I kept all my limbs very supple - By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- - Allow me to sell you a couple.' - - 'You are old,' said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weak - For anything tougher than suet; - Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- - Pray how did you manage to do it?' - - 'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law, - And argued each case with my wife; - And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, - Has lasted the rest of my life.' - - 'You are old,' said the youth, 'one would hardly suppose - That your eye was as steady as ever; - Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- - What made you so awfully clever?' - - 'I have answered three questions, and that is enough,' - Said his father; 'don't give yourself airs! - Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? - Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!' - - - HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING. - - (LONGFELLOW) - - In an age of imitation, I can claim no sort of merit for this - slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Anyone - who knows what verse is, with the slightest ear for rhythm, - can throw off a composition in the easy running metre of 'The - Song of Hiawatha.' Having, then, distinctly stated that I - challenge no attention, in the following little poem, to its - merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader, to confine - his criticism to its treatment of the subject. - - From his shoulder Hiawatha - Took the camera of rosewood, - Made of sliding, folding rosewood; - Neatly put it all together. - In its case it lay compactly, - Folded into nearly nothing; - But he opened out the hinges, - Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, - Till it looked all squares and oblongs, - Like a complicated figure - In the second book of Euclid. - This he perched upon a tripod, - And the family in order - Sat before him for their pictures. - Mystic, awful was the process. - First a piece of glass he coated - With Collodion, and plunged it - In a bath of Lunar Caustic - Carefully dissolved in water: - There he left it certain minutes. - Secondly, my Hiawatha - Made with cunning hand a mixture - Of the acid Pyro-gallic, - And of Glacial Acetic, - And of Alcohol and water: - This developed all the picture. - Finally, he fixed each picture - With a saturate solution - Of a certain salt of Soda-- - Chemists call it Hyposulphite. - (Very difficult the name is - For a metre like the present, - But periphrasis has done it.) - All the family in order - Sat before him for their pictures. - Each in turn, as he was taken, - Volunteered his own suggestions, - His invaluable suggestions. - First the Governor, the Father: - He suggested velvet curtains - Looped about a massy pillar; - And the corner of a table, - Of a rosewood dining-table. - He would hold a scroll of something, - Hold it firmly in his left-hand; - He would keep his right-hand buried - (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; - He would contemplate the distance - With a look of pensive meaning, - As of ducks that die in tempests. - Grand, heroic was the notion: - Yet the picture failed entirely: - Failed, because he moved a little, - Moved, because he couldn't help it. - Next, his better half took courage; - _She_ would have her picture taken: - She came dressed beyond description, - Dressed in jewels and in satin - Far too gorgeous for an empress. - Gracefully she sat down sideways, - With a simper scarcely human, - Holding in her hand a nosegay - Rather larger than a cabbage. - All the while that she was taking, - Still the lady chattered, chattered, - Like a monkey in the forest. - 'Am I sitting still?' she asked him. - 'Is my face enough in profile? - Shall I hold the nosegay higher? - Will it come into the picture?' - And the picture failed completely. - Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab: - He suggested curves of beauty, - Curves pervading all his figure, - Which the eye might follow onward, - Till they centred in the breast-pin, - Centred in the golden breast-pin. - He had learnt it all from Ruskin - (Author of 'The Stones of Venice,' - 'Seven Lamps of Architecture,' - 'Modern Painters,' and some others); - And perhaps he had not fully - Understood his author's meaning; - But, whatever was the reason, - All was fruitless, as the picture - Ended in an utter failure. - Next to him the eldest daughter: - She suggested very little; - Only asked if he would take her - With her look of 'passive beauty.' - Her idea of passive beauty - Was a squinting of the left-eye, - Was a drooping of the right-eye, - Was a smile that went up sideways - To the corner of the nostrils. - Hiawatha, when she asked him, - Took no notice of the question, - Looked as if he hadn't heard it; - But, when pointedly appealed to, - Smiled in his peculiar manner, - Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,' - Bit his lip and changed the subject. - Nor in this was he mistaken, - As the picture failed completely. - So in turn the other sisters. - Last, the youngest son was taken: - Very rough and thick his hair was, - Very round and red his face was, - Very dusty was his jacket, - Very fidgetty his manner. - And his overbearing sisters - Called him names he disapproved of: - Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,' - Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy,' - And, so awful was the picture, - In comparison the others - Might be thought to have succeeded, - To have partially succeeded. - Finally my Hiawatha - Tumbled all the tribe together, - 'Grouped' is not the right expression,) - And, as happy chance would have it, - Did at last obtain a picture - Where the faces all succeeded: - Each came out a perfect likeness. - Then they joined and all abused it, - Unrestrainedly abused it, - As 'the worst and ugliest picture - They could possibly have dreamed of. - Giving one such strange expressions! - Sulkiness, conceit, and meanness! - Really any one would take us - (Any one that did not know us) - For the most unpleasant people!' - (Hiawatha seemed to think so, - Seemed to think it not unlikely.) - All together rang their voices, - Angry, loud, discordant voices, - As of dogs that howl in concert, - As of cats that wail in chorus. - But my Hiawatha's patience, - His politeness and his patience, - Unaccountably had vanished, - And he left that happy party. - Neither did he leave them slowly, - With that calm deliberation, - That intense deliberation - Which photographers aspire to: - But he left them in a hurry, - Left them in a mighty hurry, - Vowing that he would not stand it. - Hurriedly he packed his boxes, - Hurriedly the porter trundled - On a barrow all his boxes; - Hurriedly he took his ticket, - Hurriedly the train received him: - Thus departed Hiawatha. - - - THE THREE VOICES. - - (TENNYSON) - - - _The First Voice._ - - With hands tight clenched through matted hair, - He crouched in trance of dumb despair: - There came a breeze from out the air. - - It passed athwart the glooming flat-- - It fanned his forehead as he sat-- - It lightly bore away his hat, - - All to the feet of one who stood - Like maid enchanted in a wood, - Frowning as darkly as she could. - - With huge umbrella, lank and brown, - Unerringly she pinned it down, - Right through the centre of the crown. - - Then, with an aspect cold and grim, - Regardless of its battered rim, - She took it up and gave it him. - - Awhile like one in dreams he stood, - Then faltered forth his gratitude, - In words just short of being rude: - - For it had lost its shape and shine, - And it had cost him four-and-nine, - And he was going out to dine. - - With grave indifference to his speech, - Fixing her eyes upon the beach, - She said 'Each gives to more than each.' - - He could not answer yea or nay: - He faltered 'Gifts may pass away.' - Yet knew not what he meant to say. - - 'If that be so,' she straight replied, - 'Each heart with each doth coincide. - What boots it? For the world is wide.' - - And he, not wishing to appear - Less wise, said 'This Material Sphere - Is but Attributive Idea.' - - But when she asked him 'Wherefore so?' - He felt his very whiskers glow, - And frankly owned 'I do not know.' - - While, like broad waves of golden grain. - Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane, - His colour came and went again. - - Pitying his obvious distress, - Yet with a tinge of bitterness, - She said 'The More exceeds the Less.' - - 'A truth of such undoubted weight, - He urged, 'and so extreme in date, - It were superfluous to state.' - - Roused into sudden passion, she - In tone of cold malignity: - 'To others, yes: but not to thee.' - - But when she saw him quail and quake, - And when he urged 'For pity's sake!' - Once more in gentle tone she spake. - - 'Thought in the mind doth still abide; - That is by Intellect supplied, - And within that Idea doth hide. - - 'And he, that yearns the truth to know, - Still further inwardly may go, - And find Idea from Notion flow. - - 'And thus the chain, that sages sought, - Is to a glorious circle wrought, - For Notion hath its source in Thought.' - - When he, with racked and whirling brain, - Feebly implored her to explain, - She simply said it all again. - - Wrenched with an agony intense, - He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense, - And careless of all consequence: - - 'Mind--I believe--is Essence--Ent-- - Abstract--that is--an Accident-- - Which we--that is to say--I meant--' - - When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed, - At length his speech was somewhat hushed, - She looked at him, and he was crushed. - - It needed not her calm reply: - She fixed him with a stony eye, - And he could neither fight nor fly, - - While she dissected, word by word, - His speech, half guessed at and half heard, - As might a cat a little bird. - - Then, having wholly overthrown - His views, and stripped them to the bone, - Proceeded to unfold her own. - - So passed they on with even pace, - Yet gradually one might trace - A shadow growing on his face. - - - _The Second Voice._ - - They walked beside the wave-worn beach, - Her tongue was very apt to teach, - And now and then he did beseech - - She would abate her dulcet tone, - Because the talk was all her own, - And he was dull as any drone. - - She urged 'No cheese is made of chalk': - And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk, - Tuned to the footfall of a walk. - - Her voice was very full and rich, - And, when at length she asked him 'Which?' - It mounted to its highest pitch. - - He a bewildered answer gave, - Drowned in the sullen moaning wave, - Lost in the echoes of the cave. - - He answered her he knew not what: - Like shaft from bow at random shot: - He spoke, but she regarded not. - - She waited not for his reply, - But with a downward leaden eye - Went on as if he were not by. - - Sound argument and grave defence, - Strange questions raised on 'Why?' and 'Whence?' - And weighted down with common sense. - - 'Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss - Of other thoughts no thought but this, - Harmonious dews of sober bliss? - - 'What boots it? Shall his fevered eye - Through towering nothingness descry - The grisly phantom hurry by? - - 'And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air; - See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare - And redden in the dusky glare? - - 'The meadows breathing amber light, - The darkness toppling from the height, - The feathery train of granite Night? - - 'Shall he, grown gray among his peers, - Through the thick curtain of his tears - Catch glimpses of his earlier years, - - 'And hear the sounds he knew of yore, - Old shufflings on the sanded floor, - Old knuckles tapping at the door? - - 'Yet still before him as he flies - One pallid form shall ever rise, - And, bodying forth in glassy eyes - - 'The vision of a vanished good, - Low peering through the tangled wood, - Shall freeze the current of his blood.' - - Still from each fact, with skill uncouth - And savage rapture, like a tooth - She wrenched a slow reluctant truth. - - Till, like some silent water-mill, - When summer suns have dried the rill, - She reached a full stop, and was still. - - Dead calm succeeded to the fuss, - As when the loaded omnibus - Has reached the railway terminus: - - When, for the tumult of the street, - Is heard the engine's stifled beat, - The velvet tread of porters' feet. - - With glance that ever sought the ground, - She moved her lips without a sound, - And every now and then she frowned. - - He gazed upon the sleeping sea, - And joyed in its tranquillity, - And in that silence dead, but she - - To muse a little space did seem, - Then, like the echo of a dream, - Harped back upon her threadbare theme. - - Still an attentive ear he lent, - But could not fathom what she meant: - She was not deep, nor eloquent. - - He marked the ripple on the sand: - The even swaying of her hand - Was all that he could understand. - - He left her, and he turned aside: - He sat and watched the coming tide - Across the shores so newly dried. - - He wondered at the waters clear, - The breeze that whispered in his ear, - The billows heaving far and near; - - And why he had so long preferred - To hang upon her every word; - 'In truth,' he said, 'it was absurd.' - - - _The Third Voice._ - - Not long this transport held its place: - Within a little moment's space - Quick tears were raining down his face. - - His heart stood still, aghast with fear; - A wordless voice, nor far nor near, - He seemed to hear and not to hear. - - 'Tears kindle not the doubtful spark: - If so, why not? Of this remark - The bearings are profoundly dark.' - - 'Her speech,' he said, 'hath caused this pain; - Easier I count it to explain - The jargon of the howling main, - - 'Or, stretched beside some sedgy brook, - To con, with inexpressive look, - An unintelligible book.' - - Low spake the voice within his head, - In words imagined more than said, - Soundless as ghost's intended tread: - - 'If thou art duller than before, - Why quittedst thou the voice of lore? - Why not endure, expecting more?' - - 'Rather than that,' he groaned aghast, - 'I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast, - Some loathly vampire's rich repast.' - - ''Twere hard,' it answered, 'themes immense - To coop within the narrow fence - That rings _thy_ scant intelligence.' - - 'Not so,' he urged, 'nor once alone: - But there was that within her tone - Which chilled me to the very bone. - - 'Her style was anything but clear, - And most unpleasantly severe; - Her epithets were very queer. - - 'And yet, so grand were her replies, - I could not choose but deem her wise; - I did not dare to criticise; - - 'Nor did I leave her, till she went - So deep in tangled argument - That all my powers of thought were spent,' - - A little whisper inly slid; - 'Yet truth is truth: you know you did--' - A little wink beneath the lid. - - And, sickened with excess of dread, - Prone to the dust he bent his head, - And lay like one three-quarters dead. - - Forth went the whisper like a breeze; - Left him amid the wondering trees, - Left him by no means at his ease. - - Once more he weltered in despair, - With hands, through denser-matted hair, - More tightly clenched than then they were. - - When, bathed in dawn of living red, - Majestic frowned the mountain head, - 'Tell me my fault,' was all he said. - - When, at high noon, the blazing sky - Scorched in his head each haggard eye, - Then keenest rose his weary cry. - - And when at eve the unpitying sun - Smiled grimly on the solemn fun, - 'Alack,' he sighed, 'what _have_ I done?' - - But saddest, darkest was the sight, - When the cold grasp of leaden Night - Dashed him to earth, and held him tight. - - Tortured, unaided, and alone, - Thunders were silence to his groan, - Bagpipes sweet music to its tone: - - 'What? Ever thus, in dismal round, - Shall Pain and Misery profound - Pursue me like a sleepless hound, - - 'With crimson-dashed and eager jaws, - Me, still in ignorance of the cause, - Unknowing what I brake of laws?' - - The whisper to his ear did seem - Like echoed flow of silent stream, - Or shadow of forgotten dream; - - The whisper trembling in the wind: - 'Her fate with thine was intertwined,' - So spake it in his inner mind: - - 'Each orbed on each a baleful star, - Each proved the other's blight and bar, - Each unto each were best, most far: - - 'Yea, each to each was worse than foe, - Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low, - And she, an avalanche of woe.' - - - BEAUTIFUL SOUP. - - (UNCERTAIN) - - Beautiful Soup, so rich and green, - Waiting in a hot tureen! - Who for such dainties would not stoop? - Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! - Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! - Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! - Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! - Soo--oop of the e--e--evening, - Beautiful, beautiful Soup! - - Beautiful Soup! who cares for fish, - Game, or any other dish? - Who would not give all else for two - Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup? - Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup? - Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! - Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! - Soo--oop of the e--e--evening - Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP! - - - - - THOMAS HOOD THE YOUNGER. - - - RAVINGS. - - (BY E., A POE-T) - - The autumn upon us was rushing, - The Parks were deserted and lone-- - The streets were unpeopled and lone; - My foot through the sere leaves was brushing, - That over the pathway were strown-- - By the wind in its wanderings strown. - I sighed--for my feelings were gushing - Round Mnemosyne's porphyry throne, - Like lava liquescent lay gushing, - And rose to the porphyry throne-- - To the filigree footstool were gushing, - That stands on the steps of that throne-- - On the stolid stone steps of that throne! - - I cried--'Shall the winter-leaves fret us?' - Oh, turn--we must turn to the fruit, - To the freshness and force of the fruit! - To the gifts wherewith Autumn has met us-- - Her music that never grows mute - (That maunders but never grows mute), - The tendrils the vine branches net us, - The lily, the lettuce, the lute-- - The esculent, succulent lettuce, - And the languishing lily, and lute;-- - Yes;--the lotos-like leaves of the lettuce; - Late lily and lingering lute. - - Then come--let us fly from the city! - Let us travel in orient isles-- - In the purple of orient isles-- - Oh, bear me--yes, bear me in pity - To climes where a sun ever smiles-- - Ever smoothly and speciously smiles! - Where the swarth-browed Arabian's wild ditty - Enhances pyramidal piles: - Where his wild, weird, and wonderful ditty - Awakens pyramidal piles-- - Yes:--his pointless perpetual ditty - Perplexes pyramidal piles! - - - IN MEMORIAM TECHNICAM. - - (TENNYSON) - - I count it true which sages teach-- - That passion sways not with repose, - That love, confounding these with those, - Is ever welding each with each. - - And so when time has ebbed away, - Like childish wreaths too lightly held, - The song of immemorial eld - Shall moan about the belted bay, - - Where slant Orion slopes his star - To swelter in the rolling seas, - Till slowly widening by degrees, - The grey climbs upward from afar, - - And golden youth and passion stray - Along the ridges of the strand-- - Not far apart, but hand in hand-- - With all the darkness danced away! - - - THE WEDDING. - - ('OWEN MEREDITH') - - Lady Clara Vere de Vere! - I hardly know what I must say, - But I'm to be Queen of the May, mother - I'm to be Queen of the May! - I am half-crazed; I don't feel grave, - Let me rave! - Whole weeks and months, early and late, - To win his love I lay in wait. - Oh, the Earl was fair to see, - As fair as any man could be:-- - The wind is howling in turret and tree! - - We two shall be wed to-morrow morn, - And I shall be the Lady Clare, - And when my marriage morn shall fall - I hardly know what I shall wear. - But I shan't say 'my life is dreary,' - And sadly hang my head, - With the remark, 'I'm very weary, - And wish that I were dead.' - - But on my husband's arm I'll lean, - And roundly waste his plenteous gold, - Passing the honeymoon serene - In that new world which is the old. - For down we'll go and take the boat - Beside St. Katherine's Docks afloat, - Which round about its prow has wrote-- - 'The Lady of Shalotter' - (Mondays and Thursdays--Captain Foat), - Bound for the Dam of Rotter. - - (From _Ten Hours, or the Warbling Wag'ner_. - BY OWING MERRYTHIEF.) - - - POETS AND LINNETS. - - (BROWNING) - - Where'er there's a thistle to feed a linnet - And linnets are plenty, thistles rife-- - Or an acorn-cup to catch dew-drops in it - There's ample promise of further life. - Now, mark how we begin it. - - For linnets will follow, if linnets are minded, - As blows the white-feather parachute; - And ships will reel by the tempest blinded-- - Aye, ships and shiploads of men to boot! - How deep whole fleets you'll find hid. - - And we blow the thistle-down hither and thither - Forgetful of linnets, and men, and God. - The dew! for its want an oak will wither-- - By the dull hoof into the dust is trod, - And then who strikes the cither? - - But thistles were only for donkeys intended, - And that donkeys are common enough is clear, - And that drop! what a vessel it might have befriended, - Does it add any flavour to Glugabib's beer? - Well, there's my musing ended. - - - - - WALTER WILLIAM SKEAT. - - - A CLERK THER WAS OF CAUNTEBRIGGE ALSO. - - (CHAUCER) - - A Clerk ther was of Cauntebrigge also, - That unto rowing haddè long y-go. - Of thinnè shidès[112] wolde he shippès makè, - And he was nat right fat, I undertakè. - And whan his ship he wrought had attè fullè, - Right gladly by the river wolde he pullè, - And eek returne as blythly as he wentè. - Him rekkèd nevere that the sonne him brentè,[113] - Ne stinted he his cours for reyn ne snowè; - It was a joyè for to seen him rowè! - Yit was him lever, in his shelves newè, - Six oldè textès,[114] clad in greenish hewè, - Of Chaucer and his oldè poesyè - Than ale, or wyn of Lepe,[115] or Malvoisyè. - And therwithal he wex a philosofre; - And peyned him to gadren gold in cofre - Of sundry folk; and al that he mighte hentè[116] - On textès and emprinting he it spentè; - And busily gan bokès to purveyè - For hem that yeve him wherwith to scoleyè.[117] - Of glossaryès took he hede and curè[118]; - And when he spyèd had, by aventurè, - A word that semèd him or strange or rarè, - To henten[119] it anon he noldè sparè,[120] - But wolde it on a shrede[121] of paper wrytè, - And in a cheste he dide his shredès whytè, - And preyèd every man to doon the samè; - Swich maner study was to him but gamè. - And on this wysè many a yeer he wroughté, - Ay storing every shreed that men him broughtè, - Til, attè lastè, from the noble pressè - Of Clarendoun, at Oxenforde, I gessè, - Cam stalking forth the Gretè Dictionárie - That no man wel may pinche at[122] ne contrárie. - But for to tellen alle his queintè gerès,[123] - They wolden occupye wel seven yerès; - Therefore I passe as lightly as I may; - Ne speke I of his hatte or his array, - Ne how his berd by every wind was shakè - When as, for hete, his hat he wolde of takè. - Souning in[124] Erly English was his spechè, - 'And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly techè.' - - - - - HENRY SAMBROOKE LEIGH. - - - ONLY SEVEN. - - (A PASTORAL STORY, AFTER WORDSWORTH) - - I marvelled why a simple child - That lightly draws its breath - Should utter groans so very wild, - And look as pale as Death. - - Adopting a parental tone, - I asked her why she cried; - The damsel answered, with a groan, - 'I've got a pain inside. - - 'I thought it would have sent me mad - Last night about eleven;' - Said I, 'What is it makes you bad? - How many apples have you had?' - She answered, 'Only seven!' - - 'And are you sure you took no more, - My little maid?' quoth I. - 'Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four, - But _they_ were in a pie!' - - 'If that's the case,' I stammered out, - 'Of course you've had eleven;' - The maiden answered, with a pout, - 'I ain't had more nor seven!' - - I wondered hugely what she meant, - And said, 'I'm bad at riddles, - But I know where little girls are sent - For telling tarradiddles. - - 'Now, if you don't reform,' said I, - 'You'll never go to heaven.' - But all in vain; each time I try, - That little idiot makes reply, - 'I ain't had more nor seven!' - - - POSTSCRIPT. - - To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong, - Or slightly misapplied; - And so I'd better call my song, - 'Lines after _Ache-inside_.' - - - CHATEAUX D'ESPAGNE. - - (A REMINISCENCE OF 'DAVID GARRICK' AND 'THE BATTLE - OF ANDALUSIA.') - - (E. A. POE) - - Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord Dundreary - With his quaint and curious humour set the town in such a roar, - With my shilling I stood rapping--only very gently tapping-- - - For the man in charge was napping--at the money-taker's door. - It was Mr. Buckstone's playhouse, where I lingered at the door; - Paid half price and nothing more. - - Most distinctly I remember, it was just about September-- - Though it might have been in August, or it might have been before-- - Dreadfully I fear'd the morrow. Vainly had I sought to borrow; - For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor, - And the heart is heavy laden when one's miserably poor; - (I have been so once before.) - - I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the curtain, - If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I'd seen before; - For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave, and clinking - With their glasses on the table, I had witness'd o'er and o'er; - Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o'er; - Twenty years ago or more. - - Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the thing no longer; - 'Miss,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore. - Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly have the goodness - To inform me if this drama is from Gaul's enlightened shore?' - For I know that plays are often brought us from the Gallic shore; - Adaptations--nothing more! - - So I put the question lowly: and my neighbour answer'd slowly, - 'It's a British drama wholly, written quite in days of yore. - 'Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary, - And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be poor!' - (And I could not help agreeing that the dialogue _was_ poor; - Very flat, and nothing more.) - - But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew centred - In her figure, and her features, and the costume that she wore. - And the slightest sound she utter'd was like music; so I mutter'd - To my neighbour, 'Glance a minute at your play-bill, I implore. - Who's that rare and radiant maiden? Tell, oh, tell me! I implore!' - Quoth my neighbour, 'Nelly Moore!' - - Then I ask'd in quite a tremble--it was useless to dissemble-- - 'Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more; - Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear'd so sorrow laden - In the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door?' - Quoth my neighbour, 'Nelly Moore.' - - * * * * * - - I've her photograph from Lacy's; that delicious little face is - Smiling on me as I'm sitting (in a draught from yonder door), - And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light falls - From the wretched tallow candles on my gloomy second-floor, - (For I have not got the gaslight on my gloomy second-floor) - Comes an echo, 'Nelly Moore!' - - - - - ROBERT HENRY NEWELL. - - - ('ORPHEUS C. KERR') - - REJECTED NATIONAL ANTHEMS. - - - I. - - (BRYANT) - - The sun sinks softly to his evening post, - The sun swells grandly to his morning crown; - Yet not a star our flag of Heav'n has lost, - And not a sunset stripe with him goes down. - - So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those, - New thrones may rise, to totter like the last; - But still our country's nobler planet glows - While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast. - - - II. - - (EMERSON) - - Source immaterial of material naught, - Focus of light infinitesimal, - Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought, - Of which the abnormal man is decimal. - - Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars - To the stars blent incipient on our flag, - The beam translucent, neutrifying death; - And raise to immortality the rag. - - - III. - - (WILLIS) - - One hue of our flag is taken - From the cheeks of my blushing Pet, - And its stars beat time and sparkle - Like the studs on her chemisette. - Its blue is the ocean shadow - That hides in her dreamy eyes, - It conquers all men, like her, - And still for a Union flies. - - - IV. - - (LONGFELLOW) - - Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch - Over the sea-ribb'd land of the fleet-footed Norsemen, - Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens-- - Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen. - - Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, - Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner, - Wildly he started--for there in the heavens before him - Flutter'd and flew the original Star-Spangled Banner. - - - V. - - (WHITTIER) - - My native land, thy Puritanic stock - Stills finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock, - And all thy sons unite in one grand wish-- - To keep the virtues of Preservéd Fish. - - Preservéd Fish the Deacon stern and true - Told our New England what her sons should do, - And should they swerve from loyalty and right, - Then the whole land were lost indeed in night. - - - VI. - - (HOLMES) - - A diagnosis of our hist'ry proves - Our native land a land its native loves; - Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, - Its growth a source of wonder far and near. - - To love it more behold, how foreign shores - Sink into nothingness beside its stores; - Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra-grand-- - The 'Boston Common' of Victoria's land. - - - VII. - - (STODDARD) - - Behold the flag! Is it not a flag? - Deny it, man, if you dare; - And midway spread, 'twixt earth and sky, - It hangs like a written prayer. - - Would impious hand of foe disturb - Its memories' holy spell, - And blight it with a dew of blood? - Ha, tr-r-aitor!!.... It is well. - - - VIII. - - (ALDRICH) - - The little brown squirrel hops in the corn - The cricket quaintly sings; - The emerald pigeon nods his head, - And the shad in the river springs, - The dainty sunflower hangs its head - On the shore of the summer sea; - And better far that I were dead, - If Maud did not love me. - - I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, - And the cricket that quaintly sings; - And the emerald pigeon that nods his head, - And the shad that gaily springs. - I love the dainty sunflower, too, - And Maud with her snowy breast; - I love them all;--but I love--I love-- - I love my country best. - - - - - ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. - - - THE POET AND THE WOODLOUSE - - (E. B. BROWNING) - - Said a poet to a woodlouse--'Thou art certainly my brother; - I discern in thee the markings of the fingers of the Whole; - And I recognize, in spite of all the terrene smut and smother, - In the colours shaded off thee, the suggestions of a soul. - - 'Yea,' the poet said, 'I smell thee by some passive divination, - I am satisfied with insight of the measure of thine house; - What had happened I conjecture, in a blank and rhythmic passion, - Had the æons thought of making thee a man, and me a louse. - - 'The broad lives of upper planets, their absorption and digestion, - Food and famine, health and sickness, I can scrutinize and test; - Through a shiver of the senses comes a resonance of question, - And by proof of balanced answer I decide that I am best. - - 'Man, the fleshly marvel, alway feels a certain kind of awe stick - To the skirts of contemplation, cramped with nympholeptic weight: - Feels his faint sense charred and branded by the touch of solar - caustic, - On the forehead of his spirit feels the footprint of a Fate.' - - 'Notwithstanding which, O poet,' spake the woodlouse, very blandly, - 'I am likewise the created,--I the equipoise of thee; - I the particle, the atom, I behold on either hand lie - The inane of measured ages that were embryos of me. - - 'I am fed with intimations, I am clothed with consequences, - And the air I breathe is coloured with apocalyptic blush: - Ripest-budded odours blossom out of dim chaotic stenches, - And the Soul plants spirit-lilies in sick leagues of human slush. - - 'I am thrilled half cosmically through by cryptophantic surgings, - Till the rhythmic hills roar silent through a spongious kind of - blee: - And earth's soul yawns disembowelled of her pancreatic organs, - Like a madrepore if mesmerized, in rapt catalepsy. - - 'And I sacrifice, a Levite--and I palpitate, a poet;-- - Can I close dead ears against the rush and resonance of things? - Symbols in me breathe and flicker up the heights of the heroic; - Earth's worst spawn, you said, and cursèd me? look! approve me! - I have wings. - - 'Ah, men's poets! men's conventions crust you round and swathe you - mist-like, - And the world's wheels grind your spirits down the dust ye - overtrod: - We stand sinlessly stark-naked in effulgence of the Christlight, - And our polecat chokes not cherubs; and our skunk smells sweet to - God. - - 'For He grasps the pale Created by some thousand vital handles, - Till a Godshine, bluely winnowed through the sieve of - thunderstorms, - Shimmers up the non-existent round the churning feet of angels; - And the atoms of that glory may be seraphs, being worms. - - 'Friends, your nature underlies us and your pulses overplay us; - Ye, with social sores unbandaged, can ye sing right and steer - wrong? - For the transient cosmic, rooted in imperishable chaos, - Must be kneaded into drastics as material for a song. - - 'Eyes once purged from homebred vapours through humanitarian passion - See that monochrome a despot through a democratic prism; - Hands that rip the soul up, reeking from divine evisceration, - Not with priestlike oil anoint him, but a stronger-smelling - chrism. - - 'Pass, O poet, retransfigured! God, the psychometric rhapsode, - Fills with fiery rhythms the silence, stings the dark with stars - that blink; - All eternities hang round him like an old man's clothes collapsèd, - While he makes his mundane music--AND HE WILL NOT STOP, I THINK.' - - - THE PERSON OF THE HOUSE. - - IDYL CCCLXVI. THE KID. - - (PATMORE) - - My spirit, in the doorway's pause, - Fluttered with fancies in my breast; - Obsequious to all decent laws, - I felt exceedingly distressed. - I knew it rude to enter there - With Mrs. V. in such a state; - And, 'neath a magisterial air, - Felt actually indelicate. - I knew the nurse began to grin; - I turned to greet my Love. Said she-- - 'Confound your modesty, come in! - --What shall we call the darling, V.?' - (There are so many charming names! - Girls'--Peg, Moll, Doll, Fan, Kate, Blanche, Bab: - Boys'--Mahershalal-hashbaz, James, - Luke, Nick, Dick, Mark, Aminadab.) - - Lo, as the acorn to the oak, - As well-heads to the river's height, - As to the chicken the moist yolk, - As to high noon the day's first white-- - Such is the baby to the man. - There, straddling one red arm and leg, - Lay my last work, in length a span, - Half hatched, and conscious of the egg. - A creditable child, I hoped; - And half a score of joys to be - Through sunny lengths of prospect sloped - Smooth to the bland futurity. - O, fate surpassing other dooms, - O, hope above all wrecks of time! - O, light that fills all vanquished glooms, - O, silent song o'ermastering rhyme! - I covered either little foot, - I drew the strings about its waist; - Pink as the unshell'd inner fruit, - But barely decent, hardly chaste, - Its nudity had startled me; - But when the petticoats were on, - 'I know,' I said; 'its name shall be - Paul Cyril Athanasius John.' - 'Why,' said my wife, 'the child's a girl.' - My brain swooned, sick with failing sense; - With all perception in a whirl, - How could I tell the difference? - - 'Nay,' smiled the nurse, 'the child's a boy.' - And all my soul was soothed to hear - That so it was: then startled Joy - Mocked Sorrow with a doubtful tear. - And I was glad as one who sees - For sensual optics things unmeet: - As purity makes passion freeze, - So faith warns science off her beat. - Blessed are they that have not seen, - And yet, not seeing, have believed: - To walk by faith, as preached the Dean, - And not by sight, have I achieved. - Let love, that does not look, believe; - Let knowledge, that believes not, look: - Truth pins her trust on falsehood's sleeve, - While reason blunders by the book. - Then Mrs. Prig addressed me thus: - 'Sir, if you'll be advised by me, - You'll leave the blessed babe to us; - It's my belief he wants his tea.' - - - NEPHELIDIA. - - (SWINBURNE) - - From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable - nimbus of nebulous noonshine, - Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with - fear of the flies as they float, - Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of - mystic miraculous moonshine, - These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and - threaten with throbs through the throat? - Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's - appalled agitation, - Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the - promise of pride in the past; - Flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with - radiance of rathe recreation, - Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom - of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? - Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on - the temples of terror, - Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who - is dumb as the dust-heaps of death: - Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional - exquisite error, - Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by - beatitude's breath. - Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and - soul of our senses - Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the - semblance and sound of a sigh; - Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular - tenses-- - 'Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the - dawn of the day when we die.' - Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as - it may be, - While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of - men's rapiers, resigned to the rod; - Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the - bliss-bringing - bulk of a balm-breathing baby, - As they grope through the graveyard of creeds, under skies growing - green at a groan for the grimness of God. - Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is - blacker than bluer: - Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews - are the wine of the bloodshed of things; - Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is - freed from the fangs that pursue her, - Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the - hunt that has harried the kennel of kings. - - - - - FRANCIS BRET HARTE. - - - A GEOLOGICAL MADRIGAL. - - (SHENSTONE) - - I have found out a sift for my fair; - I know where the fossils abound, - Where the footprints of _Aves_ declare - The birds that once walked on the ground; - Oh, come, and--in technical speech-- - We'll walk this Devonian shore, - Or on some Silurian beach - We'll wander, my love, evermore. - - I will show thee the sinuous track - By the slow-moving annelid made, - Or the Trilobite that, farther back, - In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid; - Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb, - The Plesiosaurus embalmed; - In his Oolitic prime and his bloom, - Iguanodon safe and unharmed! - - You wished--I remember it well, - And I loved you the more for that wish-- - For a perfect cystedian shell, - And a _whole_ holocephalic fish. - And oh, if Earth's strata contains - In its lowest Silurian drift, - Or palæozoic remains - The same,--'tis your lover's free gift! - - Than come, love, and never say nay, - But calm all your maidenly fears; - We'll note, love, in one summer's day - The record of millions of years; - And though the Darwinian plan - Your sensitive feelings may shock, - We'll find the beginning of man,-- - Our fossil ancestors, in rock! - - - MRS. JUDGE JENKINS. - - [Being the only genuine sequel to 'Maud Muller.'] - - (WHITTIER) - - Maud Muller all that summer day - Raked the meadows sweet with hay; - - Yet, looking down the distant lane, - She hoped the judge would come again. - - But when he came, with smile and bow, - Maud only blushed, and stammered, 'Ha-ow?' - - And spoke of her 'pa,' and wondered whether - He'd give consent they should wed together. - - Old Muller burst in tears, and then - Begged that the judge would lend him 'ten'; - - For trade was dull, and wages low, - And the 'craps' this year were somewhat slow. - - And ere the languid summer died, - Sweet Maud became the judge's bride. - - But on the day that they were mated - Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated; - - And Maud's relations, twelve in all, - Were very drunk at the judge's hall. - - And when the summer came again, - The young bride bore him babies twain. - - And the judge was blest, but thought it strange - That bearing children made such a change: - - For Maud grew broad and red and stout: - And the waist that his arm once clasped about - - Was more than he now could span; and he - Sighed as he pondered, ruefully, - - How that which in Maud was native grace - In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place; - - And thought of the twins, and wished that they - Looked less like the man who raked the hay - - On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain - Of the day he wandered down the lane, - - And, looking down that dreary track, - He half regretted that he came back. - - For, had he waited, he might have wed - Some maiden fair and thoroughbred; - - For there be women fair as she, - Whose verbs and nouns do more agree. - - Alas for maiden! alas for judge! - And the sentimental,--that's one-half 'fudge'; - - For Maud soon thought the judge a bore, - With all his learning and all his lore. - - And the judge would have bartered Maud's fair face - For more refinement and social grace. - - If, of all words of tongue and pen, - The saddest are, 'It might have been,' - - More sad are these we daily see: - 'It is, but hadn't ought to be.' - - - THE WILLOWS. - - (POE) - - The skies they were ashen and sober, - The streets they were dirty and drear; - It was night in the month of October, - Of my most immemorial year; - Like the skies I was perfectly sober, - As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,-- - At the Nightingale,--perfectly sober, - And the willowy woodland, down here. - - Here, once in an alley Titanic - Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul,-- - Of Ten-pins,--with Mary, my soul; - They were days when my heart was volcanic, - And impelled me to frequently roll, - And make me resistlessly roll, - Till my ten-strikes created a panic - In the realms of the Boreal pole, - Till my ten-strikes created a panic - With the monkey atop of his pole. - - I repeat, I was perfectly sober, - But my thoughts they were palsied and sere,-- - My thoughts were decidedly queer; - For I knew not the month was October, - And I marked not the night of the year, - I forgot that sweet _morceau_ of Auber - That the band oft performed down here, - And I mixed the sweet music of Auber - With the Nightingale's music by Shear. - - And now as the night was senescent, - And the star-dials pointed to morn, - And car-drivers hinted of morn, - At the end of the path a liquescent - And bibulous lustre was born; - 'Twas made by the bar-keeper present, - Who mixéd a duplicate horn,-- - His two hands describing a crescent - Distinct with a duplicate horn. - - And I said: 'This looks perfectly regal, - For it's warm, and I know I feel dry,-- - I am confident that I feel dry; - We have come past the emu and eagle, - And watched the gay monkey on high; - Let us drink to the emu and eagle,-- - To the swan and the monkey on high,-- - To the eagle and monkey on high; - For this bar-keeper will not inveigle,-- - Bully boy with the vitreous eye; - He surely would never inveigle,-- - Sweet youth with the crystalline eye.' - - But Mary, uplifting her finger, - Said, 'Sadly this bar I mistrust,-- - I fear that this bar does not trust. - O hasten! O let us not linger! - O fly,--let us fly,--ere we must!' - In terror she cried, letting sink her - Parasol till it trailed in the dust,-- - In agony sobbed, letting sink her - Parasol till it trailed in the dust,-- - Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust. - - Then I pacified Mary and kissed her, - And tempted her into the room, - And conquered her scruples and gloom; - And we passed to the end of the vista, - But were stopped by the warning of doom,-- - By some words that were warning of doom; - And I said, 'What is written, sweet sister, - At the opposite end of the room?' - She sobbed, as she answered, 'All liquors - Must be paid for ere leaving the room.' - - Then my heart it grew ashen and sober, - As the streets were deserted and drear,-- - For my pockets were empty and drear; - And I cried, 'It was surely October, - On this very night of last year, - That I journeyed--I journeyed down here,-- - That I brought a fair maiden down here, - On this night of all nights in the year. - Ah! to me that inscription is clear; - Well I know now, I'm perfectly sober, - Why no longer they credit me here,-- - Well I know now that music of Auber, - And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear.' - - - - - HENRY DUFF TRAILL. - - - VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ. - - (LOCKER-LAMPSON) - - There, pay it, James! 'tis cheaply earned; - My conscience! how one's cabman charges! - But never mind, so I'm returned - Safe to my native street of Clarges. - I've just an hour for one cigar - (What style these Reinas have, and _what_ ash!) - One hour to watch the evening star - With just one Curaçao-and-potash. - - Ah me! that face beneath the leaves - And blossoms of its piquant bonnet! - Who would have thought that forty thieves - Of years had laid their fingers on it! - Could you have managed to enchant - At Lord's to-day old lovers simple, - Had Robber Time not played gallant, - And spared you every youthful dimple! - - That Robber bold, like courtier Claude, - Who danced the gay coranto jesting, - By your bright beauty charmed and awed, - Has bowed and passed you unmolesting. - No feet of many-wintered crows - Have traced about your eyes a wrinkle; - Your sunny hair has thawed the snows - That other heads with silver sprinkle. - - I wonder if that pair of gloves - I won of you you'll ever pay me! - I wonder if our early loves - Were wise or foolish, cousin Amy? - I wonder if our childish tiff - Now seems to you, like me, a blunder! - I wonder if you wonder if - I ever wonder if you wonder. - - I wonder if you'd think it bliss - Once more to be the fashion's leader! - I wonder if the trick of this - Escapes the unsuspecting reader! - And as for him who does or can - Delight in it, I wonder whether - He knows that almost any man - Could reel it off by yards together! - - I wonder if-- What's that? a knock? - Is that you, James? Eh? What? God bless me! - How time has flown! It's eight o'clock, - And here's my fellow come to dress me. - Be quick, or I shall be the guest - Whom Lady Mary never pardons; - I trust you, James, to do your best - To save the soup at Grosvenor Gardens. - - - FROM 'THE PUSS AND THE BOOTS.' - - (BROWNING) - - Put case I circumvent and kill him: good. - Good riddance--wipes at least from book o' th' world - The ugly admiration-note-like blot-- - Gives honesty more elbow-room by just - The three dimensions of one wicked knave. - But then slips in the plaguy After-voice. - 'Wicked? Holloa! my friend, whither away - So fast? Who made you, Moses-like, a judge - And ruler over men to spare or slay? - A blot wiped off forsooth! Produce forthwith - Credentials of your mission to erase - The ink-spots of mankind--t' abolish ill - For being what it is, is bound to be, - Its nature being so--cut wizards off - In flower of their necromantic lives - For being wizards, when 'tis plain enough - That they have no more wrought their wizardship - Than cats their cathood.' Thus the plaguy Voice, - Puzzling withal not overmuch, for thus - I turn the enemy's flank: 'Meseems, my friend, - Your argument's a thought too fine of mesh, - And catches what you would not. Every mouse - Trapped i' the larder by the kitchen wench - Might reason so--but scarcely with effect. - Methinks 'twould little serve the captured thief - To plead, "The fault's Dame Nature's, guiltless I. - Am I to blame that in the parcelling-out - Of my ingredients the Great Chemist set - Just so much here, there so much, and no more - (Since 'tis but question, after all is said, - Of mere proportion 'twixt the part that feels - And that which guides), so much proclivity - To nightly cupboard-breaking, so much lust - Of bacon-scraps, such tendency to think - Old Stilton-rind the noblest thing on earth? - Then the _per contra_--so much power to choose - The right and shun the wrong; so much of force - Of uncorrupted will to stoutly bar - The sensory inlets of the murine soul, - And, when by night the floating rare-bit fume - Lures like a siren's song, stop nostrils fast - With more than Odusseian sailor-wax: - Lastly so much of wholesome fear of trap - To keep self-abnegation sweet. Then comes - The hour of trial, when lo! the suadent scale - Sinks instant, the deterrent kicks the beam, - The heavier falls, the lighter mounts (as much - A thing of law with motives as with plums), - And I, forsooth, must die simply because - Dame Nature, having chosen so to load - The dishes, did not choose suspend for me - The gravitation of the moral world." - How would the kitchen-wench reply? Why thus - (If given, as scullions use, to logic-fence - And keen retorsion of dilemmata - In speeches of a hundred lines or so): - "Grant your plea valid. Good. There's mine to hear. - 'Twas Nature made you? well: and me, no less; - You she by forces past your own control - Made a cheese-stealer? Be it so: of me - By forces as resistless and her own - She made a mouse-killer. Thus, either plays - A rôle in no wise chosen of himself, - But takes what part the great Stage Manager - Cast him for, when, the play was set afoot. - Remains we act ours--without private spite, - But still with spirit and fidelity, - As fits good actors: you I blame no whit - For nibbling cheese--simply I throw you down - Unblamed--nay, even morally assoiled, - To pussy there: blame thou not me for that." - Or say perhaps the girl is slow of wit, - Something inapt at ethics--why, then thus. - "Enough of prating, little thief! This talk - Of 'fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,' - Is hugely out of place! What next indeed, - If all the casuistry of the schools - Be prayed in aid by every pilfering mouse - That's caught i' th' trap? See here, my thieving friend, - Thus I resolve the problem. We prefer - To keep our cheeses for our own behoof, - And eat them with our proper jaws; and so, - Having command of mouse-traps, we will catch - Whatever mice we can, and promptly kill - Whatever mice we catch. _Entendez vous?_ - Aye, and we _will_, though all the mice on earth - Pass indignation votes, obtest the faith - Of gods and men, and make the welkin ring - With world-resounding dissonance of squeak!"' - - But hist! here comes my wizard! Ready then - My nerves--and talons--for the trial of strength! - A stout heart, feline cunning, and--who knows? - - - AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI. - - (ROSSETTI) - - 'Why do you wear your hair like a man, - Sister Helen? - This week is the third since you began.' - 'I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can, - Little brother. - (_O Mother Carey, mother!_ - _What chickens are these between sea and heaven?_)' - - 'But why does your figure appear so lean, - Sister Helen? - And why do you dress in sage, sage green?' - 'Children should never be heard, if seen, - Little brother. - (_O Mother Carey, mother!_ - _What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!_)' - - 'But why is your face so yellowy white, - Sister Helen? - And why are your skirts so funnily tight?' - 'Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write, - Little brother? - (_O Mother Carey, mother!_ - _How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!_)' - - 'And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train, - Sister Helen? - And why do you call her again and again?' - 'You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain, - Little brother. - (_O Mother Carey, mother!_ - _What work is toward in the startled heaven?_)' - - 'And what's a refrain? What a curious word, - Sister Helen! - Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?' - 'Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd, - Little brother. - (_O Mother Carey, mother!_ - _Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven._)' - - (A big brother speaketh:) - 'The refrain you've studied a meaning had, - Sister Helen! - It gave strange force to a weird ballàd. - But refrains have become a ridiculous "fad," - Little brother. - And _Mother Carey, mother_, - Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven. - - 'But the finical fashion has had its day, - Sister Helen. - And let's try in the style of a different lay - To bid it adieu in poetical way, - Little brother. - So, Mother Carey, mother! - Collect your chickens and go to--heaven.' - (_A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanying - himself in a plaintive wise on the - triangle:_) - - 'Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was, - I am also called Played-out and Done-to-death, - And It-will-wash-no-more. Awakeneth - Slowly, but sure awakening it has, - The common-sense of man; and I, alas! - The ballad-burden trick, now known too well, - Am turned to scorn, and grown contemptible-- - A too transparent artifice to pass. - - 'What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dart - Tin-kettled through the streets in wild surprise - Assail judicious ears not otherwise; - And yet no critics praise the urchin's "art," - Who to the wretched creature's caudal part - Its foolish empty-jingling "burden" ties.' - - - - - ANDREW LANG. - - 'OH, NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER.' - - (ROSSETTI) - - - Love spake to me and said: - 'O lips, be mute; - Let that one name be dead, - That memory flown and fled, - Untouched that lute! - Go forth,' said Love, 'with willow in thy hand, - And in thy hair - Dead blossoms wear, - Blown from the sunless land. - - 'Go forth,' said Love; 'thou never more shalt see - Her shadow, glimmer by the trysting tree; - But _she_ is glad, - With roses crowned and clad, - Who hath forgotten thee!' - But I made answer: 'Love! - Tell me no more thereof, - For she has drunk of that same cup as I. - Yea, though her eyes be dry, - She garners there for me - Tears salter than the sea, - Even till the day she die.' - So gave I Love the lie. - - - BALLADE OF CRICKET. - - TO T. W. LANG. - - (SWINBURNE) - - The burden of hard hitting: slog away! - Here shalt thou make a 'five' and there a 'four,' - And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say, - That thou art in for an uncommon score. - Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar, - And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire, - When lo, the Umpire gives thee 'leg before,'-- - 'This is the end of every man's desire!' - - The burden of much bowling, when the stay - Of all thy team is 'collared,' swift or slower, - When 'bailers' break not in their wonted way, - And 'yorkers' come not off as here-to-fore, - When length balls shoot no more, ah never more, - When all deliveries lose their former fire, - When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,-- - 'This is the end of every man's desire!' - - The burden of long fielding, when the clay - Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour, - And running still thou stumblest, or the ray - Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore. - And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore, - Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a 'skyer,' - And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,-- - 'This is the end of every man's desire!' - - - ENVOY. - - Alas, yet liefer on Youth's hither shore - Would I be some poor Player on scant hire, - Than King among the old, who play no more,-- - '_This_ is the end of every man's desire!' - - - BRAHMA. - - (EMERSON) - - If the wild bowler thinks he bowls, - Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled, - They know not, poor misguided souls, - They, too, shall perish unconsoled. - _I_ am the batsman and the bat, - _I_ am the bowler and the ball, - The umpire, the pavilion cat, - The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all. - - - THE PALACE OF BRIC-À-BRAC. - - (SWINBURNE) - - Here, where old Nankin glitters, - Here, where men's tumult seems - As faint as feeble twitters - Of sparrows heard in dreams, - We watch Limoges enamel, - An old chased silver camel, - A shawl, the gift of Schamyl, - And manuscripts in reams. - - Here, where the hawthorn pattern - On flawless cup and plate - Need fear no housemaid slattern, - Fell minister of fate, - 'Mid webs divinely woven, - And helms and hauberks cloven, - On music of Beethoven - We dream and meditate. - - We know not, and we need not - To know how mortals fare, - Of Bills that pass, or speed not, - Time finds us unaware, - Yea, creeds and codes may crumble, - And Dilke and Gladstone stumble. - And eat the pie that's humble, - We neither know nor care! - - Can kings or clergies alter - The crackle on one plate? - Can creeds or systems palter - With what is truly great? - With Corots and with Millets, - With April daffodillies, - Or make the maiden lilies - Bloom early or bloom late? - - Nay, here 'midst Rhodian roses, - 'Midst tissues of Cashmere, - The Soul sublime reposes, - And knows not hope nor fear; - Here all she sees her own is, - And musical her moan is, - O'er Caxtons and Bodonis, - Aldine and Elzevir! - - - 'GAILY THE TROUBADOUR.' - - (MORRIS) - - Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might, - _Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_ - Soldans seven hath he slain in fight, - _Honneur à la belle Isoline!_ - - Sir Ralph he rideth in riven mail, - _Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_ - Beneath his nasal is his dark face pale, - _Honneur à la belle Isoline!_ - - His eyes they blaze as the burning coal, - _Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_ - He smiteth a stave on his gold citole, - _'Honneur à la belle Isoline!'_ - - From her mangonel she looketh forth, - _Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_ - 'Who is he spurreth so late to the north?' - _Honneur à la belle Isoline!_ - - Hark! for he speaketh a knightly name, - _Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_ - And her wan cheek glows as a burning flame, - _Honneur à la belle Isoline!_ - - For Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might, - _Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_ - And his love shall ungirdle his sword to-night, - _Honneur à la belle Isoline!_ - - - - - ARTHUR CLEMENT HILTON. - - - THE VULTURE AND THE HUSBANDMAN. - - BY LOUISA CAROLINE. - - ('LEWIS CARROLL') - -N.B.--A _Vulture_ is a rapacious and obscene bird, which destroys its -prey by _plucking_ it limb from limb with its powerful beak and talons. - -A _Husbandman_ is a man in a low position of life, who supports himself -by the use of the _plough_.--_Johnson's Dictionary._ - - The rain was raining cheerfully, - As if it had been May; - The Senate-House appeared inside - Unusually gay; - And this was strange, because it was - A Viva-Voce day. - - The men were sitting sulkily, - Their paper work was done; - They wanted much to go away - To ride or row or run; - 'It's very rude,' they said, 'to keep - Us here, and spoil our fun.' - - The papers they had finished lay - In piles of blue and white. - They answered everything they could, - And wrote with all their might, - But, though they wrote it all by rote, - They did not write it right. - - The Vulture and the Husbandman - Beside these piles did stand, - They wept like anything to see - The work they had in hand, - 'If this were only finished up,' - Said they, 'it would be grand!' - - 'If seven D's or seven C's - We give to all the crowd, - Do you suppose,' the Vulture said, - 'That we could get them ploughed?' - 'I think so,' said the Husbandman, - 'But pray don't talk so loud.' - - 'O undergraduates, come up,' - The Vulture did beseech, - 'And let us see if you can learn - As well as we can teach; - We cannot do with more than two - To have a word with each.' - - Two Undergraduates came up, - And slowly took a seat, - They knit their brows, and bit their thumbs, - As if they found them sweet, - And this was odd, because you know - Thumbs are not good to eat. - - 'The time has come,' the Vulture said, - 'To talk of many things, - Of Accidence and Adjectives, - And names of Jewish kings, - How many notes a sackbut has, - And whether shawms have strings.' - - 'Please, sir,' the Undergraduates said, - Turning a little blue, - 'We did not know that was the sort - Of thing we had to do.' - 'We thank you much,' the Vulture said, - 'Send up another two.' - - Two more came up, and then two more; - And more, and more, and more; - And some looked upwards at the roof, - Some down upon the floor, - But none were any wiser than - The pair that went before. - - 'I weep for you,' the Vulture said, - 'I deeply sympathize!' - With sobs and tears he gave them all - D's of the largest size, - While at the Husbandman he winked - One of his streaming eyes. - - 'I think,' observed the Husbandman, - 'We're getting on too quick. - Are we not putting down the D's - A little bit too thick?' - The Vulture said with much disgust - 'Their answers make me sick.' - - 'Now, Undergraduates,' he cried, - 'Our fun is nearly done, - Will anybody else come up?' - But answer came there none; - And this was scarcely odd, because - They'd ploughed them every one! - - - THE HEATHEN PASS-EE. - - BEING THE STORY OF A PASS EXAMINATION. BY BRED HARD. - - (BRET HARTE) - - Which I wish to remark, - And my language is plain, - That for plots that are dark - And not always in vain, - The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar, - And the same I would rise to explain. - - I would also premise - That the term of Pass-ee - Most fitly applies, - As you probably see, - To one whose vocation is passing - The 'ordinary B.A. degree.' - - Tom Crib was his name. - And I shall not deny - In regard to the same - What that name might imply, - But his face it was trustful and childlike, - And he had the most innocent eye. - - Upon April the First - The Little-Go fell, - And that was the worst - Of the gentleman's sell, - For he fooled the Examining Body - In a way I'm reluctant to tell. - - The candidates came - And Tom Crib soon appeared; - It was Euclid. The same - Was 'the subject he feared,' - But he smiled as he sat by the table - With a smile that was wary and weird. - - Yet he did what he could, - And the papers he showed - Were remarkably good, - And his countenance glowed - With pride when I met him soon after - As he walked down the Trumpington Road. - - We did not find him out, - Which I bitterly grieve, - For I've not the least doubt - That he'd placed up his sleeve - Mr. Todhunter's excellent Euclid, - The same with intent to deceive. - - But I shall not forget - How the next day at two - A stiff paper was set - By Examiner U... - On Euripides' tragedy, Bacchae. - A subject Tom 'partially knew.' - - But the knowledge displayed - By that heathen Pass-ee, - And the answers he made - Were quite frightful to see, - For he rapidly floored the whole paper - By about twenty minutes to three. - - Then I looked up at U... - And he gazed upon me. - I observed, 'This won't do.' - He replied, 'Goodness me! - We are fooled by this artful young person,' - And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee. - - The scene that ensued - Was disgraceful to view, - For the floor it was strewed - With a tolerable few - Of the 'tips' that Tom Crib had been hiding - For the 'subject he partially knew.' - - On the cuff of his shirt - He had managed to get - What we hoped had been dirt, - But which proved, I regret, - To be notes on the rise of the Drama, - A question invariably set. - - In his various coats - We proceeded to seek, - Where we found sundry notes - And--with sorrow I speak-- - One of Bohn's publications, so useful - To the student of Latin or Greek. - - In the crown of his cap - Were the Furies and Fates, - And a delicate map - Of the Dorian States, - And we found in his palms which were hollow, - What are frequent in palms,--that is dates. - - Which is why I remark, - And my language is plain, - That for plots that are dark - And not always in vain, - The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar, - Which the same I am free to maintain. - - - OCTOPUS.[125] - - BY ALGERNON CHARLES SIN-BURN. - - (SWINBURNE) - - Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed, - Whence camest to dazzle our eyes? - With thy bosom bespangled and banded - With the hues of the seas and the skies; - Is thy home European or Asian, - O mystical monster marine? - Part molluscous and partly crustacean, - Betwixt and between. - - Wast thou born to the sound of sea-trumpets? - Hast thou eaten and drunk to excess - Of the sponges--thy muffins and crumpets, - Of the seaweed--thy mustard and cress? - Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral, - Remote from reproof or restraint? - Art thou innocent, art thou immoral, - Sinburnian or Saint? - - Lithe limbs, curling free, as a creeper - That creeps in a desolate place, - To enrol and envelop the sleeper - In a silent and stealthy embrace, - Cruel beak craning forward to bite us, - Our juices to drain and to drink, - Or to whelm us in waves of Cocytus, - Indelible ink! - - O breast, that 'twere rapture to writhe on! - O arms 'twere delicious to feel - Clinging close with the crush of the Python, - When she maketh her murderous meal! - In thy eight-fold embraces enfolden, - Let our empty existence escape; - Give us death that is glorious and golden, - Crushed all out of shape! - - Ah! thy red lips, lascivious and luscious, - With death in their amorous kiss! - Cling round us, and clasp us, and crush us, - With bitings of agonized bliss; - We are sick with the poison of pleasure, - Dispense us the potion of pain; - Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure - And bite us again! - - - - - HENRY CUYLER BUNNER. - - - HOME, SWEET HOME, WITH VARIATIONS. - - BEING SUGGESTIONS OF THE VARIOUS STYLES IN WHICH - AN OLD THEME MIGHT HAVE BEEN TREATED BY - CERTAIN METRICAL COMPOSERS. - - - FANTASIA. - - - I. - - THE ORIGINAL THEME, AS JOHN HOWARD PAYNE WROTE IT: - - 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, - Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! - A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, - Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere. - Home, Home! Sweet, Sweet Home! - There's no place like Home! - - An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain! - Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! - The birds singing gaily that came at my call! - Give me them! and the peace of mind dearer than all. - Home, Home! Sweet, Sweet Home! - There's no place like Home! - - - II. - - AS ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE MIGHT HAVE WRAPPED IT UP - IN VARIATIONS: - -[_'Mid pleasures and palaces_--] - - As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of brine that is drifted - Hither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze, - Though we wander on gusts of a god's breath shaken and shifted, - The salt of us stings, and is sore for the sobbing seas. - For home's sake hungry at heart, we sicken in pillared porches - Of bliss, made sick for a life that is barren of bliss, - For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that sears not nor - scorches, - Nor elsewhere than this. - -[_An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain_--] - - For here we know shall no gold thing glisten, - No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine; - Nor Love lower never an ear to listen - To words that work in the heart like wine. - What time we are set from our land apart, - For pain of passion and hunger of heart, - Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen, - Or sing at the Cytherean's shrine. - -[VARIATION: _An exile from home_--] - - Whether with him whose head - Of gods is honourèd, - With song made splendent in the sight of men-- - Whose heart most sweetly stout, - From ravished France cast out, - Being firstly hers, was hers most wholly then-- - Or where on shining seas like wine - The dove's wings draw the drooping Erycine. - -[_Give me my lowly thatched cottage_--] - - For Joy finds Love grow bitter, - And spreads his wings to quit her, - At thought of birds that twitter - Beneath the roof-tree's straw-- - Of birds that come for calling, - No fear or fright appalling, - When dews of dusk are falling, - Or daylight's draperies draw. - -[_Give me them, and the peace of mind_--] - - Give me these things then back, though the giving - Be at cost of earth's garner of gold; - There is no life without these worth living, - No treasure where these are not told. - For the heart give the hope that it knows not, - Give the balm for the burn of the breast-- - For the soul and the mind that repose not, - O, give us a rest! - - - III. - - AS MR. FRANCIS BRET HARTE MIGHT HAVE WOVEN IT INTO - A TOUCHING TALE OF A WESTERN GENTLEMAN - IN A RED SHIRT: - - Brown o' San Juan, - Stranger, I'm Brown. - Come up this mornin' from Frisco-- - Be'n a-saltin' my specie-stacks down. - - Be'n a-knockin' around, - Fer a man from San Juan, - Putty consid'able frequent-- - Jes' catch onter that streak o' the dawn! - - Right thar lies my home-- - Right thar in the red-- - I could slop over, stranger, in po'try - Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead. - - Stranger, you freeze to this: there ain't no kinder gin-palace, - Nor no variety-show lays over a man's own rancho. - Maybe it hain't no style, but the Queen in the Tower o' London - Ain't got naathin' I'd swop for that house over thar on the - hill-side. - - Thar is my ole gal, 'n' the kids, 'n' the rest o' my live stock; - Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there's a griddle-cake br'ilin'-- - For the two of us, pard--and thar, I allow, the heavens - Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality. - - Stranger, nowhere else I don't take no satisfaction. - Gimme my ranch, 'n' them friendly old Shanghai chickens-- - I brung the original pair f'm the States in eighteen-'n'-fifty-- - Gimme them and the feelin' of solid domestic comfort. - - Yer parding, young man-- - But this landscape a kind - Er flickers--I 'low 'twuz the po'try-- - I thought thet my eyes hed gone blind. - - * * * * * - - Take that pop from my belt! - Hi, thar--gimme yer han'-- - Or I'll kill myself--Lizzie!--she's left me-- - _Gone off with a purtier man!_ - - Thar, I'll quit--the ole gal - An' the kids--run away! - I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard-- - The griddle-cake's thar, anyway. - - - IV. - - AS AUSTIN DOBSON MIGHT HAVE TRANSLATED IT FROM HORACE, - IF IT HAD EVER OCCURRED TO HORACE TO WRITE IT: - - RONDEAU. - - Palatiis in remotis voluptates - Si quæris... - FLACCUS, 2. HORATIUS, _Carmina, Lib. V._, 1 - - At home alone, O Nomades, - Although Maecenas' marble frieze - Stand not between you and the sky, - Nor Persian luxury supply - Its rosy surfeit, find ye ease. - Tempt not the far Ægean breeze; - With home-made wine and books that please, - To duns and bores the door deny - At home, alone. - - Strange joys may lure. Your deities - Smile here alone. Oh, give me these: - Low eaves, where birds familiar fly, - And peace of mind, and, fluttering by, - My Lydia's graceful draperies, - At home, _alone_. - - - V. - - AS IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN CONSTRUCTED IN 1744, - OLIVER GOLDSMITH, AT 19, WRITING THE - FIRST STANZA, AND ALEXANDER POPE, - AT 52, THE SECOND: - - Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise; - Lift us from earth, and draw toward the skies! - 'Mid mirag'd towers, or meretricious joys, - Although we roam, one thought the mind employs: - Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome, - Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home. - There, where affection warms the father's breast, - There is the spot of heav'n most surely blest. - Howe'er we search, though wandering with the wind - Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind, - Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know, - The light of heav'n upon our dark below. - - When from our dearest hope and haven reft, - Delight nor dazzles, nor is luxury left, - We long, obedient to our nature's law, - To see again our hovel thatched with straw: - See birds that know our avenaceous store - Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar: - But, of all hopes the wanderer's soul that share, - His pristine peace of mind 's his final prayer. - - - VI. - - AS WALT WHITMAN MIGHT HAVE WRITTEN ALL - AROUND IT: - - - 1. - - You over there, young man with the guide-book, red-bound, - covered flexibly with red linen, - Come here, I want to talk with you; I, Walt, the Manhattanese, - citizen of these States, call you. - Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with oil'd - hair; a garlicky look about him generally; him, too, I take - in, just as I would a coyote, or a king, or a toad-stool, or a - ham-sandwich, or anything or anybody else in the world. - Where are you going? - You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good time; - in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a good time; you - want to see Venice. - Come with me. I will give you a good time; I will give you all - the Venice you want, and most of the Paris. - I, Walt, I call to you. I am all on deck! Come and loaf with - me! Let me tote you around by your elbow and show you things. - You listen to my ophicleide! - Home! - Home, I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspir'd by the - thought of home. - Come in!--take a front seat; the jostle of the crowd not - minding; there is room enough for all of you. - This is my exhibition--it is the greatest show on earth - --there is no charge for admission. - All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza. - - - 2. - - 1. The brown-stone house; the father coming home worried - from a bad day's business; the wife meets him in the - marble-pav'd vestibule; she throws her arms about him; she - presses him close to her; she looks him full in the face - with affectionate eyes; the frown from his brow disappearing. - _Darling, she says, Johnny has fallen down and cut his head; - the cook is going away, and the boiler leaks._ - 2. The mechanic's dark little third story room, seen in a - flash from the Elevated Railway train; the sewing-machine in a - corner; the small cook-stove; the whole family eating cabbage - around a kerosene lamp; of the clatter and roar and groaning - wail of the Elevated train unconscious; of the smell of the - cabbage unconscious. - Me, passant, in the train, of the cabbage not quite so - unconscious. - 3. The French flat; the small rooms, all right angles, - unindividual; the narrow halls; the gaudy cheap decorations - everywhere. - The janitor and the cook exchanging compliments up and down - the elevator-shaft; the refusal to send up more coal, the - solid splash of the water upon his head, the language he sends - up the shaft, the triumphant laughter of the cook, to her - kitchen retiring. - 4. The widow's small house in the suburbs of the city; - the widow's boy coming home from his first day down town; - he is flushed with happiness and pride; he is no longer a - school-boy, he is earning money; he takes on the airs of a man - and talks learnedly of business. - 5. The room in the third-class boarding-house; the mean little - hard-coal fire, the slovenly Irish servant-girl making it, - the ashes on the hearth, the faded furniture, the private - provender hid away in the closet, the dreary back-yard out the - window; the young girl at the glass, with her mouth full of - hair-pins, doing up her hair to go downstairs and flirt with - the young fellows in the parlour. - 6. The kitchen of the old farm-house; the young convict just - return'd from prison--it was his first offence, and the judges - were lenient to him. - He is taking his first meal out of prison; he has been - receiv'd back, kiss'd, encourag'd to start again; his lungs, - his nostrils expand with the big breaths of free air; with - shame, with wonderment, with a trembling joy, his heart too - expanding. - The old mother busies herself about the table; she has ready - for him the dishes he us'd to like; the father sits with his - back to them, reading the newspaper, the newspaper shaking - and rustling much; the children hang wondering around the - prodigal----they have been caution'd: _Do not ask where our - Jim has been; only say you are glad to see him_. - The elder daughter is there, pale-fac'd, quiet; her young man - went back on her four years ago; his folks would not let him - marry a convict's sister. She sits by the window, sewing on - the children's clothes, the clothes not only patching up; her - hunger for children of her own invisibly patching up. - The brother looks up; he catches her eye, he fearful, - apologetic; she smiles back at him, not reproachfully smiling, - with loving pretence of hope smiling --it is too much for him; - he buries his face in the folds of the mother's black gown. - 7. The best room of the house, on the Sabbath only open'd; - the smell of horse-hair furniture and mahogany varnish; the - ornaments on the whatnot in the corner; the wax-fruit, dusty, - sunken, sagged in, consumptive-looking, under a glass globe; - the sealing-wax imitation of coral; the cigar boxes with - shells plastered over; the perforated card-board motto. - The kitchen; the housewife sprinkling the clothes for the fine - ironing to-morrow--it is Third-day night, and the plain things - are already iron'd, now in cupboards, in drawers stowed away. - The wife waiting for the husband--he is at the tavern, jovial, - carousing; she, alone in the kitchen sprinkling clothes--the - little red wood clock with peaked top, with pendulum wagging - behind a pane of gaily painted glass, strikes twelve. - The sound of the husband's voice on the still night air--he is - singing: _We won't go home till morning!_ --the wife arising, - toward the wood-shed hastily going, stealthily entering, the - voice all the time coming nearer, inebriate, chantant. - The wood-shed; the club behind the door of the wood-shed; - the wife annexing the club; the husband approaching, always - inebriate, chantant. - The husband passing the door of the wood-shed; the club over - his head, now with his head in contact; the sudden cessation - of the song; the temperance pledge signed the next morning; - the benediction of peace over the domestic foyer temporarily - resting. - - - 3. - - I sing the soothing influences of home. - You, young man, thoughtlessly wandering, with courier, with - guide-book wandering, - You hearken to the melody of my steam-calliope. - Yawp! - - - - - JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN. - - - ODE ON A RETROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. - - (GRAY) - - 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 Cæsar'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. - - - A SONNET. - - (WORDSWORTH) - - Two voices are there: one is of the deep; - It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody, - Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, - Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep: - And one is of an old half-witted sheep - Which bleats articulate monotony, - And indicates that two and one are three, - That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep: - And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times - Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes, - The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst: - At other times--good Lord! I'd rather be - Quite unacquainted with the ABC - Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst. - - - SINCERE FLATTERY OF R. B. - - (BROWNING) - - 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 W. W. (AMERICANUS). - - (WHITMAN) - - The clear cool note of the cuckoo which has ousted the legitimate - nest-holder, - The whistle of the railway guard dispatching 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. - - - TO A. T. M. - - (F. W. H. MYERS) - - 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. - - - - - FRANCIS THOMPSON. - - - WAKE! FOR THE RUDDY BALL HAS TAKEN FLIGHT. - - (EDWARD FITZGERALD) - - - I. - - Wake! for the Ruddy Ball has taken flight - That scatters the slow Wicket of the Night; - And the swift Batsman of the Dawn has driven - Against the Star-spiked Rails a fiery Smite. - - Wake, my Belovèd! take the Bat that clears - The sluggish Liver, and Dyspeptics cheers: - To-morrow? Why, to-morrow I may be - Myself with Hambledon and all its Peers. - - To-day a Score of Batsmen brings, you say? - Yes, but where leaves the Bats of yesterday? - And this same summer day that brings a Knight - May take the Grace and Ranjitsinjh away. - - Willsher the famed is gone with all his 'throws,' - And Alfred's Six-foot Reach where no man knows; - And Hornby--that great hitter--his own Son - Plays in his place, yet recks not the Red Rose. - - And Silver Billy, Fuller Pilch and Small, - Alike the pigmy Briggs and Ulyett tall, - Have swung their Bats an hour or two before, - But none played out the last and silent Ball. - - Well, let them Perish! What have we to do - With Gilbert Grace the Great, or that Hindu? - Let Hirst and Spooner slog them as they list, - Or Warren bowl his 'snorter'; care not you! - - With me along the Strip of Herbage strown, - That is not laid or watered, rolled or sown, - Where name of Lord's and Oval is forgot, - And peace to Nicholas on his bomb-girt Throne. - - A level Wicket, as the Ground allow, - A driving Bat, a lively Ball, and thou - Before me bowling on the Cricket-Pitch-- - O Cricket-pitch were Paradise enow! - - - II. - - I listened where the Grass was shaven small, - And heard the Bat that groaned against the Ball: - Thou pitchest Here and There, and Left and Right, - Nor deem I where the Spot thou next may'st Fall. - - Forward I play, and Back, and Left and Right, - And overthrown at once, or stay till Night: - But this I know, where nothing else I know, - The last is Thine, how so the Bat shall smite. - - This thing is sure, where nothing else is sure, - The boldest Bat may but a Space endure; - And he who One or who a Hundred hits - Falleth at ending to thy Force or Lure. - - Wherefore am I allotted but a Day - To taste Delight, and make so brief a stay; - For Meed of all my Labour laid aside, - Ended alike the Player and the Play? - - Behold, there is an Arm behind the Ball, - Nor the Bat's Stroke of its own Striking all; - And who the Gamesters, to what end the Game, - I think thereof our Willing is but small. - - Against the Attack and Twist of Circumstance - Though I oppose Defence and shifty Glance, - What Power gives Nerve to me, and what Assaults,-- - This is the Riddle. Let dull bats cry 'Chance.' - - Is there a Foe that [domineers] the Ball? - And one that Shapes and wields us Willows all? - Be patient if Thy Creature in Thy Hand - Break, and the so-long-guarded Wicket fall! - - Thus spoke the Bat. Perchance a foolish Speech - And wooden, for a Bat has straitened Reach: - Yet thought I, I had heard Philosophers - Prate much on this wise, and aspire to Teach. - - Ah, let us take our Stand, and play the Game, - But rather for the Cause than for the Fame; - Albeit right evil is the Ground, and we - Know our Defence thereon will be but lame. - - O Love, if thou and I could but Conspire - Against this Pitch of Life, so false with Mire, - Would we not Doctor it afresh, and then - Roll it out smoother to the Bat's Desire? - - - - - ROBERT FULLER MURRAY. - - - THE POET'S HAT. - - (TENNYSON) - - The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, - He passed through the doorway into the street, - A strong wind lifted his hat from his head, - And he uttered some words that were far from sweet. - And then he started to follow the chase, - And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet, - It made the people pause in a crowd, - And lay odds as to which would beat. - - The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat, - The errand-boy shouted hooray! - The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand, - And smiled in a very rude way; - And the clergyman thought, 'I have heard many words, - But never, until to-day, - Did I hear any words that were quite so bad - As I heard that young man say.' - - - A TENNYSONIAN FRAGMENT. - - [Inserted by special permission of the Proprietors of _Punch_.] - - (TENNYSON) - - So in the village inn the poet dwelt. - His honey-dew was gone; only the pouch, - His cousin's work, her empty labour, left. - But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung - And lingered all about the broidered flowers. - Then came his landlord, saying in broad Scotch - 'Smoke plug, mon,' whom he looked at doubtfully. - Then came the grocer, saying, 'Hae some twist - At tippence,' whom he answered with a qualm. - - But when they left him to himself again, - Twist, like a fiend's breath from a distant room - Diffusing through the passage, crept; the smell - Deepening had power upon him, and he mixt - His fancies with the billow-lifted bay - Of Biscay and the rollings of a ship. - - And on that night he made a little song, - And called his song 'The Song of Twist and Plug,' - And sang it; scarcely could he make or sing. - - 'Rank is black plug, though smoked in wind and rain; - And rank is twist, which gives no end of pain; - I know not which is ranker, no, not I. - - 'Plug, art thou rank? then milder twist must be; - Plug, thou art milder: rank is twist to me. - O twist, if plug be milder, let me buy. - - 'Rank twist that seems to make me fade away, - Rank plug, that navvies smoke in loveless clay, - I know not which is ranker, no, not I. - - 'I fain would purchase flake, if that could be; - I needs must purchase plug, ah, woe is me! - Plug and a cutty, a cutty, let me buy.' - - - ANDREW M'CRIE. - - (FROM THE UNPUBLISHED REMAINS OF - EDGAR ALLAN POE) - - It was many and many a year ago, - In a city by the sea, - That a man there lived whom I happened to know - By the name of Andrew M'Crie; - And this man he slept in another room, - But ground and had meals with me. - - I was an ass and he was an ass, - In this city by the sea; - But we ground in a way which was more than a grind, - I and Andrew M'Crie; - In a way that the idle semis next door - Declared was shameful to see. - - And this was the reason that, one dark night, - In this city by the sea, - A stone flew in at the window, hitting - The milk-jug and Andrew M'Crie. - And once some low-bred tertians came, - And bore him away from me, - And shoved him into a private house - Where the people were having tea. - - Professors, not half so well up in their work, - Went envying him and me-- - Yes!--that was the reason, I always thought - (And Andrew agreed with me), - Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year, - Chilling and killing poor Andrew M'Crie. - - But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts - Of many more famous than he-- - Of many more gory than he-- - And neither visits to foreign coasts, - Nor tonics, can ever set free - Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith - Of the injured Andrew M'Crie. - - For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream, - 'Have mercy, Mr. M'Crie!' - And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes, - And the very first thing they will see, - When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls, - Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals, - With a volume of notes on its knee, - Is the spectre of Andrew M'Crie. - - - - - UNKNOWN. - - - THE TOWN LIFE - - (ROGERS) - - Mine is a house at Notting Hill: - The Indian's tum-tum smites my ear; - A crowd enjoys a casual 'mill' - With no policeman lingering near. - - The thief attempts the chain and watch - Conspicuous in my spacious vest; - Their balls of brass the tumblers catch, - In soiled and spangled garments dressed. - - Around my steps street-organs bring - The dirtiest brats that can be seen; - And boys turn wheels, and niggers sing - To banjo and to tambourine. - - The dustman bawls; the beggars tease - When coppers are not duly given; - Whilst papers, flowers, and fusees, - Annoy me six days out of seven. - - - FISH HAVE THEIR TIMES TO BITE. - - (MRS. HEMANS) - - Fish have their times to bite-- - The bream in summer, and the trout in spring, - What time the hawthorn buds are white, - And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering. - - The pike bite free when fall - The autumn leaves before the north-wind's breath, - And tench in June, but there are all-- - There are all seasons for the gudgeon's death. - - The trout his ambush keeps - Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne's eddying pools, - And patient still in Marlow deeps - For the shy barbel wait expectant fools. - - Many the perch but small - That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought - Like Cookham's pike, but, oh! in all-- - Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught. - - The old man angles still - For roach, and sits red-faced and fills his chair; - And perch, the boy expects to kill, - And roves and fishes here and fishes there. - - The child but three feet tall - For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply - His bending hazel, but by all-- - Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die. - - - ANOTHER ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND - - (KINGSLEY) - - Hang thee, vile North Easter: - Other things may be - Very bad to bear with, - Nothing equals thee. - Grim and grey North Easter, - From each Essex-bog, - From the Plaistow marshes, - Rolling London fog-- - 'Tired we are of Summer' - Kingsley may declare, - I give the assertion - Contradiction bare, - I, in bed, this morning - Felt thee, as I lay: - 'There's a vile North Easter - Out of doors to-day!' - Set the dust clouds blowing - Till each face they strike, - With the blacks is growing - Chimney-sweeper like. - Fill our rooms with smoke gusts - From the chimney-pipe. - Fill our eyes with water, - That defies the wipe. - Through the draughty passage - Whistle loud and high, - Making doors and windows - Rattle, flap and fly; - Mark, that vile North Easter - Roaring up the vent, - Nipping soul and body, - Breeding discontent! - Squall, my noisy children; - Smoke, my parlour grate; - Scold, my shrewish partner; - I accept my fate. - All is quite in tune with - This North Eastern Blast; - Who can look for comfort - Till this wind be past? - If all goes contrary, - Who can feel surprise, - With this Rude North Easter - In his teeth and eyes? - It blows much too often. - Nine days out of ten, - Yet we boast our climate, - Like true English men! - In their soft South Easters - Could I bask at ease, - I'd let France and Naples - Bully as they please, - But while this North Easter - In one's teeth is hurled, - Liberty seems worth just - Nothing in the world. - Come, as came our fathers - Heralded by thee, - Blasting, blighting, burning - Out of Normandy. - Come and flay and skin us, - And dry up our blood-- - All to have a Kingsley - Swear it does him good! - - - A GIRTONIAN FUNERAL. - - (BROWNING) - -The _Academy_ reports that the students of Girton College have -dissolved their 'Browning Society,' and expended its remaining funds, -two shillings and twopence, upon chocolate creams. - - Let us begin and portion out these sweets, - Sitting together. - Leave we our deep debates, our sage conceits,-- - Wherefore? and whether? - Thus with a fine that fits the work begun - Our labours crowning, - For we, in sooth, our duty well have done - By Robert Browning. - Have we not wrought at essay and critique, - Scorning supine ease? - Wrestled with clauses crabbed as Bito's Greek, - Baffling as Chinese? - Out the Inn Album's mystic heart we took, - Lucid of soul, and - Threaded the mazes of the Ring and Book; - Cleared up Childe Roland. - We settled Fifine's business--let her be-- - (Strangest of lasses;) - Watched by the hour some thick-veiled truth to see - Where Pippa passes. - (Though, dare we own, secure in victors' gains, - Ample to shield us? - Red Cotton Night-cap Country for our pains - Little would yield us.) - What then to do? Our culture-feast drag out - E'en to satiety? - Oft such the fate that findeth, nothing doubt, - Such a Society. - Oh, the dull meetings! Some one yawns an _aye_, - One gapes again a _yea_. - We girls determined not to yawn, but buy - Chocolate Ménier. - Fry's creams are cheap, but Cadbury's excel, - (Quick, Maud, for none wait) - Nay, now, 'tis Ménier bears away the bell, - Sold by the ton-weight. - So, with unburdened brains and spirits light, - Blithe did we troop hence, - All our funds voted for this closing rite,-- - Just two-and-two-pence. - Do--make in scorn, old Crœsus, proud and glum, - Peaked eyebrow lift eye; - Put case one stick's a halfpenny; work the sum; - Full two and fifty. - Off with the twine! who scans each smooth brown slab - Yet not supposeth - What soft, sweet, cold, pure whiteness, bound in drab. - Tooth's bite discloseth? - Are they not grand? Why (you may think it odd) - Some power alchemic - Turns, as we munch, to Zeus-assenting nod - Sneers Academic. - Till, when one cries, ''Ware hours that fleet like clouds, - Time, deft escaper!' - We answer bold: 'Leave Time to Dons and Dowds; - (Grace, pass the paper) - Say, boots it aught to evermore affect - Raptures high-flying? - Though _we_ choose chocolate, will the world suspect - Genius undying?' - - - - - NOTES - - -P. 1. _Rejected Addresses._ First published anonymously in the -autumn of 1812. The authors, James Smith (1775-1839) and Horace -Smith (1779-1849) were brothers, the former a solicitor, the latter -a stockbroker. James wrote a number of 'entertainments' for Charles -Mathews, who described him as 'the only man in London who can -write good nonsense.' Horace wrote more than a score of novels and -collections of stories, of which, perhaps, _Brambletye House_ is the -best remembered. It was of him that Shelley wrote, in the _Letter to -Maria Gisborne_: - - Wit and sense, - Virtue and human knowledge; all that might - Make this dull world a business of delight, - Are all combined in Horace Smith. - -How the _Rejected Addresses_ came to be written is told in the authors' -prefaces: - - - PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. - -On the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement appeared in -most of the daily papers:-- - - '_Rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre._ - - 'The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair - competition for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of - the Theatre, which will take place on the 10th of October - next. They have, therefore, thought fit to announce to - the public, that they will be glad to receive any such - compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the Treasury - Office, in Drury Lane, on or before the 10th of September, - sealed up; with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, on - the cover, corresponding with the inscription on a separate - sealed paper, containing the name of the author, which will - not be opened unless containing the name of the successful - candidate.' - - Upon the propriety of this plan, men's minds were, as they - usually are upon matters of moment, much divided. Some thought - it a fair promise of the future intention of the Committee to - abolish that phalanx of authors who usurp the stage, to the - exclusion of a large assortment of dramatic talent blushing - unseen in the background; while others contended, that the - scheme would prevent men of real eminence from descending into - an amphitheatre in which all Grub Street (that is to say, all - London and Westminster) would be arrayed against them. The - event has proved both parties to be in a degree right, and in - a degree wrong. One hundred and twelve 'Addresses' have been - sent in, each sealed and signed, and mottoed, 'as per order,' - some written by men of great, some by men of little, and some - by men of no, talent. - - Many of the public prints have censured the taste of the - Committee, in thus contracting for 'Addresses,' as they would - for nails--by the gross; but it is surprising that none should - have censured their _temerity_. One hundred and eleven of the - 'Addresses' must, of course, be unsuccessful: to each of the - authors, thus infallibly classed with the _genus irritabile_, - it would be very hard to deny six staunch friends, who - consider his the best of all possible 'Addresses,' and - whose tongues will be as ready to laud him, as to hiss his - adversary. These, with the potent aid of the Bard himself, - make seven foes per Address; and thus will be created seven - hundred and seventy-seven implacable auditors, prepared to - condemn the strains of Apollo himself--a band of adversaries - which no prudent manager would think of exasperating. - - But, leaving the Committee to encounter the responsibility - they have incurred, the public have at least to thank them - for ascertaining and establishing one point, which might - otherwise have admitted of controversy. When it is considered - that many amateur writers have been discouraged from becoming - competitors, and that few, if any, of the professional authors - can afford to write for nothing, and, of course, have not - been candidates for the honorary prize at Drury Lane, we may - confidently pronounce that, as far as regards NUMBER, - the present is undoubtedly the Augustan age of English - poetry. Whether or not this distinction will be extended to - the QUALITY of its productions, must be decided at - the tribunal of posterity; though the natural anxiety of our - authors on this score ought to be considerably diminished when - they reflect how few will, in all probability, be had up for - judgement. - - It is not necessary for the Editor to mention the manner - in which he became possessed of this 'fair sample of the - present state of poetry in Great Britain.' It was his first - intention to publish the whole; but a little reflection - convinced him that, by so doing, he might depress the good, - without elevating the bad. He has therefore culled what had - the appearance of flowers, from what possessed the reality - of weeds, and is extremely sorry that, in so doing, he has - diminished his collection to twenty-one. Those which he has - rejected may possibly make their appearance in a separate - volume, or they may be admitted as volunteers in the files - of some of the Newspapers; or, at all events, they are sure - of being received among the awkward squad of the Magazines. - In general, they bear a close resemblance to each other; - thirty of them contain extravagant compliments to the immortal - Wellington and the indefatigable Whitbread; and, as the - last-mentioned gentleman is said to dislike praise in the - exact proportion in which he deserves it, these laudatory - writers may have been only building a wall against which they - might run their own heads. - - The Editor here begs leave to advance a few words in behalf - of that useful and much abused bird the Phœnix; and in - so doing he is biased by no partiality, as he assures the - reader he not only never saw one, but (_mirabile dictu!_) - never caged one in a simile in the whole course of his life. - Not less than sixty-nine of the competitors have invoked the - aid of this native of Arabia; but as, from their manner of - using him after they had caught him, he does not by any means - appear to have been a native of _Arabia Felix_, the Editor has - left the proprietors to treat with Mr. Polito, and refused - to receive this _rara avis_, or black swan, into the present - collection. One exception occurs, in which the admirable - treatment of this feathered incombustible, entitles the author - to great praise; that address has been preserved, and was - thought worthy of taking the lead. - - Perhaps the reason why several of the subjoined productions - of the MUSÆ LONDINENSES have failed of selection, - may be discovered in their being penned in a metre unusual - upon occasions of this sort, and in their not being written - with that attention to stage effect, the want of which, like - want of manners in the concerns of life, is more prejudicial - than a deficiency of talent. There is an art of writing for - the Theatre, technically called _touch and go_, which is - indispensable when we consider the small quantum of patience - which so motley an assemblage as a London audience can be - expected to afford. All the contributors have been very exact - in sending their initials and mottoes. Those belonging to the - present collection have been carefully preserved, and each - has been affixed to its respective poem. The letters that - accompanied the Addresses having been honourably destroyed - unopened, it is impossible to state the real authors with - any certainty; but the ingenious reader, after comparing the - initials with the motto, and both with the poem will form his - own conclusions. - - We do not anticipate any disapprobation from thus giving - publicity to a small portion of the _Rejected Addresses_; for - unless we are widely mistaken in assigning the respective - authors, the fame of each Individual is established on much - too firm a basis to be shaken by so trifling and evanescent a - publication as the present: - - ----neque ego illi detrahere ausim - Hærentem capiti multa cum laude coronam. - - Of the numerous pieces already sent to the Committee for - performance, we have only availed ourselves of three vocal - Travesties, which we have selected, not for their merit, - but simply for their brevity. Above one hundred spectacles, - melodramas, operas, and pantomimes have been transmitted, - besides the two first acts of one legitimate comedy. Some - of these evince considerable smartness of manual dialogue, - and several brilliant repartees of chairs, tables, and other - inanimate wits; but the authors seem to have forgotten that in - the new Drury Lane the audience can hear as well as see. Of - late our theatres have been so constructed, that John Bull has - been compelled to have very long ears, or none at all; to keep - them dangling about his skull like discarded servants, while - his eyes were gazing at piebalds and elephants, or else to - stretch them out to an asinine length to catch the congenial - sound of braying trumpets. An auricular revolution is, we - trust, about to take place; and as many people have been much - puzzled to define the meaning of the new era, of which we - have heard so much, we venture to pronounce, that as far as - regards Drury Lane Theatre, the new era means the reign of - ears. If the past affords any pledge for the future, we may - confidently expect from the Committee of that House everything - that can be accomplished by the union of taste and assiduity. - -The text of the _Rejected Addresses_ here given is that of the -eighteenth edition with Horace Smith's annotations. The footnotes from -the _Edinburgh Review_ were taken from an article by Lord Jeffrey in -the number for November, 1812. It may be mentioned that the actual -addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Committee are preserved with -their covering letters in the Manuscript Department of the British -Museum, and that on the immediate success of the Smiths' parodies an -enterprising publisher issued a volume of _Genuine Rejected Addresses_ -from the forty-three competitors who responded to his appeal for such. - -The following is from the Preface to the eighteenth edition: - - Our first difficulty, that of selection, was by no means a - light one. Some of our most eminent poets, such, for instance, - as Rogers and Campbell, presented so much beauty, harmony, and - proportion in their writings, both as to style and sentiment, - that if we had attempted to caricature them, nobody would - have recognized the likeness; and if we had endeavoured to - give a servile copy of their manner, it would only have - amounted, at best, to a tame and unamusing portrait, which - it was not our object to present. Although fully aware that - their names would, in the theatrical phrase, have conferred - great strength upon our bill, we were reluctantly compelled - to forgo them, and to confine ourselves to writers whose - style and habit of thought, being more marked and peculiar, - was more capable of exaggeration and distortion. To avoid - politics and personality, to imitate the turn of mind, as - well as the phraseology of our originals, and, at all events, - to raise a harmless laugh, were our main objects: in the - attainment of which united aims, we were sometimes hurried - into extravagance, by attaching much more importance to the - last than to the two first. In no instance were we thus - betrayed into a greater injustice than in the case of Mr. - Wordsworth--the touching sentiment, profound wisdom, and - copious harmony of whose loftier writings we left unnoticed, - in the desire of burlesquing them; while we pounced upon - his popular ballads, and exerted ourselves to push their - simplicity into puerility and silliness. With pride and - pleasure do we now claim to be ranked among the most ardent - admirers of this true poet; and if he himself could see the - state of his works, which are ever at our right hand, he - would, perhaps, receive the manifest evidences they exhibit of - constant reference, and delighted re-perusal, as some sort of - _amende honorable_ for the unfairness of which we were guilty, - when we were less conversant with the higher inspirations of - his muse. To Mr. Coleridge, and others of our originals, we - must also do a tardy act of justice, by declaring that our - burlesque of their peculiarities, has never blinded us to - those beauties and talents which are beyond the reach of all - ridicule. - - One of us had written a genuine Address for the occasion, - which was sent to the Committee, and shared the fate it - merited, in being rejected. To swell the bulk, or rather to - diminish the tenuity of our little work, we added it to the - Imitations; and prefixing the initials of S. T. P. for the - purpose of puzzling the critics, were not a little amused, in - the sequel, by the many guesses and conjectures into which - we had ensnared some of our readers. We could even enjoy the - mysticism, qualified as it was by the poor compliment, that - our carefully written Address exhibited no 'very prominent - trait of absurdity,' when we saw it thus noticed in the - _Edinburgh Review_ for November, 1812. 'An Address by S. T. - P. we can make nothing of; and professing our ignorance of - the author designated by these letters, we can only add, that - the Address, though a little affected, and not very full of - meaning, has no very prominent trait of absurdity, that we - can detect; and might have been adopted and spoken, so far - as we can perceive, without any hazard of ridicule. In our - simplicity we consider it as a very decent, mellifluous, - occasional prologue; and do not understand how it has found - its way into its present company.' - - Urged forward by hurry, and trusting to chance, two very bad - coadjutors in any enterprise, we at length congratulated - ourselves on having completed our task in time to have - it printed and published by the opening of the theatre. - But, alas! our difficulties, so far from being surmounted, - seemed only to be beginning. Strangers to the arcana of - the bookseller's trade, and unacquainted with their almost - invincible objection to single volumes of low price, - especially when tendered by writers who have acquired no - previous name, we little anticipated that they would refuse - to publish our _Rejected Addresses_, even although we asked - nothing for the copyright. Such however, proved to be the - case. Our manuscript was perused and returned to us by several - of the most eminent publishers. Well do we remember betaking - ourselves to one of the craft in Bond Street, whom we found in - a back parlour, with his gouty leg propped upon a cushion, in - spite of which warning he diluted his luncheon with frequent - glasses of Madeira. 'What have you already written?' was - his first question, an interrogatory to which we had been - subjected in almost every instance. 'Nothing by which we can - be known.' 'Then I am afraid to undertake the publication.' - We presumed timidly to suggest that every writer must have - a beginning, and that to refuse to publish for him until he - had acquired a name, was to imitate the sapient mother who - cautioned her son against going into the water until he could - swim. 'An old joke--a regular Joe!' exclaimed our companion, - tossing off another bumper. 'Still older than Joe Miller,' - was our reply; 'for, if we mistake not, it is the very first - anecdote in the facetiæ of Hierocles.' 'Ha, sirs!' resumed - the bibliopolist, 'you are learned, are you? So, soh!--Well, - leave your manuscript with me; I will look it over to-night, - and give you an answer to-morrow.' Punctual as the clock we - presented ourselves at his door on the following morning, when - our papers were returned to us with the observation--'These - trifles are really not deficient in smartness; they are well, - vastly well for beginners; but they will never do--never. They - would not pay for advertising, and without it I should not - sell fifty copies.' - - This was discouraging enough. If the most experienced - publishers feared to be out of pocket by the work, it was - manifest, _a fortiori_, that its writers ran a risk of being - still more heavy losers, should they undertake the publication - on their own account. We had no objection to raise a laugh - at the expense of others; but to do it at our own cost, - uncertain as we were to what extent we might be involved, had - never entered into our contemplation. In this dilemma, our - _Addresses_, now in every sense rejected, might probably have - never seen the light, had not some good angel whispered us to - betake ourselves to Mr. John Miller, a dramatic publisher, - then residing in Bow Street, Covent Garden. No sooner had this - gentleman looked over our manuscript, than he immediately - offered to take upon himself all the risk of publication, - and to give us half the profits, _should there be any_; a - liberal proposition, with which we gladly closed. So rapid and - decided was its success, at which none were more unfeignedly - astonished than its authors, that Mr. Miller advised us to - collect some _Imitations of Horace_, which had appeared - anonymously in the _Monthly Mirror_, offering to publish - them upon the same terms. We did so accordingly; and as new - editions of the _Rejected Addresses_ were called for in quick - succession, we were shortly enabled to sell our half copyright - in the two works to Mr. Miller, for one thousand pounds!! We - have entered into this unimportant detail, not to gratify any - vanity of our own, but to encourage such literary beginners as - may be placed in similar circumstances; as well as to impress - upon publishers the propriety of giving more consideration to - the possible merit of the works submitted to them, than to the - mere magic of a name. - - To the credit of the _genus irritabile_ be it recorded, that - not one of those whom we had parodied or burlesqued ever - betrayed the least soreness on the occasion, or refused to - join in the laugh that we had occasioned. With most of them - we subsequently formed acquaintanceship; while some honoured - us with an intimacy which still continues, where it has not - been severed by the rude hand of Death. Alas! it is painful - to reflect, that of the twelve writers whom we presumed to - imitate, five are now no more; the list of the deceased - being unhappily swelled by the most illustrious of all, the - _clarum et venerabile nomen_ of Sir Walter Scott! From that - distinguished writer, whose transcendent talents were only to - be equalled by his virtues and his amiability, we received - favours and notice, both public and private, which it will - be difficult to forget, because we had not the smallest - claim upon his kindness. 'I certainly must have written this - myself!' said that fine-tempered man to one of the authors, - pointing to the description of the Fire, 'although I forget - upon what occasion.' Lydia White, a literary lady, who was - prone to feed the lions of the day, invited one of us to - dinner; but, recollecting afterwards that William Spencer - formed one of the party, wrote to the latter to put him off; - telling him that a man was to be at her table whom he 'would - not like to meet.' 'Pray who is this whom I should not like - to meet?' inquired the poet. 'Oh!' answered the lady, 'one - of those men who have made that shameful attack upon you!' - 'The very man upon earth I should like to know!' rejoined the - lively and careless bard. The two individuals accordingly met, - and have continued fast friends, ever since. Lord Byron, too, - wrote thus to Mr. Murray from Italy--'Tell him we forgive him, - were he twenty times our satirist.' - - It may not be amiss to notice, in this place, one criticism of - a Leicestershire clergyman, which may be pronounced unique: 'I - do not see why they should have been rejected,' observed the - matter-of-fact annotator; 'I think some of them very good!' - -P. 1. _Loyal Effusion._ By Horace Smith. Fitzgerald (1759?-1829) was a -ready versifier who was self-appointed laureate of public events for a -number of years. He was especially notable for his persistent recital -of patriotic lines at the annual dinners of the Royal Literary Fund. -The piece of his which Smith possibly had more particularly in mind was -the 'Address to every Loyal Briton on the Threatened Invasion of his -Country.' - -P. 2. _By Wyatt's trowel._ James Wyatt (1746-1813) was the architect of -the rebuilt Drury Lane Theatre. - -_Let hoarse Fitzgerald bawl._ Byron (_English Bards and Scotch -Reviewers_, line 1) wrote 'shall,' not 'let.' - -P. 4. _The Baby's Debut._ By James Smith. - -P. 6. _the Young Betty mania._ William Henry West Betty (1791-1874) -first appeared on the stage in his twelfth year, and retired with a -fortune in his seventeenth. Though he occasionally reappeared on the -boards in manhood, he never repeated his early success. - -P. 7. _An Address without a Phœnix._ This was the genuine address -which Horace Smith had sent in for competition (see p. 397). - -P. 9. _Cui Bono._ The opening stanza by James, the rest by Horace Smith. - -P. 13. _The Tradesman duns._ Originally, 'The plaintiff calls.' - -P. 15. _To the Secretary_ and _a Hampshire Farmer_. By James Smith. -William Cobbett (1762-1835) became Member of Parliament for Oldham in -1832. - -P. 16. _Mr. Whitbread._ Samuel Whitbread (1758-1815), brewer and -politician, Member of Parliament for Bedford, was Chairman of the -Committee for the rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre. - -P. 19. _The Living Lustres._ By Horace Smith. - -The following three stanzas were originally included:--between the -third and fourth: - - Each pillar that opens our stage to the circle is - Verdant antique, like Ninon de l'Enclos; - I'd ramble from them to the pillars of Hercules, - Give me but Rosa wherever I go. - -Between the fourth and fifth: - - Attun'd to the scene when the pale yellow moon is on - Tower and tree they'd look sober and sage. - And when they all winked their dear peepers in unison, - Night, pitchy night would envelop the stage. - - Ah! could I some girl from yon box for her youth pick, - I'd love her as long as she blossomed in youth; - Oh! white is the ivory case of her toothpick, - But when beauty smiles how much whiter the tooth! - -P. 21. _The Rebuilding._ By James Smith. - -P. 29. _Laura Matilda._ Horace Smith, the author of _Drury's Dirge_, -wrote that 'the authors, as in gallantly bound, wish this lady to -continue anonymous,' and as a consequence there have been several -attempts to pierce the veil of anonymity. One annotator boldly 'assumes -the lady to have been' Letitia Elizabeth Landon (1802-1836), who was -ten years of age when the _Rejected Addresses_ were published. The -motto from _The Baviad_ which stands at the head of the parody is -sufficient indication that the original was to be found among the -'Della Cruscans,' whose 'namby-pamby' verses, after appearing in the -_World_, were published in two volumes as _The British Album_ in 1790 -(see the note on p. 405). The chief lady among those sentimentals was -'Anna Matilda,' otherwise Hannah Cowley (1743-1809), a dramatist of -considerable, and a poet of but little, ability. As Mrs. Cowley had -died three years before the Addresses were sent in, it is probable -either that the parodists did not know of her death or that they merely -meant to make fun of the school of which she was a leader. The passage -from Gifford's _Baviad_ given by way of motto is taken from that part -of the satire in which the writers of _The British Album_ are more -particularly castigated. - -P. 32. _A Tale of Drury Lane._ By Horace Smith. - -P. 38. _Johnson's Ghost._ By Horace Smith. - -P. 42. _The Beautiful Incendiary._ By Horace Smith. Spencer's -best-remembered work is the tragic ballad of _Beth Gelert_. - -P. 46. _Fire and Ale._ By Horace Smith. - -P. 49. _Playhouse Musings._ By James Smith. - -P. 52. _Drury Lane Hustings._ By James Smith. The 'Pic-Nic Poet,' in -parodying the popular songs of the day, seems a very good imitation -of the improvisings for which Theodore Hook came to be famous. The -description suggests, however, that no particular writer was aimed at -in the parody. Both James and Horace Smith had ten years before been -contributors to a short-lived magazine entitled the _Pic-Nic_. - -P. 54. _Architectural Atoms._ By Horace Smith. Thomas Busby -(1755-1838), organist, musical composer, and man of letters. By way of -supplement to the authors' note it may be said that the Address printed -in the newspapers at the time as that sent in by Dr. Busby, and -parodied by Lord Byron (see p. 174), was not the Address actually sent -in, for that (preserved in the British Museum) begins: - - Ye social Energies! that link mankind - In golden bonds--as potent as refined! - -Byron used quotation effectively in _Don Juan_, Canto I, ccxxii.: - - 'Go, little book, from this my solitude! - I cast thee on the waters--go thy ways! - And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, - The world will find thee after many days.' - When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood, - I can't help putting in my claim to praise-- - The four first rhymes are Southey's, every line: - For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine! - BYRON: _Don Juan_, Canto I., ccxxii. - -P. 62. _Theatrical Alarm Bell._ By James Smith. -_committee of O.P.'s, etc._ Referring to the tumultuous scenes at -Covent Garden Theatre in 1809, when for sixty-seven successive nights -there was uproar due to the attempt of the management to raise the -prices of admission. Both James and Horace Smith appear to have written -verse contributions to the newspaper warfare which accompanied, and -served to stimulate, the disturbance in the theatre in favour of Old -Prices. - -P. 64. _The Theatre._ By James Smith. Spencer, referred to in the -footnote, is the writer of society verse parodied in _The Beautiful -Incendiary_ (p. 42). - -P. 69. _To the Managing Committee, etc._ By James Smith. - -_The Hamlet Travestie._ By John Poole. Was published in 1810, and acted -at Drury Lane in 1813. - -_The Stranger_, translated by Benjamin Thompson from _Menschenhass und -Reue_, by August von Kotzebue (1761-1819)--one line is remembered: -'There is another and a better world'--and _George Barnwell_, by George -Lillo (1693-1739), based on the ballad in Percy's _Reliques_, were -sensational plays that enjoyed considerable popularity in the early -part of the nineteenth century. - -P. 72. _Mrs. Haller._ One of the principal characters in _The Stranger_. - -P. 76. _Punch's Apotheosis._ By Horace Smith. Theodore Hook wrote a -number of light plays and farces before he was out of his teens, and -was long notable for the way in which he could improvise such false -gallop of verses as is parodied in _Punch's Apotheosis_. - -P. 82. _Can Bartolozzi's... Could Grignion's._ The work of the -engravers, Francesco Bartolozzi (1725-1815) and Charles Grignion -(1717-1810), was much in use for sumptuously illustrated books. - -_The epic rage of Blackmore._ Sir Richard Blackmore (d. 1729), a -physician-poet, who wrote _Prince Arthur, an Heroick Poem_; _Eliza, an -Epic Poem_; _Alfred, an Epic Poem_; and various other works which the -world has willingly let die. - -P. 83. _With Griffiths, Langhorne, Kenrick, etc._ Ralph Griffiths -(1720-1803) was founder, proprietor, publisher, and sometime editor -of _The Monthly Review_, the contributors to which included John -Langhorne (1735-1779), the translator of Plutarch, and William Kenrick -(1725?-1779). - -P. 86. The first lines are an imitation of Pope's _Dunciad_: - - The mighty Mother, and her son, who brings - The Smithfield Muses to the ears of Kings, etc. - -_Lo! the poor toper_ is imitated from Pope's _Essay on Man_: - - Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind - Sees God in clouds, and hears Him in the wind, etc. - -P. 87. _Catherine Fanshawe._ The parody on Gray was sent by Miss -Fanshawe to her friend, Miss Berry (one of Walpole's Misses Berry), -with a letter purporting to be a letter of thanks to her for permission -to read the verses, which, it was pretended, had been sent by Miss -Berry, their author, to Miss Fanshawe for approval. The reference to -Sydney Smith is to his lectures on 'Moral Philosophy' delivered at the -Royal Institution, 1804-1806. Payne was a fashionable milliner of the -period. - -P. 92. _A Fable._ Dryden's _The Hind and the Panther_: - - A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged, - Fed on the lawns and in the forest ranged. - -_The Course of Time._ Robert Pollok's poem, despite this parody, was so -popular that from its first publication in 1827 to 1868 it attained a -sale of 78,000 copies. - -P. 93. _Canning and Frere._ _The Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin_, 1852 and -1854, has been followed in attributing the authorship of the various -parodies to Canning and others. The authority consists of Canning's own -copy of the _Anti-Jacobin_, that of Lord Burghersh, that of Wright the -publisher, and information given by Upcott. - -_Inscription._ Southey's poem was an 'inscription for the apartment in -Chepstow Castle where Henry Marten, the regicide, was imprisoned for -thirty years.' - - For thirty years secluded from mankind, - Here Marten linger'd. - -It was written in 1795, but Southey excluded it from later editions -of his works issued when he was no longer in sympathy with the French -Revolution. Mrs. Brownrigg, the wife of a house-painter, was hanged at -Tyburn for murder. - -P. 94. _The Soldier's Wife._ Southey's _The Soldier's Wife_: - - Weary way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart, - Travelling painfully over the rugged road; - Wild-visaged wanderer! Ah, for thy heavy chance. - -Coleridge wrote the third stanza, indicated by asterisks in the second -imitation. Southey finally suppressed this poem also. - -_Dilworth and Dyche._ A reference to Thomas Dilworth's _Guide to the -English Tongue_ (1761) and Thomas Dyche's _Guide to the English Tongue_ -(1709). - -P. 95. _Sapphics._ Southey's _The Widow_: - - Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell; - Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked, - When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey, - Weary and way-sore. - -George Tierney was the 'Friend of Humanity.' The original shared the -fate of the other two poems in being finally suppressed. - -P. 97. _The Loves of the Triangles._ Darwin's _Loves of the Plants_. -Frere wrote the first lines to 'And liveried lizards wait upon her -call' (p. 99); Ellis from that point to 'Twine round his struggling -heart, and bind with endless chain' (p. 101); Canning, Ellis, and Frere -were the joint-authors of the portion from 'Thus, happy France' to -'And folds the parent-monarch to her breast' (p. 102), Canning alone -being responsible for the following twelve lines; and the trio finished -the parody together. As a rule only portions of this masterpiece _sui -generis_ have hitherto been reprinted. - -P. 104. _Lodi's blood-stained Bridge._ Napoleon beat the Austrians at -Lodi on May 10, 1796. - -P. 105. _Muir, Ashley, etc._ Thomas Muir (1765-1798) was a -Parliamentary reformer; Thomas Paine (1737-1809), author of the _Rights -of Man_; Archibald Hamilton Rowan (1751-1834), a prominent United -Irishman; Ashley and Barlow evade identification. - -P. 107. _Song by Rogero._ _The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement_, was -a travesty of German drama, in particular of Schiller's _Robbers_, -Kotzebue's _The Stranger_, and Goethe's _Stella_, and it was performed -at the Haymarket Theatre in 1811. It is the work of Canning, Ellis, -and Frere, but only the first two wrote this 'song' (according to some -authorities Pitt is credited with the last verse), having in mind -Pitt's friend, Sir Robert Adair, who was educated at Göttingen. The -editors of the _Anti-Jacobin_ say: 'The song of Rogero with which the -first act concludes is admitted on almost all hands to be in the very -first taste, and if no German original is to be found for it, so much -the worse for the credit of German literature.' This parody has itself -often been parodied--by, among others, R. H. Barham, whose topic was -the newly established London University. - -P. 109. _James Hogg._ The Ettrick Shepherd's _Poetic Mirror, or the -Living Bards of Great Britain_, was published anonymously in 1816, -and it is generally admitted that his parodies of style are among the -finest in the language. They are, however, overlong, and we have been -obliged to be content with the 'song' alone from the parody of Scott, -which, complete, would occupy more than seventy pages. - -P. 115. _The light-heel'd author of the Isle of Palms._ John Wilson -('Christopher North') who published _The Isle of Palms and other Poems_ -in 1812. - -P. 124. _Joan I chose._ Southey's _Joan of Arc_ was published in 1796. - -_The next, a son, I bred a Mussulman. Thalaba the Destroyer_, 1801. - -_A tiny thing... from the north... with vengeful spite_ was probably -meant for the _Edinburgh Review_. - -P. 125. _My third, a Christian and a warrior true. Madoc_, 1805. - -_And next, his brother, a supreme Hindu. The Curse of Kehama_, 1810. - -P. 128. _The Curse._ The closing lines are a faithful imitation of 'the -Curse' in _The Curse of Kehama_, which ends: - - Thou shalt live in thy pain - While Kehama shall reign, - With a fire in thy heart, - And a fire in thy brain; - And Sleep shall obey me, - And visit thee never - And the Curse shall be on thee - For ever and ever. - -P. 128. _And C--t--e shun thee._ Possibly Cottle, the publisher and -friend of Southey. - -P. 129. _The Gude Greye Katt._ A parody of Hogg's own narrative, _The -Witch of Fyfe_. - -P. 142. _Sonnets Attempted, etc._ These appeared originally in the -second number of the _Monthly Magazine_ in November, 1797, with the -signature of 'Nehemiah Higginbottom.' Coleridge described them as -written-- - - 'in ridicule of my own Poems, and Charles Lloyd's and Lamb's, - etc., etc., exposing that affectation of unaffectedness, of - jumping and misplaced accent in commonplace epithets, flat - lines forced into poetry by italics (signifying how well and - mouthishly the author would read them), puny pathos, etc., - etc. The instances were almost all taken from myself and Lloyd - and Lamb.' - -The first sonnet, Coleridge said, - - had for its object to excite a good-natured laugh at the - spirit of doleful egotism and at the recurrence of favourite - phrases, with the double object of being at once trite and - licentious. The second was on low creeping language and - thoughts under the pretence of _simplicity_. [Lamb had written - some months earlier, 'Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge.'] The - third, the phrases of which were borrowed entirely from my own - poems, on the indiscriminate use of elaborate and swelling - language and imagery.... So general at that time and so - decided was the opinion concerning the characteristic vices - of my style that a celebrated physician (now, alas! no more) - speaking of me in other respects with his usual kindness to - a gentleman who was about to meet me at a dinner-party could - not, however, resist giving him a hint not to mention _The - House that Jack Built_ in my presence, for that I was as sore - as a boil about that sonnet, he not knowing that I was myself - the author of it. (_See_ the Oxford Coleridge.) - -P. 144. _Amatory Poems._ It is curious that Southey, who had taken -offence at Coleridge's sonnet _To Simplicity_, signed 'Nehemiah -Higginbottom,' believing it directed against himself, should -himself have turned parodist and adopted the similar name of 'Abel -Shufflebottom' a couple of years later. Coleridge wrote, so he -declared, that he might do the young poets good; Southey, it may -be believed, merely to make fun of that band of vain and foolish -versifiers who came to be known as 'the Della Cruscans.' Haunters -of the book-stalls may yet occasionally light upon two small volumes -entitled _The British Album, containing the Poems of Della Crusca, Anna -Matilda, Arley, Benedict, the Bard, etc., etc. Which were originally -published under the Title of the Poetry of the World, revised and -corrected by the Respective Authors_. The second edition was dated -1790, and the work was still current when the brothers Smith gave their -Laura Matilda parody in the _Rejected Addresses_ (see p. 29). A few -stanzas of one of 'Della Crusca's' poems addressed to 'Anna Matilda' -will suffice to indicate the stuff which Southey was satirising: - - While the _dear Songstress_ had melodious stole - O'er ev'ry sense, and charm'd each nerve to rest, - _Thy Bard_ in silent ecstasy of soul, - Had strain'd the _dearer Woman_ to his breast. - - Or had she said, that _War's the worthiest grave_, - He would have felt his proud heart burn the while, - Have dar'd, perhaps, to rush among the brave, - Have gain'd, perhaps, the glory--of a smile. - - And 'tis most true, while Time's relentless hand, - With sickly grasp drags _others_ to the tomb, - The Soldier scorns to wait the dull command, - But springs impatient to a nobler doom. - - Tho' on the plain _he_ lies, outstretch'd, and pale, - Without one friend his steadfast eyes to close, - Yet on his honour'd corse shall many a gale, - Waft the moist fragrance of the weeping rose. - - O'er that dread spot, the melancholy Moon - Shall pause a while, a sadder beam to shed, - And starry Night, amidst her awful noon, - Sprinkle light dews upon his hallow'd head. - - There too the solitary Bird shall swell - With long-drawn melody her plaintive throat, - While distant echo from responsive cell, - Shall oft with fading force return the note. - - Such recompense be Valour's due alone! - To me, no proffer'd meed must e'er belong. - To me, who trod the vale of life unknown, - Whose proudest boast was but an idle song. - -'Della Crusca,' the chief of the band, was Robert Merry (1755-1798). -The 'Della Cruscans' may be said to have been killed by ridicule by -Gifford's _Baviad_ and _Maeviad_. - -P. 151. _Epicedium._ This appeared originally under the title 'Gone or -Going' in Hone's _Table Book_ (1827), and was reprinted by Lamb in his -_Album Verses_. It is an echo rather than a close parody of Michael -Drayton's _Ballad of Agincourt_, of which the fifth stanza runs: - - And for myself (quoth he) - This my full rest shall be, - England ne'er mourn for me, - Nor more esteem me. - Victor I will remain, - Or on this earth lie slain, - Never shall she sustain - Loss to redeem me. - -P. 153. _Hypochondriacus._ This formed part of some imitations (mostly -prose) which Lamb described as _Curious Fragments extracted from a -Commonplace Book which belonged to Robert Burton, the famous Author of -the Anatomy of Melancholy_ (1801). Though it is parody of matter more -than of manner, it has echoes of Burton's _Abstract of Melancholy_, -which prefaces the _Anatomy_. - -P. 154. _Nonsense Verses._ Here Lamb parodies the sentiment which had -inspired his own poem, _Angel Help_, written on a picture showing a -girl who had been spinning so long for the support of a bed-ridden -mother that she had fallen asleep, while angels were shown finishing -her work and watering a lily. - -P. 155. _The Numbering of the Clergy._ Sir Charles Hanbury Williams's-- - - Come, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses, - For sweeter sure never girl gave; - But why, in the midst of my blisses, - Do you ask me how many I'd have? - -P. 156. _Peacock._ All these parodies but the last (the Byron) are from -Peacock's _Paper Money Lyrics_ published in 1837, but written ten or -twelve years earlier 'during the prevalence of an influenza to which -the beautiful fabric of paper-credit is periodically subject.' - -P. 160. _Prœmium of an Epic._ Southey's _Thalaba the Destroyer_: -'How beautiful is night!' - -P. 165. _Song by Mr. Cypress._ The quintessence of Byron as distilled -by Peacock into what Swinburne calls 'the two consummate stanzas which -utter or exhale the lyric agony of Mr. Cypress.' The lines occur in -_Nightmare Abbey_. - -P. 166. _The Patriot's Progress._ Shakespeare, _As You Like It_, Act -II., Scene 7. - -P. 167. _Our Parodies are Ended. The Tempest_, Act. IV., Sc. 1. - -P. 167. _Fashion._ Milton's _L'Allegro_. - -P. 171. _Verses._ The 'Editor' was Leigh Hunt, editor of the -_Examiner_, imprisoned for two years (1814-15) in Surrey Gaol for -libelling the Prince Regent. The authorship of this parody is often -wrongfully attributed. - -_Never hear Mr. Br----m make a speech._ Henry, afterwards Lord, -Brougham. - -_Law._ Edward Law Baron Ellenborough, Lord Chief Justice. - -P. 172. _But Cobbett has got his discharge._ William Cobbett had been -imprisoned for two years (1810-12) for his strictures on the Government -of the day. - -_To Mr. Murray_. John Murray was 'Bookseller to the Admiralty and the -Board of Longitude.' He had possessed, and parted with, a share in -_Blackwood's Magazine_. - -_Strahan, Tonson, Lintot_, the publishers and booksellers of the -eighteenth century. - -P. 174. _Busby._ Dr. Busby had been one of the unsuccessful writers -of an Address for the opening of Drury Lane (see p. 54 and note). The -lines and words in inverted commas were from the Address which Busby -printed as having been sent in, not from the one that he did send in, -which is preserved in the British Museum. - -_As if Sir Fretful._ Sir Fretful Plagiary, of course, from Sheridan's -_The Critic_. - -P. 176. _Margate._ Two stanzas, complete in themselves, from Mr. -Peters's story, 'The Bagman's Dog,' in the _Ingoldsby Legends_. Byron's -_Childe Harold_, Canto IV. - -P. 177. _Not a sous had he got._ Barham notes that during the -controversy in 1824 as to the authorship of 'The Burial of Sir John -Moore,' a-- - - claimant started up in the person of a _soi-disant_ 'Dr. - Marshall,' who turned out to be a Durham blacksmith and - his pretensions a hoax. It was then that a certain 'Doctor - Peppercorn' put forth _his_ pretensions, to what he averred - was the 'true and original' version--the somewhat vulgar - parody reprinted from _The Ingoldsby Legends_. - - Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.--Virgil. - - I wrote these lines--... owned them--he told stories! - THOMAS INGOLDSBY. - -P. 178. _The Demolished Farce._ Bayly's own popular song: - - Oh no, we never mention her, - Her name is never heard. - -See also Andrew Lang's parody, p. 353. - -P. 179. _Peter Bell the Third._ Mrs. Shelley felt constrained to note -that-- - - nothing personal to the author of _Peter Bell_ is intended - in this poem. No man ever admired Wordsworth's poetry - more;--he read it perpetually, and taught others to - appreciate its beauties.... His idea was that a man gifted, - even as transcendently as the author of _Peter Bell_, with - the highest qualities of genius, must, if he fostered such - errors, be infected with dullness. This poem was written as a - warning--not as a narration of reality. He was unacquainted - personally with Wordsworth, or with Coleridge (to whom he - alludes in the fifth part of the poem), and therefore, I - repeat, his poem is purely ideal;--it contains something - of criticism on the compositions of those great poets, but - nothing injurious to the men themselves. - -P. 186. _* * *_ Mr. H. Buxton Forman says: 'All seems to me to point to -Eldon as the name left out here.' - -(_See_ note to p. 219.) - -Byron was less respectful: - - There's something in a stupid ass, - And something in a heavy dunce, - But never since I went to school - I heard or saw so damned a fool - As William Wordsworth is for once. - - And now I've seen so great a fool - As William Wordsworth is for once, - I really wish that Peter Bell - And he who wrote it, were in hell, - For writing nonsense for the nonce. - -P. 201. _A long poem in blank verse._ This reference in the note is to -Wordsworth's _Excursion_, the lines indicated being: - - And, verily, the silent creatures made - A splendid sight, together thus exposed; - Dead--but not sullied or deformed by death, - That seemed to pity what he could not spare. - Book VIII., lines 568-571. - -P. 202. _As the Prince Regent did with Sherry_--_i.e._, Richard -Brinsley Sheridan. - -_'Twould make George Colman melancholy._ George Colman was author of -_Broad Grins_ and other humorous work. - -P. 203. _May Carnage and slaughter._ The reference here is to lines in -Wordsworth's _Thanksgiving Ode on the Battle of Waterloo_ (later _Ode_, -1815), as originally published: - - But Thy most dreaded instrument - In working out a pure intent, - Is Man--arrayed for mutual slaughter. - --Yea, Carnage is thy daughter! - -P. 205. _The immortal Described by Swift._ Presumably a reference to -the undying Struldbrugs of _Gulliver's Travels_, 'despised and hated by -all sorts of people.' - -P. 206. _'Twould have made Guatimozin doze._ Guatimozin or Cuauhtemoc -was the last of the Aztec emperors, executed with circumstances of -great cruelty by Cortes. - -P. 206. _Like those famed Seven who slept three ages_--_i.e._, the -Seven Sleepers of Ephesus who, according to a Syrian legend, hid -themselves in a cave during the Decian persecution (A.D. 250), fell -asleep and awakened miraculously nearly two hundred years later. - -P. 215. '_&c._' This ending is in accord with the original text. - -P. 218. _He lived amidst th' untrodden ways._ Mr. Walter Hamilton, -whose large collection of parodies is well known, attributes this -parody to Hartley Coleridge, but efforts to trace it have failed. - -P. 219. _Peter Bell: a Lyrical Ballad._ When Wordsworth's _Peter -Bell_ was announced in 1819, John Hamilton Reynolds wrote--it is said -in a single day--this _Lyrical Ballad_ and hurried it out before -Wordsworth's poem was issued. The fact that Reynolds used Wordsworth's -measure suggests that he had seen a copy of the original. It was a -criticism by Leigh Hunt of Wordsworth's _Peter Bell_ and Reynolds' -parody that moved Shelley to the writing of _Peter Bell the Third_. -To his _Peter Bell_ Reynolds attached a _Preface_ and a short -_Supplementary Essay_, also purporting to be written by W. W. - - 'It is now (the _Preface_ began) a period of one-and-twenty years - since I first wrote some of the most perfect compositions (except - certain pieces I have written in my later days) that ever dropped - from poetical pen.... It has been my aim and my achievement - to deduce moral thunder from buttercups, daisies, celandines, and - (as a poet scarcely inferior to myself, hath it) "such small deer." - Out of sparrows' eggs I have hatched great truths, and with sextons' - barrows have I wheeled into human hearts piles of the weightiest - philosophy.... Of _Peter Bell_ I have only thus much to say: It - completes the simple system of natural narrative, which I began so - early as 1798. It is written in that pure unlaboured style, which - can only be met with among labourers.... I commit my Ballad - confidently to posterity. I love to read my own poetry: it does - my heart good.' - -In the _Supplementary Essay_ 'W. W.' was made to declare that he -proposed 'in the course of a few years to write laborious lives of all -the old people who enjoy sinecures in the text or are pensioned off in -the notes of my Poetry.' - -P. 221. _As clustering a relationship._ See _The Critic_, Act II., -Scene 2: - - And thou, my Whiskerandos, shouldst be father - And mother, brother, cousin, uncle, aunt, - And friend to me! - -P. 228. _Blue Bonnets over the Border._ Scott's 'ditty to the ancient -air of "Blue Bonnets over the Border,"' _The Monastery_, chap. xxv: - - March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, - Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? - -P. 231. _As Spencer had ere he composed his Tales._ This probably -refers to the Hon. W. R. Spencer, author of _Beth Gelert_, as well as -to the one-time fashionable tailless coat known as a 'spencer.' - -P. 232. _This shall a Carder... Whiteboy... Rock's murderous -commands._ The reference is to the secret associations which were -responsible for much agrarian crime in Ireland during the early part of -the nineteenth century. - -P. 235. _If English corn should grow abroad._. Thus in fourth edition -of _Whims and Oddities_ (1829), but 'go' in some reprints. The bull is -probably intentional. - -P. 237. _Huggins and Duggins._ Hood appears to have had Pope's first -Pastoral, _Spring_, especially in mind. In it Strephon and Daphnis -alternately sing the praises of Delia and Sylvia: - - In Spring the fields, in Autumn hills I love, - At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove, - But Delia always; absent from her sight, - Nor plains at morn, nor grove at noon delight. - -P. 237. _All things by turns, and nothing long._ 'Was everything by -starts, and nothing long.'--DRYDEN: _Absalom and Achitophel_. - -P. 240. _We met._ T. H. Bayly's-- - - We met--'twas in a crowd, - And I thought he would shun me, - He came--I could not breathe, - For his eyes were upon me. - -P. 241. _Those Evening Bells._ Moore's song begins: - - Those evening bells! those evening bells! - How many a tale their music tells - Of youth, and home, and that sweet time - When last I heard their soothing chime. - -P. 241. _The Water Peri's Song._ Moore's _Lalla Rookh_; - - Farewell--farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! - (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,) - No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water, - More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee. - -P. 242. _Cabbages._ The first verse of _Violets_, by L. E. L., runs: - - Violets! deep blue violets! - April's loveliest coronets: - There are no flowers grow in the vale, - Kissed by the sun, wooed by the gale, - None with the dew of the twilight wet, - So sweet as the deep blue violet. - -P. 243. _Larry O'Toole._ Charles Lever: 'Did ye hear of the Widow -Malone?' - -P. 243. _The Willow Tree._ In this Thackeray was parodying his own -earlier treatment of the same theme, as Charles Lamb had parodied -himself in the _Nonsense Verses_ (see p. 154). Thackeray's serious -version begins: - - Know ye the willow-tree, - Whose grey leaves quiver, - Whispering gloomily - To yon pale river? - -P. 245. _Dear Jack._ In O'Keeffe's opera, _The Poor Soldier_, is the -often-parodied song imitated from the Latin: - - Dear Tom, this brown jug that foams with mild ale, - Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the Vale, - Was once Toby Filpot, etc. - -The Rev. Francis Fawkes, famous in his day as a translator of the -classics, is the reputed author of the song. - -P. 248. _The Almack's Adieu_ and _The Knightly Guerdon_. These are -varied parodies of a one-time popular song: - - Your Molly has never been false, she declares, - Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs; - When I vowed I would ever continue the same, - And gave you the 'Bacco Box marked with my name. - When I passed a whole fortnight between decks with you, - Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of the crew? - To be useful and kind with my Thomas I stayed,-- - For his trousers I washed, and his grog, too, I made. - -P. 250. W. E. _Aytoun._ The contributions of Aytoun to the _Book of -Ballads_, edited by 'Bon Gaultier,' that are here given are those -which, on the authority of Sir Theodore Martin, were solely his own -composition. Several of the _Ballads_ had appeared in periodicals -before they were collected and published in book form in 1845. - -P. 252. _A Midnight Meditation._ Six poets are parodied in the 'Bon -Gaultier' _Ballads_ under the general heading, 'The Laureates' -Tourney'--Wordsworth, the Hon. T-- B-- M'A--, the Hon. G-- S-- S--, -T-- M--RE, Esq., A-- T--, and Sir E-- B-- L--, the last of which, by -Aytoun only, is here given. The parodists, remembering _Rejected -Addresses_, profess that the poems were sent to the Home Secretary when -the Laureateship became vacant on the death of Southey. - -P. 252. _These mute inglorious Miltons._ Hood had already used this pun -connecting the poet and the oysters in his ballad of the blind _Tim -Turpin_: - - A surgeon oped his Milton eyes. - Like oysters, with a knife. - -P. 254. _The Husband's Petition._ In this Aytoun was using to a -ludicrous end the measure he had employed in _The Execution of -Montrose_: - - Come hither, Evan Cameron! - Come, stand beside my knee-- - I hear the river roaring down - Towards the wintry sea. - -P. 256. _Sonnet CCCI._ Martin Farquhar Tupper published a volume -of _Three Hundred Sonnets_ in 1860. _Punch_ professed to have made -an arrangement with him to continue the series, and boldly put the -initials M. F. T. to this parody in the number for May 26, 1860. - -P. 257. _You see yon prater called a Beales._ Edmond Beales (1803-1881) -was President of the Reform League at the time of the Hyde Park riots. -He thus figures in _Punch_ in lines written apropos of tears shed by -Walpole, Home Secretary, when he learnt of the riots: - - Tears at the thought of that Hyde Park affair - Rise in the eye and trickle down the nose, - In looking on the haughty Edmond Beales, - And thinking of the shrubs that are no more. - -P. 258. _The Lay of the Lovelorn._ This is one of the 'Bon Gaultier' -_Ballads_, and is included by permission of Messrs. William Blackwood -and Sons. Aytoun had no part in this parody. It was solely Sir Theodore -Martin's, and in its author's opinion is the best he contributed to -the collection. In the _Book of Ballads_ Sir Theodore was at pains to -explain that-- - - it was precisely the poets whom we most admired that we - imitated the most frequently. This was certainly not from - any want of reverence, but rather out of the fullness of - our admiration, just as the excess of a lover's fondness - often runs over into raillery of the very qualities that are - dearest to his heart. 'Let no one,' says Heine, 'ridicule - mankind unless he loves them.' With no less truth may it be - said, Let no one parody a poet unless he loves him. He must - first be penetrated by his spirit, and have steeped his ear in - the music of his verse, before he can reflect these under a - humorous aspect with success. - -Some excellent parodists have succeeded very well in dissembling their -love. - -P. 266. _The Laureates Bust at Trinity._ Parody of part of _Guinevere_ -in the _Idylls of the King_: - - So the stately Queen abode - For many a week, unknown, among the nuns.... - 'Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! - Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. - Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.' - -The parody is from _Punch_, November 12, 1859. - -P. 268. _Unfortunate Miss Bailey._ Tennyson's _The Lord of Burleigh_. - - In her ear he whispers gaily, - 'If my heart by signs can tell, - Maiden, I have watched thee daily, - And I think thou lov'st me well.' - -P. 270. _Cary._ Phoebe Cary wrote many parodies. One entitled _The -Wife_ is sometimes said to be a burlesque of Wordsworth: - - Her washing ended with the day, - Yet lived she at its close, - And passed the long, long night away - In darning ragged hose. - - But when the sun in all his state - Illumed the eastern skies, - She passed about the kitchen grate - And went to making pies. - -As a matter of fact this only differs by the use of a few turns from - - Her suffering ended with the day, - -by James Aldrich (1810-1856). - -P. 271. _That very time I saw_, etc. See _Midsummer Night's Dream_, Act -II., Sc. 1. - -P. 272. _On a Toasted Muffin_, Sir E. L. B. L. B. L. B. Little was -Edward Lytton Bulwer Lytton, afterwards Lord Lytton, who had written an -anonymous satire, _The New Timon_. - -P. 273. _In Immemoriam._ In connexion with these quatrains it may be -noted that Whewell (1794-1866), in one of his treatises, published -before _In Memoriam_, dropped into the following sentence: 'No power -on earth, however great, can stretch a cord, however fine, into a -horizontal line that shall be absolutely straight.' - -P. 274. _Bayard Taylor. The Diversions of the Echo Club_ first -appeared in the _Atlantic Monthly_, 1872, and in book form in 1876. The -poems here reprinted are given by permission of the Houghton, Mifflin -Company. - -Taylor, writing to T. B. Aldrich, March 29, 1873, says: - - Story told me that Browning sent him the _Echo Club_ last - summer, with a note saying it was the best thing of the kind - he had ever seen, and that if he had found the imitations of - himself in a volume of his poems he would have believed that - he actually wrote them. - - _Life and Letters of Bayard Taylor._ - -P. 281. _All or Nothing._ While parodying Emerson's poetry generally -Bayard Taylor had probably chiefly in mind _The Sphinx_: - - The Sphinx is drowsy, - Her wings are furled: - Her ear is heavy, - She broods on the world. - -Most of Bayard Taylor's parodies are obviously rather of the poets' -general styles than of particular poems. - -P. 286. _If life were never bitter._ Parody of Swinburne's _A Match_: - - If love were what the rose is - And I were like the leaf. - -P. 286. _Salad._ From _The British Birds_ (1872): - -Enter three Poets, all handsome. One hath redundant hair, a second -redundant beard, a third redundant brow. They present a letter of -introduction from an eminent London publisher, stating that they -are candidates for the important post of Poet Laureate to the New -Municipality which the Birds are about to create. - -P. 289. _I'm a Shrimp._ - - I'm afloat! I'm afloat! On the fierce rolling tide-- - The ocean's my home and my bark is my bride. - Up, up, with my flag, let it wave o'er the sea,-- - I'm afloat! I'm afloat! and the Rover is free. - -P. 290. _Dante Rossetti._ These poems are taken, by permission, from -_The Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti_--the single-volume edition of -1911. 'MacCracken' is a close parody of one of Tennyson's early poems, -'The Kraken': - - Below the thunders of the upper deep; - Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, - His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep - The Kraken sleepeth. - -Mr. Francis MacCracken, of Belfast, was the purchaser of early works by -the pre-Raphaelite artists. - -P. 290. _The Brothers._ Another poem by Tennyson, 'The Sisters,' -tells of the tragic love of twin girls for one man, and this duality -suggested the verses to Rossetti when he found that the 'Thomas -Maitland' who had attacked his work in the _Contemporary Review_ ('The -Fleshly School of Poetry') was really Robert Buchanan. - -P. 292. _Ode to Tobacco._ This is in the Draytonian metre, 'Fair -stood the wind for France,' but Calverley evidently had Longfellow in -mind. Compare the second stanza of his Ode with the third stanza of -Longfellow's _Skeleton in Armour_: - - I was a Viking old! - My deeds, though manifold, - No Skald in song has told, - No Saga taught thee! - -P. 294. _The real beverage for feasting gods on._ The allusion in the -seventh stanza is to Jupiter and the Indian Ale: - - 'Bring it!' quoth the Cloud-Compeller, - And the wine-god brought the beer-- - 'Port and Claret are like water - To the noble stuff that's here.' - -Calverley also parodied Byron in _Arcades Ambo_. - -P. 297. _Wanderers._ Tennyson's 'The Brook,' with the song of the brook: - - I come from haunts of coot and hern, - I make a sudden sally, - -but ending in a parody of Tennysonian blank verse. In his _Collections -and Recollections_, Mr. G. W. E. Russell has quoted the last six lines, -'which even appreciative critics generally overlook.... Will any one -stake his literary reputation on the assertion that these lines are not -really Tennyson's?' (The poem is from _Fly-Leaves_, 1872, by permission -of Messrs. George Bell and Sons.) - -P. 298. _Proverbial Philosophy._ Here are some typical lines by Martin -Tupper: - - A man too careful of danger liveth in continual torment, - But a cheerful expecter of the best hath a fountain of joy within - him: - Yea, though the breath of disappointment should chill the sanguine - heart, - Speedily gloweth it again, warmed by the live embers of hope; - Though the black and heavy surge close above the head for a moment, - Yet the happy buoyancy of Confidence riseth superior to Despair. - -P. 300. _Read incessantly thy Burke_--_i.e._, Burke's _Peerage_. _The -Prince of Modern Romance_--_i.e._, Lord Lytton. - -P. 301. _The Cock and the Bull._ As Mr. Seaman truly remarks, this is a -recognized masterpiece of the higher stage of parody, when an author's -literary methods--in this case Browning's _The Ring and the Book_--are -imitated. (From _Fly-Leaves_.) - -P. 304. _Lovers, and a Reflection._ Calverley may have had in mind -William Morris's 'Two Red Roses across the Moon,' which begins 'There -was a lady lived in a hall,' but undoubtedly the source of his -inspiration was Jean Ingelow's 'The Apple-Woman's Song,' from _Mopsa -the Fairy_, the second line of which recurs: 'Feathers and moss, and a -wisp of hay.' (From _Fly-Leaves_.) - -P. 306. _Ballad._ Another burlesque of the same poet. Miss Ingelow -attempted to retaliate in _Fated to be Free_, with feeble lines -intended to pour scorn on 'Gifford Crayshaw'--_i.e._, Calverley. (From -_Fly-Leaves_.) - -P. 309. _You are old, Father William._ An example of a parody known to -everybody, although the original is known to few. The poem imitated is -Southey's 'The Old Man's Comforts, and how he gained them,' beginning: - - You are old, Father William, the young man cried, - -and ending: - - In the days of my youth I remember'd my God! - And He hath not forgotten my age. - -P. 314. _The Three Voices._ Tennyson's _The Two Voices_: - - A still small voice spake unto me. - -P. 322. _Beautiful Soup._ The authorship of 'Beautiful Snow,' which was -immensely popular in this country as well as in its native America, -cannot be verified. It has been attributed to an unhappy woman, to -Major W. A. Sigourney, who was said to have written the verses in 1852, -and who died in 1871, and to a James W. Watson. - -P. 323. _Ravings._ Parodying Poe's _Ulalume_: - - The skies they were ashen and sober; - The leaves they were crisped and sere-- - The leaves they were withering and sere; - It was night in the lonesome October - Of my most immemorial year; - It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, - In the misty mid region of Weir-- - It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, - In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. - -P. 324. _The Wedding._ The name, 'Owing Merrythief' (_i.e._, Owen -Meredith), invented by Hood the Younger, sufficiently explains the -Tennysonian fragrance of these lines. - -P. 327. _A Clerk ther was._ The seventy-fifth birthday of that -distinguished scholar and oarsman, the late Dr. F. J. Furnivall, was -celebrated by the publication by the Oxford University Press of a -Festschrift, _An English Miscellany_. Professor Skeat's contribution -was received too late for inclusion among the other tributes in this -volume, and it was first published in _The Periodical_, the organ of -the Oxford Press. - -P. 330. _A Reminiscence of 'David Garrick,'_ etc. T. W. Robertson's -_David Garrick_ was produced in 1864. - -P. 330. _Lord Dundreary._ A farcical stage character in Tom Taylor's -play, _Our American Cousin_, in which Edward A. Sothern created -something of a furore in 1861-62. - -P. 330. _Mr. Buckstone's playhouse_--_i.e._, The Haymarket Theatre. - -P. 331. _But at last a lady entered._ Nelly Moore (d. 1869), an actress -whose chief success was gained at the Haymarket with Sothern. - -Pp. 336-41. From _Specimens of Modern Poets_ | _The Heptalogia_ | _or_ -| _The Seven against Sense._| a _Cap with Seven Bells_: by permission -of Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton and Messrs. Chatto and Windus. The poets -parodied are Tennyson, Robert and Mrs. Browning, Coventry Patmore, -'Owen Meredith,' D. G. Rossetti, and Swinburne himself. The _Specimens_ -were published anonymously in 1880. The 'Owen Meredith' is particularly -severe, and strikes the same note as that of Hood the Younger (p. 324). -Swinburne's parody of himself is one of the rare successes of its kind. -'The Kid' Idyll is the third part of a parody of _The Angel in the -House_. - -The _Poet and the Woodlouse_ is presumably suggested by _Lady -Geraldine's Courtship_. - -P. 342. _Bret Harte._ The Bret Harte poems are taken from his _Complete -Works_ by permission of Messrs. Chatto and Windus and the Houghton, -Mifflin Company. - -P. 342. _A Geological Madrigal._ Shenstone's verses beginning - - I have found out a gift for my fair; - I have found where the wood-pigeons breed, - -are in _Hope_, the second part of his _Pastoral Ballad in Four Parts_. -The inspiration of Bret Harte's verses is sometimes ridiculously -attributed to Herrick. - -P. 347. _Vers de Société._ This might have been classed as a parody of -Praed, but was printed originally as by 'Fritteric Lacquer.' It is here -reprinted, with the two following parodies, from Traill's _Recaptured -Rhymes_, by permission of Messrs. Blackwood. - -P. 348. _The Puss and the Boots._ This may be compared with Calverley's -'The Cock and the Bull' (see p. 301). - -P. 350. _After Dilettante Concetti._ See Rossetti's _Sister Helen_, -which commences: - - 'Why did you melt your waxen man, - Sister Helen? - To-day is the third since you began.' - 'The time was long, yet the time ran, - Little Brother!' - (_O Mother, Mary Mother, - Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!_) - -The sonnet with which Traill closes is a parody of Sonnet XCVII. of -_The House of Life_, beginning: - - 'Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; - I am also called No-More, Too-Late, Farewell.' - -Pp. 353-7. _Andrew Lang._ The parodies on the Rossetti and Morris -styles are taken from Andrew Lang's essay on Thomas Haynes Bayly in -_Essays in Little_. 'Bayly,' Mr. Lang wrote, in discussing 'Oh, no, we -never mention her,' 'had now struck the note, the sweet sentimental -note, of the early, innocent, Victorian age.... We should do the trick -quite differently now, more like this.' Here follows 'Love spake to -me,' of which its author says at the end: - - I declare I nearly weep over these lines; for, though they - are only Bayly's sentiment hastily recast in a modern manner, - there is something so very affecting, mouldy, and unwholesome - about them that they sound as if they had been 'written up to' - a sketch by a disciple of Mr. Rossetti's. - -So, of-- - - Gaily the Troubadour - Touched his guitar, - -Mr. Lang says, 'Any one of us could get in more local colour for the -money, and give the crusader a cithern or citole instead of a guitar,' -and in proof gives the 'romantic, esoteric, old French poem, "Sir -Ralph."' - -The two Swinburne parodies are from _Rhymes à la Mode_, 1895. An -earlier _Ballade_, of which that on p. 35 'is an improved version, was -printed in the _St. James's Gazette_ in 1881. The original of this is -Swinburne's 'A Ballad of Burdens'; of 'The Palace of Bric-a-brac,' 'The -Garden of Proserpine': - - Here, where the world is quiet, - Here, where all trouble seems - Dead winds' and spent waves' riot - In doubtful dreams of dreams. - -P. 355. _Brahma._ Emerson's 'If the red slayer think he slays.' This -parody is said to have been an impromptu. It is taken from _New -Collected Rhymes_. All the Lang parodies here are given by permission -of Messrs. Longman. - -Pp. 358-64. _A. C. Hilton._ The parodies by Hilton appeared in the two -numbers of _The Light Green_. They are reprinted here by permission of -Messrs. Metcalfe, Cambridge. - -The original of 'Octopus' was clearly 'Dolores,' which appeared in -_Poems and Ballads, First Series_, 1866. The fourth stanza of this, -with which may be compared the fifth stanza of 'Octopus,' runs: - - O lips full of lust and of laughter, - Curled snakes that are fed from my breast, - Bite hard lest remembrance come after - And press with new lips where you pressed. - For my heart, too, springs up at the pressure, - Mine eyelids, too, moisten and burn; - Ah, feed me and fill me with pleasure, - Ere pain come in turn. - -P. 365. _Home, Sweet Home._ This Fantasia is taken from _Airs from -Arcady_, 1885, by permission of Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons. - -P. 374. _Ode on a Retrospect._ This Ode was put into the mouth of an -Eton master named Joynes. Being a Liberal with Nationalist sympathies, -he visited a disturbed district in the North of Ireland (presumably -in the summer of 1882), and contrived to get himself arrested, and -imprisoned for a short time. He then wrote a book or pamphlet on the -subject, with the result indicated in the verses, which seem to point -to his having withdrawn his work rather than resign his appointment. -Mr. Joynes still held his mastership when the _Retrospect_ was -published in November, 1882, and the popularity of the piece at Eton -was prodigious, especially the admirable line, 'They snatched a fearful -Joynes.' - -P. 378. _To A. T. M._ 'The K.' was the 'A. T. M.' to whom the piece -is addressed--A. T. Myers (Arthur, a physician of some eminence), the -youngest brother of the poet parodied. Sir Herbert Stephen (by whose -permission his brother's parodies, from _Lapsus Calami_, are given) -states that in the early days of the Society for Psychical Research, -founded by F. W. H. Myers, and of the study of the newly-named -'telepathy,' such experiments were frequently tried by the members, and -he thinks it highly probable that the incident of Arthur Myers taking -peppermint in order to test the ability of an alleged telepathist -'in quite another room' to say what it was, took place in fact as -described. 'The K.' was a nickname by which A. T. M. was very generally -known among his friends and relations: the reason is obscure. - -P. 379. _Wake! for the Ruddy Ball._ This imitation by Francis Thompson -of the _Rubaiyat_ was first printed in Mr. E. V. Lucas's _One Day with -Another_. It is here given by permission of Mr. Wilfrid Meynell and of -Messrs. Burns and Oates. - -P. 382. _Robert Fuller Murray._ 'The Poet's Hat' and 'Andrew M'Crie' -are taken, by permission of Messrs. MacLehose and Sons, from _The -Scarlet Gown_, 1891, the parodies in which, according to Andrew Lang, -are not inferior to Calverley. 'Andrew M'Crie' is an improved edition -of the verses originally contributed to the _University News-Sheet_ -(St. Andrews) in 1886, entitled 'Albert McGee.' - -P. 384. A 'semi' is an undergraduate of the second, a 'tertian' of the -third, year. - -P. 387. _Fish have their times to bite._ This parody of Mrs. Hemans, by -an unknown author, is taken from _College Rhymes_, 1861. The original -begins: - - Leaves have their time to fall, - And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, - And stars to set--but all, - Thou hast _all_ seasons for thine own, O Death. - -P. 390. _A Girtonian Funeral._ This parody of 'A Grammarian's Funeral' -first appeared in the _Journal of Education_, May 1, 1886, from which -it is here reprinted by the permission of the editor. The authorship is -unknown. - - - - - INDEX OF AUTHORS PARODIED OR - IMITATED - - - ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY (1836-1907): - Newell, 335 - - AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE (1813-1865): - Aytoun, 254 - - - BAYLY, THOMAS HAYNES (1797-1839): - Barham, 178 - Hood, 240 - - BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT (1806-1861): - Swinburne, 336 - Taylor, Bayard, 275 - - BROWNING, ROBERT (1812-1889): - Calverley, 301 - Collins, 287 - Hood, T., jun., 325 - Stephen, 376 - Taylor, Bayard, 276 - Traill, 348 - Unknown, 390 - - BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN (1794-1878): - Newell, 333 - - BURNS, ROBERT (1759-1796): - Brooks, Shirley, 256 - - BURTON, ROBERT (1577-1640): - Lamb, 156 - - BUSBY, THOMAS (1755-1838): - Byron, 174 - Smith, H., 54 - - BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD (1788-1824): - Barham, 173 - Calverley, 293 - Maginn, 214 - Peacock, 164 - Smith, J. and H., 9 - - - CAMPBELL, THOMAS (1777-1844): - Peacock, 162 - - 'CARROLL, LEWIS.' _See_ DODGSON. - - CHAUCER, GEOFFREY (1340?-1400): - Skeat, 327 - - COBBETT, WILLIAM (1762-1835): - Smith, J., 15 - - COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR (1772-1834): - Coleridge, 142 - Hogg, 118, 120 - Maginn, 208 - Peacock, 157 - Smith, J., 49 - - COWPER, WILLIAM (1731-1800): - Byron, 173 - Twiss, 171 - - CRABBE, GEORGE (1754-1832): - Smith, J., 64 - - - DARWIN, ERASMUS (1731-1802): - Frere, Canning, and Ellis, 97 - - DELLA CRUSCANS, THE: - Smith, H., 29 - Southey, 144 - - DIBDIN, CHARLES (1746-1814): - Hood, 239 - - DOBSON, HENRY AUSTIN (b. 1840): - Bunner, 368 - - DODGSON, CHARLES LUTWIDGE ('LEWIS CARROLL') (1832-1898): - Hilton, 358 - - DRAYTON, MICHAEL (1563-1631): - Lamb, 151 - - DRYDEN, JOHN (1631-1700): - Frere, 92 - - - EMERSON, RALPH WALDO (1803-1882): - Lang, 355 - Newell, 333 - Taylor, Bayard, 281 - - - FAWKES, FRANCIS (1720-1777): - Thackeray, 245 - - FITZGERALD, EDWARD (1809-1883): - Thompson, Francis, 379 - - FITZGERALD, WILLIAM THOMAS (1759?-1829): - Smith, H., 1 - - - GOLDSMITH, OLIVER (1728-1774): - Bunner, 369 - Cary, 271 - - GRAY, THOMAS (1716-1771): - Ellis, 81 - Fanshawe, 87 - Stephen, 374 - - - HARTE, FRANCIS BRET (1839-1902): - Bunner, 367 - Hilton, 360 - - HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA (1793-1835): - Unknown, 387 - - HOGG, JAMES (1770-1835): - Hogg, 129 - - HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL (1809-1894): - Newell, 334 - - HOOK, THEODORE EDWARD (1788-1841): - Smith, H., 76 - - - INGELOW, JEAN (1820-1897): - Calverley, 304, 306 - Taylor, Bayard, 277 - - - JOHNSON, SAMUEL (1709-1784): - Smith, H., 38 - - - KEATS, JOHN (1795-1821): - Taylor, Bayard, 274 - - KINGSLEY, CHARLES (1819-1875): - Unknown, 388 - - KOTZEBUE, AUGUST FRIEDERICH FERDINAND (1761-1819) (Benjamin - Thompson, translator): - Smith, J., 72 - - - LAMB, CHARLES (1775-1834): - Coleridge, 142 - Lamb, 154 - - LANDON, LELITIA ELIZABETH (1802-1838): - Thackeray, 242 - - LEVER, CHARLES JAMES (1806-1872): - Thackeray, 242 - - LEWIS, MATTHEW GREGORY (1775-1818): - Smith, H., 46 - - LILLO, GEORGE (1693-1739): - Smith, J., 73 - - LLOYD, CHARLES (1775-1839): - Coleridge, 143 - - LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK (1821-1895): - Traill, 347 - - LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH (1807-1882): - Calverley, 292 - Cary, 270 - Dodgson ('Lewis Carroll'), 310 - Newell, 334 - Taylor, Bayard, 284 - - LYTTON, EDWARD GEORGE EARLE LYTTON-BULWER, LORD (1803-1873): - Aytoun, 252 - Bradley, 272 - - LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, EARL OF LYTTON - ('OWEN MEREDITH') (1831-1891): - Hood, T., the Younger, 324 - - - MEREDITH, OWEN. _See_ LYTTON. - - MILTON, JOHN (1608-1674): - Twiss, 167 - - MOORE, THOMAS (1779-1852): - Hood, 241 - Maginn, 213, 214 - Peacock, 163 - Smith, H., 19 - - MORRIS, WILLIAM (1834-1896): - Lang, 356 - Taylor, Bayard, 280 - - MYERS, FREDERIC WILLIAM HENRY (1843-1901): - Stephen, 378 - - - PATMORE, COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON (1823-1896): - Swinburne, 338 - - POE, EDGAR ALLAN (1809-1849): - Harte, Bret, 344 - Hood, T., the Younger, 323 - Leigh, 330 - Murray, 384 - - POLLOK, ROBERT (1798-1827): - Frere, 92 - - POOLE, JOHN (1786?-1872): - Smith, J., 70 - - POPE, ALEXANDER (1688-1744): - Bunner, 369 - Crabbe, 86 - Hood, 237 - - - ROGERS, SAMUEL (1763-1855): - Unknown, 386 - - ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL (1828-1882): - Lang, 353 - Taylor, Bayard, 278 - Traill, 351 - - - SCOTT, SIR WALTER (1771-1832): - Gilfillan, 228 - Hogg, 109 - Peacock, 156 - Smith, H., 32 - - SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM (1564-1616): - Cary, 271 - Twiss, 166, 167 - - SHENSTONE, WILLIAM (1714-1763): - Harte, Bret, 342 - - SOUTHEY, ROBERT (1774-1843): - Canning and Frere, 93, 94, 95 - Dodgson ('Lewis Carroll'), 309 - Hogg, 123 - Peacock, 160 - Smith, J., 21 - - SPENCER, THE HON. WILLIAM ROBERT (1769-1834): - Smith, H., 42 - - SPENSER, EDMUND (1552?-1599): - Hood, 229 - Keats, 216 - - STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY (1825-1903): - Newell, 335 - - SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES (1837-1909): - Bunner, 365 - Collins (2), 286 - Hilton, 363 - Lang, 354, 355 - Swinburne, 340 - - - TAYLOR, JANE (1783-1824): - Dodgson ('Lewis Carroll'), 308 - - TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD (1809-1892): - Bradley ('Cuthbert Bede'), 273 - Calverley, 296 - Collins, 287 - Dodgson ('Lewis Carroll'), 314 - Hood, T., the Younger, 324 - Locker-Lampson, 268 - Martin, 258 - Murray, 382, 383 - Rossetti (2), 290 - Taylor, Tom, 266 - - THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE (1811-1863): - Thackeray, 243 - - THOMPSON, BENJAMIN (1776?-1816), translator of Kotzebue: - Smith, J., 72 - - TUPPER, MARTIN FARQUHAR (1810-1889): - Brooks, Shirley, 256 - Calverley, 298 - - - WATTS, ISAAC (1674-1748): - Dodgson ('Lewis Carroll') (2), 308 - - WHITMAN, WALT (1819-1892): - Bunner, 370 - Stephen, 377 - - WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF (1807-1892): - Harte, Bret, 343 - Newell, 334 - Taylor, Bayard, 282 - - WILLIAMS, SIR CHARLES HANBURY (1708-1759): - Moore, 155 - - WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER (1806-1867): - Newell, 333 - - WOLFE, CHARLES (1791-1823): - Barham, 176 - - WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM (1770-1850): - Coleridge, H., 218 - Fanshawe, 89 - Hogg, 110 - Keats, 217 - Leigh, 329 - Reynolds, 219 - Shelley, 179 - Smith, J., 4 - Stephen, 376 - - - - - INDEX OF FIRST LINES - - - PAGE - - A Clerk ther was of Cauntebrigge also _Skeat_ 327 - A diagnosis of our hist'ry proves _Newell_ 334 - A dingy donkey, formal and unchanged _Frere_ 92 - Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to think _Hood_ 229 - And this reft house is that the which he - built _Coleridge_ 143 - Art thou beautiful, O my daughter, as the - budding rose of April _Calverley_ 298 - As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is _H. Smith_ 76 - As o'er the hill we roam'd at will _Calverley_ 296 - As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom - of brine that is drifted _Bunner_ 365 - A strange vibration from the cottage window _Bayard Taylor_ 284 - A sweet, acidulous, down-reaching thrill _Bayard Taylor_ 274 - At home alone, O Nomades _Bunner_ 368 - Away, fond dupes! who, smit with sacred lore _H. Smith_ 54 - - Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, - was monarch _Newell_ 334 - Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting _H. Smith_ 29 - Beautiful Soup, so rich and green _Dodgson_ 322 - Behold the flag! Is it not a flag _Newell_ 335 - Birthdays? Yes, in a general way _Stephen_ 376 - Brown o' San Juan _Bret Harte_ 367 - By myself walking _Lamb_ 153 - - Cabbages! bright green cabbages _Thackeray_ 242 - Can there be a moon in heaven to-night _Hogg_ 120 - Choose judiciously thy friends; for to - discard them is undesirable _Calverley_ 299 - Come, give us more Livings and Rectors _Moore_ 155 - Come hither, my heart's darling _Aytoun_ 254 - Come, little Drummer Boy, lay down your - knapsack here _Canning and - Frere_ 93 - Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With - permission of the chair _Martin_ 258 - - Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness - I fill, _Thackeray_ 245 - - Fare-tinted cheeks, clear eyelids drawn _Bayard Taylor_ 278 - Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter _Hood_ 241 - Fhairshon swore a feud _Aytoun_ 250 - Fill me once more the foaming pewter up _Aytoun_ 252 - Fine merry franions _Lamb_ 151 - Fish have their times to bite _Unknown_ 387 - For one long term, or e'er her trial came _Canning and - Frere_ 93 - From his shoulder Hiawatha _Dodgson_ 310 - From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn _Swinburne_ 340 - - George Barnwell stood at the shop-door _J. Smith_ 73 - Getting his pictures, like his supper, cheap _Rossetti_ 290 - Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell _J. Smith_ 70 - - Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work _H. Smith_ 1 - Hang thee, vile North-Easter _Unknown_ 388 - He is to weet a melancholy carle _Keats_ 216 - He lived amidst th' untrodden ways _H. Coleridge_ 218 - He must be holpen; yet how help shall I _Bayard Taylor_ 280 - Hence, loath'd vulgarity _Twiss_ 167 - Here, where old Nankin glitters _Lang_ 355 - Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise _Bunner_ 369 - How doth the little crocodile _Dodgson_ 308 - How troublesome is day _Peacock_ 160 - - I am a blessed Glendoveer _J. Smith_ 21 - I am tenant of nine feet by four _Twiss_ 171 - I am two brothers with one face _Rossetti_ 290 - I, Angelo, obese, black-garmented _Bayard Taylor_ 276 - I count it true which sages teach _T. Hood, jun._ 324 - If ever chance or choice thy footsteps lead _Hogg_ 110 - If life were never bitter _Collins_ 286 - If the wild bowler thinks he bowls, _Lang_ 355 - I have found out a gift for my fair _Bret Harte_ 342 - I loiter down by thorp and town _Calverley_ 297 - I marvelled why a simple child _Leigh_ 329 - I'm a shrimp! I'm a shrimp, of diminutive size _Brough_ 289 - In a bowl to sea went wise men three _Peacock_ 157 - In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter _Calverley_ 304 - In those old days which poets say were golden _Calverley_ 293 - In vale of Thirlemere, once on a time _Hogg_ 123 - It is an auncient Waggonere _Maginn_ 208 - It is the thirty-first of March _Reynolds_ 219 - It was many and many a year ago _Murray_ 384 - I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size _Barham_ 176 - I was a timid little antelope _Thackeray_ 245 - I would I were that portly gentleman _Southey_ 145 - - King Arthur, growing very tired indeed _Collins_ 287 - - Ladies and Gentlemen, As it is now the - universally admitted _J. Smith_ 61 - Lady Clara Vere de Vere _T. Hood, jun._ 324 - Lazy-bones, Lazy-bones, wake up, and peep _Lamb_ 154 - Let us begin and portion out these sweets _Unknown_ 390 - Little Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating _Peacock_ 163 - Long by the willow-trees _Thackeray_ 243 - Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was _Traill_ 352 - Love spake to me and said _Lang_ 353 - Lo! where the gaily vestur'd throng _Fanshawe_ 87 - - Maud Muller, all that summer day _Bret Harte_ 343 - Mine is a house at Notting Hill _Unknown_ 386 - More luck to honest poverty _Brooks_ 256 - Most thinking People, When persons address - an audience _J. Smith_ 15 - Mr. Jack, your address, says the Prompter to me _J. Smith_ 52 - My brother Jack was nine in May _J. Smith_ 4 - My native land, thy Puritanic stock _Newell_ 334 - My palate is parched with Pierian thirst _H. Smith_ 46 - My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad _J. Smith_ 49 - My spirit, in the doorway's pause _Swinburne_ 338 - - Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going _Canning and - Frere_ 95 - Not a _sous_ had he got,--not a guinea or note _Barham_ 176 - - Object belov'd! when day to eve gives place _Bradley_ 272 - O cool in the summer is salad _Collins_ 286 - Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth _Southey_ 149 - O heard ye never of Wat o' the Cleuch _Hogg_ 109 - Oh no! we'll never mention him _Barham_ 178 - O! I do love thee, meek _Simplicity_! _Coleridge_ 142 - Once upon an evening weary, shortly after - Lord Dundreary _Leigh_ 330 - One hue of our flag is taken _Newell_ 333 - Our parodies are ended. These our authors _Twiss_ 167 - O why should our dull retrospective addresses _H. Smith_ 19 - - Pensive at eve on the _hard_ world I mus'd _Coleridge_ 142 - Peter Bells, one, two and three _Shelley_ 179 - Pure water it plays a good part in _Hood_ 239 - Put case I circumvent and kill him: good _Traill_ 348 - - Rash Painter! canst thou give the ORB OF DAY _Southey_ 144 - Read not Milton, for he is dry; nor - Shakespeare, for he wrote of common life _Calverley_ 300 - Read, read, _Woodstock_ and _Waverley_ _Gilfillan_ 228 - Robert Pollok, A.M.! this work of yours _Frere_ 92 - - Said a poet to a woodlouse--'Thou art - certainly my brother' _Swinburne_ 336 - St. Stephen's is a stage _Twiss_ 166 - Sated with home, of wife, of children tired _J. and H. - Smith_ 9 - Scarlet spaces of sand and ocean _Bayard Taylor_ 277 - See where the K., in sturdy self-reliance _Stephen_ 378 - She held a _Cup and Ball_ of ivory white _Southey_ 144 - Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might _Lang_ 356 - Sir, To the gewgaw fetters of _rhyme_ _J. Smith_ 15 - Sobriety, cease to be sober _H. Smith_ 42 - Soft little beasts, how pleasantly ye lie _Brooks_ 256 - So in the village inn the poet dwelt _Murray_ 383 - Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED _Southey_ 145 - --So the stately bust abode _Taylor_ 266 - Source immaterial of material naught _Newell_ 333 - Stay your rude steps, or e'er your feet invade _Frere, Canning, - and Ellis_ 97 - Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times _Byron_ 173 - Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed _Hilton_ 363 - Study first Propriety: for she is indeed - the Polestar _Calverley_ 298 - Survey this shield, all bossy bright _H. Smith_ 32 - - That very time I saw, (but thou could'st not,) _Cary_ 271 - That which was organized by the moral ability _H. Smith_ 38 - The auld wife sat at her ivied door _Calverley_ 306 - The autumn upon us was rushing _T. Hood, jun._ 323 - The burden of hard hitting: slog away _Lang_ 354 - The chapel bell, with hollow mournful sound _Ellis_ 81 - The clear cool note of the cuckoo which has - ousted the legitimate nest-holder _Stephen_ 377 - The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains _Southey_ 148 - The day is done, and darkness _Cary_ 270 - The Gothic looks solemn _Keats_ 217 - The last lamp of the alley _Maginn_ 214 - The little brown squirrel hops in the corn _Newell_ 335 - The mighty spirit, and its power which stains _Crabbe_ 86 - The Pacha sat in his divan _Maginn_ 214 - The rain had fallen, the Poet arose _Murray_ 382 - The rain was raining cheerfully _Hilton_ 358 - There, pay it, James! 'tis cheaply earned _Traill_ 347 - There is a fever of the spirit _Peacock_ 164 - There is a river clear and fair _Fanshawe_ 89 - There wase ane katt, and ane gude greye katt _Hogg_ 129 - The Scotts, Kerrs, and Murrays, and - Deloraines all _Peacock_ 156 - The skies they were ashen and sober _Bret Harte_ 344 - The sun sinks softly to his evening post _Newell_ 333 - Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells _Hood_ 241 - Thou who, when fears attack _Calverley_ 292 - 'Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare _Southey_ 146 - 'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six _J. Smith_ 66 - 'Tis the voice of the lobster _Dodgson_ 308 - 'Twas not the brown of chestnut boughs _Bayard Taylor_ 275 - Twinkle, twinkle, little bat _Dodgson_ 308 - Two swains or clowns--but call them swains _Hood_ 237 - Two voices are there: one is of the deep _Stephen_ 376 - - Untrue to my Ulric I never could be _Thackeray_ 248 - - Waitress, with eyes so marvellous black _Collins_ 287 - Wake! for the Ruddy Ball has taken flight _Thompson_ 379 - Was it not lovely to behold _Hogg_ 118 - Wearisome Sonnetteer, feeble and querulous _Canning and - Frere_ 94 - We met--'twas in a mob--and I thought he - had done me _Hood_ 240 - We seek to know, and knowing, seek _Bradley_ 273 - What stately vision mocks my waking sense _H. Smith_ 7 - Whene'er with haggard eyes I view _Canning and - Ellis_ 107 - When energizing objects men pursue _Byron_ 174 - When he whispers, 'O Miss Bailey!' _Locker-Lampson_ 268 - When he who adores thee has left but the dregs _Maginn_ 213 - When lovely woman wants a favour _Cary_ 271 - Where'er there's a thistle to feed a linnet _T. Hood, jun._ 325 - Where the Moosatockmaguntic _Bayard Taylor_ 282 - Which I wish to remark _Hilton_ 360 - Who has e'er been at Drury must needs know - the Stranger _J. Smith_ 72 - Whoso answers my questions _Bayard Taylor_ 281 - With hands tight clenched through matted hair _Dodgson_ 314 - Why do you wear your hair like a man _Traill_ 350 - - Ye bigot spires, ye Tory towers _Stephen_ 374 - Ye kite-flyers of Scotland _Peacock_ 162 - Ye Sylphs, who _banquet_ on my Delia's blush _Southey_ 147 - Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek _Thackeray_ 246 - 'You are old, Father William,' the young - man said _Dodgson_ 309 - You over there, young man, with the guide-book _Bunner_ 370 - Your Fanny was never false-hearted _Thackeray_ 247 - You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing - I bought _Calverley_ 301 - You've all heard of Larry O'Toole _Thackeray_ 242 - - Zuleikah! The young Agas in the bazaar _Thackeray_ 246 - - - BILLING AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[1] The preface is given at the beginning of the Notes on p. 393. - -[2] WILLIAM THOMAS FITZGERALD. The annotator's first personal knowledge -of this gentleman was at Harry Greville's Pic-Nic Theatre, in Tottenham -Street, where he personated Zanga in a wig too small for his head. -The second time of seeing him was at the table of old Lord Dudley, -who familiarly called him Fitz, but forgot to name him in his will. -The Earl's son (recently deceased), however, liberally supplied the -omission by a donation of five thousand pounds. The third and last -time of encountering him was at an anniversary dinner of the Literary -Fund, at the Freemasons' Tavern. Both parties, as two of the stewards, -met their brethren in a small room about half an hour before dinner. -The lampooner, out of delicacy, kept aloof from the poet. The latter, -however, made up to him, when the following dialogue took place: - -Fitzgerald (with good humour): 'Mr.----, I mean to recite after dinner.' - -Mr.----: 'Do you?' - -Fitzgerald: 'Yes; you'll have more of "God bless the Regent and the -Duke of York!"' - -The whole of this imitation, after a lapse of twenty years, appears to -the Authors too personal and sarcastic; but they may shelter themselves -under a very broad mantle: - - 'Let hoarse Fitzgerald bawl - His creaking couplets in a tavern-hall.' - BYRON. - -[3] 'The first piece, under the name of the loyal Mr. Fitzgerald, -though as good, we suppose, as the original, is not very interesting. -Whether it be very like Mr. Fitzgerald or not, however, it must -be allowed that the vulgarity, servility, and gross absurdity -of the newspaper scribblers is well rendered in the following -lines.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - -[4] In plain English, the Halfpenny-hatch, then a footway through -fields; but now, as the same bards sing elsewhere-- - - 'St. George's Fields are fields no more, - The trowel supersedes the plough; - Swamps, huge and inundate of yore, - Are changed to civic villas now.' - -Fitzgerald actually sent in an address to the committee on the 31st -of August, 1812. It was published among the other genuine _Rejected -Addresses_, in one volume, in that year. The following is an extract:-- - - 'The troubled shade of Garrick, hovering near, - Dropt on the burning pile a pitying tear.' - -What a pity that, like Sterne's recording angel, it did not succeed in -blotting the fire out for ever! That failing, why not adopt Gulliver's -remedy? - -[5] WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. - -[6] Jack and Nancy, as it was afterwards remarked to the Authors, are -here made to come into the world at periods not sufficiently remote. -The writers were then bachelors. One of them, unfortunately, still -continues so, as he has thus recorded in his niece's album: - - 'Should I seek Hymen's tie, - As a poet I die-- - Ye Benedicks, mourn my distresses! - For what little fame - Is annexed to my name - Is derived from _Rejected Addresses_.' - -The blunder, notwithstanding, remains unrectified. The reader of poetry -is always dissatisfied with emendations: they sound discordantly upon -the ear, like a modern song, by Bishop or Braham, introduced in _Love -in a Village_. - -[7] This alludes to the young Betty mania. The writer was in the -stage-box at the height of this young gentleman's popularity. One of -the other occupants offered, in a loud voice, to prove that young -Betty did not understand Shakespeare. 'Silence!' was the cry; but he -still proceeded. 'Turn him out!' was the next ejaculation. He still -vociferated 'He does not understand Shakespeare;' and was consequently -shouldered into the lobby. 'I'll prove it to you,' said the critic -to the door-keeper. 'Prove what, sir?' 'That he does not understand -Shakespeare.' This was Molière's housemaid with a vengeance! - -Young Betty may now be seen walking about town--a portly personage, -aged about forty--clad in a furred and frogged surtout; probably -muttering to himself (as he has been at college), 'O mihi præteritos!' -&c. - -[8] For an account of this anonymous gentleman, see the Preface. - -[9] LORD BYRON. - -[10] This would seem to show that poet and prophet are synonymous, the -noble bard having afterwards returned to England, and again quitted it, -under domestic circumstances painfully notorious. His good-humoured -forgiveness of the Authors has been already alluded to in the Preface. -Nothing of this illustrious poet, however trivial, can be otherwise -than interesting. 'We knew him well.' At Mr. Murray's dinner-table the -annotator met him and Sir John Malcolm. Lord Byron talked of intending -to travel in Persia. 'What must I do when I set off?' said he to Sir -John. 'Cut off your buttons!' 'My buttons! what, these metal ones?' -'Yes; the Persians are in the main very honest fellows; but if you go -thus bedizened, you will infallibly be murdered for your buttons.' At -a dinner at Monk Lewis's chambers in the Albany, Lord Byron expressed -to the writer his determination not to go there again, adding, 'I never -will dine with a middle-aged man who fills up his table with young -ensigns, and has looking-glass panels to his book-cases.' Lord Byron, -when one of the Drury Lane Committee of Management, challenged the -writer to sing alternately (like the swains in Virgil) the praises of -Mrs. Mardyn, the actress, who, by the by, was hissed off the stage for -an imputed intimacy, of which she was quite innocent. - -The contest ran as follows: - - 'Wake, muse of fire, your ardent lyre, - Pour forth your amorous ditty, - But first profound, in duty bound, - Applaud the new committee; - Their scenic art from Thespis cart - All jaded nags discarding, - To London drove this queen of love, - Enchanting Mrs. Mardyn. - - 'Though tides of love around her rove, - I fear she'll choose Pactolus-- - In that bright surge bards ne'er immerge, - So I must e'en swim solus. - "Out, out, alas!" ill-fated gas, - That shin'st round Covent Garden, - Thy ray how flat, compared with that - From eye of Mrs. Mardyn!' - -And so on. The reader has, no doubt, already discovered 'which is the -justice, and which is the thief.' - -Lord Byron at that time wore a very narrow cravat of white sarsnet, -with the shirt-collar falling over it; a black coat and waistcoat, -and very broad white trousers, to hide his lame foot--these were of -Russia duck in the morning, and jean in the evening. His watch-chain -had a number of small gold seals appended to it, and was looped up to -a button of his waistcoat. His face was void of colour; he wore no -whiskers. His eyes were grey, fringed with long black lashes; and his -air was imposing, but rather supercilious. He undervalued David Hume; -denying his claim to genius on account of his bulk, and calling him, -from the heroic epistle, - - 'The fattest hog in Epicurus' sty.' - -One of this extraordinary man's allegations was, that 'fat is an oily -dropsy.' To stave off its visitation, he frequently chewed tobacco in -lieu of dinner, alleging that it absorbed the gastric juice of the -stomach, and prevented hunger. 'Pass your hand down my side,' said his -lordship to the writer; 'can you count my ribs?' 'Every one of them.' -'I am delighted to hear you say so. I called last week on Lady ----; -"Ah, Lord Byron," said she, "how fat you grow!" But you know Lady ---- -is fond of saying spiteful things!' Let this gossip be summed up with -the words of Lord Chesterfield, in his character of Bolingbroke: 'Upon -the whole, on a survey of this extraordinary character, what can we say -but "Alas, poor human nature!"' - -His favourite Pope's description of man is applicable to Byron -individually: - - 'Chaos of thought and passion all confused, - Still by himself abused or disabused; - Created part to rise and part to fall, - Great lord of all things, yet a slave to all; - Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled-- - The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.' - -The writer never heard him allude to his deformed foot except upon one -occasion, when, entering the green-room of Drury Lane, he found Lord -Byron alone, the younger Byrne and Miss Smith the dancer having just -left him, after an angry conference about a _pas seul_. 'Had you been -here a minute sooner,' said Lord B., 'you would have heard a question -about dancing referred to me;--me! (looking mournfully downward) whom -fate from my birth has prohibited from taking a single step.' - -[11] 'Holland's edifice.' The late theatre was built by Holland the -architect. The writer visited it on the night of its opening. The -performances were _Macbeth_ and the _Virgin Unmasked_. Between the -play and the farce, an excellent epilogue, written by George Colman, -was excellently spoken by Miss Farren. It referred to the iron curtain -which was, in the event of fire, to be let down between the stage and -the audience, and which accordingly descended, by way of experiment, -leaving Miss Farren between the lamps and the curtain. The fair -speaker informed the audience, that should the fire break out on the -stage (where it usually originates), it would thus be kept from the -spectators; adding, with great solemnity-- - - 'No! we assure our generous benefactors - 'Twill only burn the scenery and the actors!' - -A tank of water was afterwards exhibited, in the course of the -epilogue, in which a wherry was rowed by a real live man, the band -playing-- - - 'And did you not hear of a jolly young waterman?' - -Miss Farren reciting-- - - 'Sit still, there's nothing in it, - We'll undertake to drown you in a single minute.' - -'O vain thought!' as Othello says. Notwithstanding the boast in the -epilogue-- - - 'Blow, wind--come, wrack, in ages yet unborn, - Our castle's strength shall laugh a siege to scorn'-- - -the theatre fell a victim to the flames within fifteen years from the -prognostic! These preparations against fire always presuppose presence -of mind and promptness in those who are to put them into action. They -remind one of the dialogue, in Morton's _Speed the Plough_, between Sir -Abel Handy and his son Bob: - -'_Bob._ Zounds, the castle's on fire! - -_Sir A._ Yes. - -_Bob._ Where's your patent liquid for extinguishing fire? - -_Sir A._ It is not mixed. - -_Bob._ Then where's your patent fire-escape? - -_Sir A._ It is not fixed. - -_Bob._ You are never at a loss? - -_Sir A._ Never. - -_Bob._ Then what do you mean to do? - -_Sir A._ I don't know.' - -[12] A rather obscure mode of expression for _Jews'_-harp; which some -etymologists allege, by the way, to be a corruption of _Jaws'_-harp. No -connexion, therefore, with King David. - -[13] WILLIAM COBBETT--now M.P. - -[14] Bagshaw. At that time the publisher of Cobbett's Register. - -[15] The old Lyceum Theatre, pulled down by Mr. Arnold. That since -destroyed by fire was erected on its site. - -[16] An allusion to a murder then recently committed on Barnes Terrace. - -[17] At that time keeper of Newgate. The present superintendent is -styled governor! - -[18] A portentous one that made its appearance in the year 1811; in the -midst of the war, - - with fear of change - Perplexing nations. - -[19] THOMAS MOORE. - -[20] '_The Living Lustres_ appears to us a very fair imitation of the -fantastic verses which that ingenious person, Mr. Moore, indites when -he is merely gallant, and, resisting the lures of voluptuousness, is -not enough in earnest to be tender.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - -[21] This alludes to two massive pillars of verd antique which then -flanked the proscenium, but which have since been removed. Their colour -reminds the bard of the Emerald Isle, and this causes him (_more suo_) -to fly off at a tangent, and Hibernicise the rest of the poem. - -[22] ROBERT SOUTHEY. - -[23] For the Glendoveer, and the rest of the _dramatis personæ_ of this -imitation, the reader is referred to the 'Curse of Kehama.' - -[24] '_The Rebuilding_ is in the name of Mr. Southey, and is one of -the best in the collection. It is in the style of the "Kehama" of that -multifarious author; and is supposed to be spoken in the character of -one of his Glendoveers. The imitation of the diction and measure, we -think, is nearly almost perfect; and the descriptions as good as the -original. It opens with an account of the burning of the old theatre, -formed upon the pattern of the Funeral of Arvalan.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - -[25] This couplet was introduced by the Authors by way of bravado, in -answer to one who alleged that the English language contained no rhyme -to chimney. - -[26] Apollo. A gigantic wooden figure of this deity was erected on the -roof. The writer (_horrescit referens!_) is old enough to recollect -the time when it was first placed there. Old Bishop, then one of -the masters of Merchant Tailors' School, wrote an epigram upon the -occasion, which, referring to the aforesaid figure, concluded thus: - - 'Above he fills up Shakespeare's place, - And Shakespeare fills up his below'-- - -Very antithetical: but quære as to the meaning? The writer, like Pluto, -'long puzzled his brain' to find it out, till he was immersed 'in a -lower deep' by hearing Madame de Staël say, at the table of the late -Lord Dillon, 'Buonaparte is not a man, but a system.' Inquiry was made -in the course of the evening of Sir James Mackintosh as to what the -lady meant. He answered, 'Mass! I cannot tell.' Madame de Staël repeats -this apophthegm in her work on Germany. It is probably understood -_there_. - -[27] O. P. This personage, who is alleged to have growled like a -bull-dog, requires rather a lengthened note, for the edification of -the rising generation. The 'horns, rattles, drums,' with which he is -accompanied, are no inventions of the poet. The new Covent Garden -Theatre opened on the 18th Sept., 1809, when a cry of 'Old Prices' -(afterwards diminished to O. P.) burst out from every part of the -house. This continued and increased in violence till the 23rd, when -rattles, drums, whistles, and cat-calls, having completely drowned -the voices of the actors, Mr. Kemble, the stage-manager, came forward -and said, that a committee of gentlemen had undertaken to examine the -finances of the concern, and that until they were prepared with their -report the theatre would continue closed. 'Name them!' was shouted -from all sides. The names were declared, viz. Sir Charles Price, the -Solicitor-General, the Recorder of London, the Governor of the Bank, -and Mr. Angersteen. 'All shareholders!' bawled a wag from the gallery. -In a few days the theatre re-opened: the public paid no attention to -the report of the referees, and the tumult was renewed for several -weeks with even increased violence. The proprietors now sent in hired -bruisers, to _mill_ the refractory into subjection. This irritated most -of their former friends, and, amongst the rest, the annotator, who -accordingly wrote the song of 'Heigh-ho, says Kemble,' which was caught -up by the ballad-singers, and sung under Mr. Kemble's house-windows -in Great Russell Street. A dinner was given at the Crown and Anchor -Tavern in the Strand, to celebrate the victory obtained by W. Clifford -in his action against Brandon the box-keeper, for assaulting him -for wearing the letters O. P. in his hat. At this dinner Mr. Kemble -attended, and matters were compromised by allowing the advanced price -(seven shillings) to the boxes. The writer remembers a former riot of a -similar sort at the same theatre (in the year 1792), when the price to -the boxes was raised from five shillings to six. That tumult, however, -only lasted three nights. - -[28] 'From the knobb'd bludgeon to the taper switch.' This image is -not the creation of the poets: it sprang from reality. The Authors -happened to be at the Royal Circus when 'God save the King' was called -for, accompanied by a cry of 'Stand up!' and 'Hats off!' An inebriated -naval lieutenant perceiving a gentleman in an adjoining box slow to -obey the call, struck his hat off with his stick, exclaiming, 'Take off -your hat, sir!' The other thus assaulted proved to be, unluckily for -the lieutenant, Lord Camelford, the celebrated bruiser and duellist. -A set-to in the lobby was the consequence, where his lordship quickly -proved victorious. 'The devil is not so black as he is painted,' said -one of the Authors to the other; 'let us call upon Lord Camelford, and -tell him that we were witnesses of his being first assaulted.' The -visit was paid on the ensuing morning at Lord Camelford's lodging, in -Bond Street. Over the fire-place in the drawing-room were ornaments -strongly expressive of the pugnacity of the peer. A long thick bludgeon -lay horizontally supported by two brass hooks. Above this was placed -parallel one of lesser dimensions, until a pyramid of weapons gradually -arose, tapering to a horsewhip: - - 'Thus all below was strength, and all above was grace.' - -Lord Camelford received his visitants with great civility, and -thanked them warmly for the call; adding, that their evidence would -be material, it being his intention to indict the lieutenant for an -assault. 'All I can say in return is this,' exclaimed the peer with -great cordiality, 'if ever I see you engaged in a row, upon my soul, -I'll stand by you.' The Authors expressed themselves thankful for so -potent an ally, and departed. In about a fortnight afterwards Lord -Camelford was shot in a duel with Mr. Best. - -[29] Veeshnoo. The late Mr. Whitbread. - -[30] Levy. An insolvent Israelite who threw himself from the top of the -Monument a short time before. An inhabitant of Monument Yard informed -the writer, that he happened to be standing at his door talking to a -neighbour; and looking up at the top of the pillar, exclaimed, 'Why, -here's the flag coming down.' 'Flag!' answered the other, 'it's a man.' -The words were hardly uttered when the suicide fell within ten feet of -the speakers. - -[31] The Authors, as in gallantry bound, wish this lady to continue -anonymous. - -[32] WALTER SCOTT. - -[33] Sir Walter Scott informed the annotator, that at one time he -intended to print his collected works, and had pitched upon this -identical quotation as a motto;--a proof that sometimes great wits jump -with little ones. - -[34] Alluding to the then great distance between the picture-frame, in -which the green curtain was set, and the band. For a justification of -this see below--DR. JOHNSON. - -[35] Old Bedlam at that time stood 'close by London Wall.' It was -built after the model of the Tuileries, which is said to have given -the French king great offence. In front of it Moorfields extended, -with broad gravel walks crossing each other at right angles. These the -writer well recollects; and Rivaz, an underwriter at Lloyd's, has told -him, that he remembered when the merchants of London would parade these -walks on a summer evening with their wives and daughters. But now, as a -punning brother bard sings, - - 'Moorfields are fields no more.' - -[36] Whitbread's shears. An economical experiment of that gentleman. -The present portico, towards Brydges Street, was afterwards erected -under the lesseeship of Elliston, whose portrait in the Exhibition was -thus noticed in the _Examiner_: 'Portrait of the great lessee, in his -favourite character of Mr. Elliston.' - -[37] 'Samuel Johnson is not so good: the measure and solemnity of his -sentences, in all the limited variety of their structure, are indeed -imitated with singular skill; but the diction is caricatured in a -vulgar and unpleasing degree. To make Johnson call a door "a ligneous -barricado," and its knocker and bell its "frappant and tintinnabulant -appendages," is neither just nor humorous; and we are surprised that -a writer who has given such extraordinary proofs of his talent for -finer ridicule and fairer imitation, should have stooped to a vein of -pleasantry so low, and so long ago exhausted; especially as, in other -passages of the same piece, he has shewn how well qualified he was both -to catch and to render the true characteristics of his original. The -beginning, for example, we think excellent.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - -[38] The celebrated Lord Chesterfield, whose Letters to his Son, -according to Dr. Johnson, inculcate 'the manners of a dancing-master -and the morals of----,' &c. - -[39] Lord Mayor of the theatric sky. This alludes to Leigh Hunt, who, -in _The Examiner_, at this time kept the actors in hot water. Dr. -Johnson's argument is, like many of his other arguments, specious, -but untenable; that which it defends has since been abandoned as -impracticable. Mr. Whitbread contended that the actor was like a -portrait in a picture, and accordingly placed the green curtain in a -gilded frame remote from the foot-lights; alleging that no performer -should mar the illusion by stepping out of the frame. Dowton was the -first actor who, like Manfred's ancestor in the _Castle of Otranto_, -took the liberty of abandoning the canon. 'Don't tell me of frames -and pictures,' ejaculated the testy comedian; 'if I can't be heard by -the audience in the frame, I'll walk out of it!' The proscenium has -since been new-modelled, and the actors thereby brought nearer to the -audience. - -[40] WILLIAM SPENCER. - -[41] Sobriety, &c. The good-humour of the poet upon occasion of -this parody has been noticed in the Preface. 'It's all very well -for once,' said he afterwards, in comic confidence, at his villa at -Petersham, 'but don't do it again. I had been almost forgotten when -you revived me; and now all the newspapers and reviews ring with, -"this fashionable, trashy author."' The sand and 'filings of glass,' -mentioned in the last stanza, are referable to the well-known verses of -the poet apologising to a lady for having paid an unconscionably long -morning visit; and where, alluding to Time, he says, - - 'All his sands are diamond sparks, - That glitter as they pass.' - -Few men in society have more 'gladdened life' than this poet. He -now resides in Paris, and may thence make the grand tour without an -interpreter--speaking, as he does, French, Italian, and German, as -fluently as English. - -[42] Congreve's plug. The late Sir William Congreve had made a model of -Drury Lane Theatre, to which was affixed an engine that, in the event -of fire, was made to play from the stage into every box in the house. -The writer, accompanied by Theodore Hook, went to see the model at Sir -William's house in Cecil Street. 'Now I'll duck Whitbread!' said Hook, -seizing the water-pipe whilst he spoke, and sending a torrent of water -into the brewer's box. - -[43] See Byron, _afterwards_, in _Don Juan_:-- - - 'For flesh is grass, which Time mows down to hay.' - -But, as Johnson says of Dryden, 'His known wealth was so great, he -might borrow without any impeachment of his credit.' - -[44] MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, commonly called Monk Lewis, from his once -popular romance of that name. He was a good-hearted man, and, like too -many of that fraternity, a disagreeable one--verbose, disputatious, and -paradoxical. His _Monk_ and _Castle Spectre_ elevated him into fame; -and he continued to write ghost-stories till, following as he did in -the wake of Mrs. Radcliffe, he quite overstocked the market. Lewis -visited his estates in Jamaica, and came back perfectly negro-bitten. -He promulgated a new code of laws in the island, for the government -of his sable subjects: one may serve for a specimen: 'Any slave who -commits murder shall have his head shaved, and be confined three days -and nights in a dark room.' Upon occasion of printing these parodies, -Monk Lewis said to Lady H., 'Many of them are very fair, but mine is -not at all like; they have made me write burlesque, which I never do.' -'You don't know your own talent,' answered the lady. - -Lewis aptly described himself, as to externals, in the verses affixed -to his _Monk_, as having - - 'A graceless form and dwarfish stature.' - -He had, moreover, large grey eyes, thick features, and an inexpressive -countenance. In talking, he had a disagreeable habit of drawing the -fore-finger of his right hand across his right eyelid. He affected, in -conversation, a sort of dandified, drawling tone; young Harlowe, the -artist, did the same. A foreigner who had but a slight knowledge of -the English language might have concluded, from their cadences, that -they were little better than fools--'just a born goose,' as Terry the -actor used to say. Lewis died on his passage homeward from Jamaica, -owing to a dose of James's powders injudiciously administered by 'his -own mere motion.' He wrote various plays, with various success: he had -an admirable notion of dramatic construction, but the goodness of his -scenes and incidents was marred by the badness of his dialogue. - -[45] SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. - -[46] 'He of Blackfriars' Road,' viz. the late Rev. Rowland Hill, who is -said to have preached a sermon congratulating his congregation on the -catastrophe. - -[47] 'Oh, Mr. Whitbread!' Sir William Grant, then Master of the Rolls, -repeated this passage aloud at a Lord Mayor's dinner, to the no small -astonishment of the writer, who happened to sit within ear-shot. - -[48] 'Padmanaba,' viz. in a pantomime called _Harlequin in Padmanaba_. -This elephant, some years afterwards, was exhibited over Exeter -'Change, where, the reader will remember, it was found necessary to -destroy the poor animal by discharges of musketry. When he made his -entrance in the pantomime above mentioned, Johnson, the machinist of -the rival house, exclaimed, 'I should be very sorry if I could not make -a better elephant than that!' Johnson was right: we go to the theatre -to be pleased with the skill of the imitator, and not to look at the -reality. - -[49] DR. BUSBY. This gentleman gave living recitations of his -translation of _Lucretius_, with tea and bread-and-butter. He sent in -a real Address to the Drury Lane Committee, which was really rejected. -The present imitation professes to be recited by the translator's son. -The poet here, again, was a prophet. A few evenings after the opening -of the theatre, Dr. Busby sat with his son in one of the stage-boxes. -The latter, to the astonishment of the audience, at the end of the -play, stepped from the box upon the stage, his father's real rejected -address in his hand, and began to recite it as follows:- - - 'When energising objects men pursue, - What are the miracles they cannot do?' - -Raymond, the stage-manager, accompanied by a constable, at this moment -walked upon the stage, and handed away the juvenile _dilettante_ -performer. - -The doctor's classical translation was thus noticed in one of the -newspapers of the day, in the column of births:--'Yesterday, at his -house in Queen Anne Street, Dr. Busby of a still-born _Lucretius_.' - -[50] 'Winsor's patent gas'--at that time in its infancy. The first -place illumined by it was the Carlton House side of Pall Mall; the -second, Bishopsgate Street. The writer attended a lecture given by -the inventor: the charge of admittance was three shillings, but, as -the inventor was about to apply to parliament, members of both houses -were admitted gratis. The writer and a fellow-jester assumed the -parts of senators at a short notice. 'Members of parliament!' was -their important ejaculation at the door of entrance. 'What places, -gentlemen?' 'Old Sarum and Bridgewater.' 'Walk in, gentlemen.' Luckily, -the real Simon Pures did not attend. This Pall Mall illumination was -further noticed in _Horace in London_:-- - - 'And Winsor lights, with flame of gas, - Home, to king's place, his mother.' - -[51] 'Ticket-nights.' This phrase is probably unintelligible to the -untheatrical portion of the community, which may now be said to be -all the world except the actors. Ticket-nights are those whereon the -inferior actors club for a benefit: each distributes as many tickets of -admission as he is able among his friends. A motley assemblage is the -consequence; and as each actor is encouraged by his own set, who are -not in general play-going people, the applause comes (as Chesterfield -says of Pope's attempts at wit) 'generally unseasonably and too often -unsuccessfully.' - -[52] _Morning Post._ - -[53] The REV. GEORGE CRABBE. The writer's first interview with this -poet, who may be designated Pope in worsted stockings, took place at -William Spencer's villa at Petersham, close to what that gentleman -called his gold-fish pond, though it was scarcely three feet in -diameter, throwing up a _jet d'eau_ like a thread. The venerable -bard, seizing both the hands of his satirist, exclaimed, with a -good-humoured laugh: 'Ah! my old enemy, how do you do?' In the course -of conversation, he expressed great astonishment at his popularity -in London; adding, 'In my own village they think nothing of me.' The -subject happening to be the inroads of Time upon Beauty, the writer -quoted the following lines:-- - - 'Six years had pass'd, and forty ere the six, - When Time began to play his usual tricks: - My locks, once comely in a virgin's sight, - Locks of pure brown, now felt th' encroaching white; - Gradual each day I liked my horses less, - My dinner more--I learnt to play at chess.' - -'That's very good!' cried the bard;--'whose is it?' 'Your own.' -'Indeed! hah! well, I had quite forgotten it.' Was this affectation, or -was it not? In sooth, he seemed to push simplicity to puerility. This -imitation contained in manuscript the following lines, after describing -certain Sunday-newspaper critics who were supposed to be present at a -new play, and who were rather heated in their politics:-- - - 'Hard is his task who edits--thankless job! - A Sunday journal for the factious mob: - With bitter paragraph and caustic jest, - He gives to turbulence the day of rest; - Condemn'd, this week, rash rancour to instil, - Or thrown aside, the next, for one who will: - Alike undone or if he praise or rail - (For this affects his safety, that his sale), - He sinks at last, in luckless limbo set, - If loud for libel, and if dumb for debt.' - -They were, however, never printed; being, on reflection, considered too -serious for the occasion. - -It is not a little extraordinary that Crabbe, who could write with such -vigour, should descend to such lines as the following:-- - - 'Something had happen'd wrong about a bill - Which was not drawn with true mercantile skill; - So, to amend it, I was told to go - And seek the firm of Clutterbuck and Co.' - -Surely 'Emanuel Jennings,' compared with the above, rises to sublimity. - -[54] 'We come next to three ludicrous parodies--of the story of _The -Stranger_, of _George Barnwell_, and of the dagger-scene in _Macbeth_, -under the signature of Momus Medlar. They are as good, we think, as -that sort of thing can be, and remind us of the happier efforts of -Colman, whose less successful fooleries are professedly copied in the -last piece in the volume.'--_Edinburgh Review._ - -[55] THEODORE HOOK, at that time a very young man, and the companion of -the annotator in many wild frolics. The cleverness of his subsequent -prose compositions has cast his early stage songs into oblivion. This -parody was, in the second edition, transferred from Colman to Hook. - -[56] Then Director of the Opera House. - -[57] At that time the chief dancer at this establishment. - -[58] Vauxhall Bridge then, like the Thames Tunnel at present, stood -suspended in the middle of that river. - -[59] The Critical Reviewers. The others are the _London_ and _Monthly_. - -[60] _Vide_ Admiral Tyrrel's monument in Westminster Abbey. - -[61] My worthy friend, the Bellman, had promised to supply an -additional stanza, but the business of assisting the lamplighter, -chimney-sweeper, etc., with complimentary verses for their worthy -masters and mistresses, pressing on him at this season, he was obliged -to decline it. - -[62] Imitated from the introductory couplet to the 'Economy of -Vegetation:' - - 'Stay your rude steps, whose throbbing breasts unfold - The legion friends of glory and of gold.' - -This sentiment is here expanded into four lines. - -[63] For the _os-culation_, or kissing of circles and other curves, see -_Huygens_, who has veiled this delicate and inflammatory subject in the -decent obscurity of a learned language. - -[64] A curve supposed to resemble the sprig of ivy, from which it has -its name, and therefore peculiarly adapted to poetry. - -[65] Water has been supposed, by several of our philosophers, to be -capable of the passion of love. Some later experiments appear to favour -this idea. Water, when pressed by a moderate degree of heat, has been -observed to _simper_, or _simmer_ (as it is more usually called). The -same does not hold true of any other element. - -[66] _Vide_ modern prints of nymphs and shepherds dancing to nothing at -all. - -[67] Imitated from the following genteel and sprightly lines in the -first canto of the 'Loves of the Plants': - - 'So bright its folding canopy withdrawn, - Glides the gilt landau o'er the velvet lawn, - Of beaux and belles displays the glittering throng, - And soft airs fan them as they glide along.' - -[68] The Nymph of the Wheel, supposed to be in love with SMOKE-JACK. - -[69] 'A figure which has one angle, _or more_, of ninety -degrees.'--_Johnson's Dictionary._ It here means a RIGHT-ANGLED -TRIANGLE, which is therefore incapable of having more than one angle of -ninety degrees, but which may, according to our author's _Prosopopœia_, -be supposed to be in love with THREE or any greater number of NYMPHS. - -[70] Supposed to be the same with SATAN. - -[71] The Eastern name for GENII.--_Vide_ TALES OF DITTO. - -[72] A submarine palace near Tunis, where ZATANAI usually held his -Court. - -[73] The Indian _Caucasus_. - -[74] MR. HIGGINS does not mean to deny that SOLOMON was really King -of JUDÆA. The epithet _fabled_ applies to that empire over the Genii, -which the retrospective generosity of the Arabian fabulists has -bestowed upon this monarch. - -[75] It was under this shape that _Venus_ was worshipped in _Phœnicia_. -MR. HIGGINS thinks it was the _Venus Urania_, or Celestial Venus; -in allusion to which, he supposes that the _Phœnician_ grocers -first introduced the practice of preserving sugar-loaves in blue or -sky-coloured paper. He also believes that the _conical_ form of the -original grenadiers' caps was typical of the loves of MARS and VENUS. - -[76] The doctrine of mathematics. Pope calls her _mad Mathesis_.--_Vide -Johnson's Dictionary._ - -[77] The harmony and imagery of these lines are imperfectly imitated -from the following exquisite passage in the _Economy of Vegetation_: - - 'Gnomes, as you now dissect, with hammers fine, - The granite rock, the noduled flint calcine; - Grind with strong arm the circling Chertz betwixt, - Your pure ka--o--lins and Pe--tunt--ses mixt.' - Canto 2, line 297. - -[78] This line affords a striking instance of the sound conveying an -echo to the sense. I would defy the most unfeeling reader to repeat it -over without accompanying it by some corresponding gesture imitative of -the action described. - -[79] A term usually applied in allegoric and technical poetry -to any person or object to which no other qualifications can be -assigned.--_Chambers's Dictionary._ - -[80] Infancy is particularly interested in the diffusion of the new -principles. See the 'Bloody Buoy.' See also the following description -and prediction: - - 'Here Time's huge fingers grasp his giant mace, - And dash proud Superstition from her base; - Rend her strong towers and gorgeous fanes, - &c. &c. &c. &c. - 'While each light moment, as it passes by, - With feathery foot and pleasure-twinkling eye, - Feeds from its baby-hand with many a kiss - The callow nestlings of domestic bliss.' - _Botanic Garden._ - -[81] The oldest scholiasts read-- - - A _dodecagamic_ Potter. - -This is at once more descriptive and more megalophonous,--but the -alliteration of the text had captivated the vulgar ear of the herd of -later commentators. - -[82] To those who have not duly appreciated the distinction between -_Whale_ and _Russia_ oil, this attribute might rather seem to belong -to the Dandy than the Evangelic. The effect, when to the windward, is -indeed so similar, that it requires a subtle naturalist to discriminate -the animals. They belong, however, to distinct genera. - -[83] One of the attributes in Linnæus's description of the Cat. To -a similar cause the caterwauling of more than one species of this -genus is to be referred;--except, indeed, that the poor quadruped -is compelled to quarrel with its own pleasures, whilst the biped is -supposed only to quarrel with those of others. - -[84] This libel on our national oath, and this accusation of all our -countrymen of being in the daily practice of solemnly asseverating the -most enormous falsehood, I fear deserves the notice of a more active -Attorney General than that here alluded to. - -[85] _Vox populi, vox dei._ As Mr. Godwin truly observes of a more -famous saying, _of some merit as a popular maxim, but totally destitute -of philosophical accuracy_. - -[86] Quasi, _Qui valet verba_--_i.e._, all the words which have been, -are, or may be expended by, for, against, with, or on him. A sufficient -proof of the utility of this history. Peter's progenitor who selected -this name seems to have possessed _a pure anticipated cognition_ of the -nature and modesty of this ornament of his posterity. - -[87] A famous river in the new Atlantis of the Dynastophylic -Pantisocratists. - -[88] See the description of the beautiful colours produced during the -agonizing death of a number of trout, in the fourth part of a long -poem in blank verse, published within a few years. That poem contains -curious evidence of the gradual hardening of a strong but circumscribed -sensibility, of the perversion of a penetrating but panic-stricken -understanding. - -[89] It is curious to observe how often extremes meet. Cobbett and -Peter use the same language for a different purpose: Peter is indeed a -sort of metrical Cobbett. Cobbett is, however, more mischievous than -Peter, because he pollutes a holy and now unconquerable cause with the -principles of legitimate murder; whilst the other only makes a bad one -ridiculous and odious. If either Peter Cobbett should see this note, -each will feel more indignation at being compared to the other than at -any censure implied in the moral perversion laid to their charge. - -[90] 'A noticeable man with large grey eyes.'--_Lyrical Ballads._ - -[91] Dairy-maid to Mr. Gill. - -[92] Peter Bell resembleth Harry Gill in this particular: - - 'His teeth they chatter, chatter, chatter,' - -I should have introduced this fact in the text, but that Harry Gill -would not rhyme. I reserve this for my blank verse. - -[93] Harry Gill was the original proprietor of Barbara Lewthwaite's pet -lamb; and he also bred Betty Foy's celebrated pony, got originally out -of a Nightmare, by a descendant of the great Trojan horse. - -[94] Mr. Sheridan, in his sweet poem of the _Critic_, supplies one of -his heroes with as singularly clustering a relationship. - -[95] I have here changed the shape of the moon, not from any poetical -heedlessness, or human perversity, but because man is fond of change, -and in this I have studied the metaphysical varieties of our being. - -[96] I have a similar idea in my Poem on finding a Bird's Nest: - - 'Look! _five_ blue eggs are gleaming there.' - -But the numbers are different, so I trust no one will differ with the -numbers. - -[97] I have also given these lines before; but in thus printing them -again, I neither tarnish their value, nor injure their novelty. - -[98] See my Sonnet to Sleep:-- - - 'I surely not a man ungently made.' - -[99] See my story of the Leech-gatherer, the finest poem in the -world,--except this. - -[100] - - 'Ah!' said the Briar, 'blame me not.' - _Waterfall and Eglantine._ - -Also,-- - - 'The Oak, a Giant and a Sage, - His neighbour thus address'd.' - -[101] '_Long Susan_ lay deep lost in thought.'--_The Idiot Boy._ - -[102] See what I have said of this man in my excellent supplementary -_Preface_. - -[103] I cannot resist quoting the following lines, to show how I -preserve my system from youth to age. As Simon was, so he is. And one -and twenty years have scarcely altered (except by death) that cheerful -and cherry-cheeked Old Huntsman. This is the truth of Poetry. - - 'In the sweet shire of Cardigan, - Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall; - An old man dwells--a little man-- - I've heard he once was tall; - Of years he has upon his back, - No doubt, a burthen weighty; - He says he is threescore and ten, - But others say he's eighty.' - -These lines were written in the summer of 1798, and I bestowed great -labour upon them. - -[104] Andrew Jones was a very singular old man. See my Poem, - - 'I hate that Andrew Jones--he'll breed,' etc. - -[105] 'Let thy wheelbarrow alone,' etc. See my Poem to a Sexton. - -[106] The reference here and in a subsequent verse is to a song very -popular at the time: - - 'All round my hat I vears a green villow, - All round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day, - And if any van should arsk you the reason vy I vears it, - Say, all for my true love that's far, far away. - - ''Twas agoin of my rounds on the streets I first did meet her, - 'Twas agoin of my rounds that first she met my heye, - And I never heard a voice more louder nor more sweeter, - As she cried, "Who'll buy my cabbages, my cabbages who'll buy?"' - -There were several more verses, and being set to a very taking air, it -was a reigning favourite with the 'Social Chucksters' of the day. Even -scholars thought it worth turning into Latin verse. I remember reading -in some short-lived journal a very clever version of it, the first -verse of which ran thus: - - 'Omne circa petusum sertum gero viridem - Per annum circa petasum et unum diem plus. - Si quis te rogaret, cur tale sertum gererem, - Dic, "Omne propter coroulum qui est inpartibus."' - -Allusions to the willow, as an emblem of grief, are of a very old date. -'Sing all, a green willow must be my garland,' is the refrain of the -song which haunted Desdemona on the eve of her death (_Othello_, Act -IV., Scene 3). That exquisite scene, and the beautiful air to which -some contemporary of Shakespeare wedded it, will make 'The Willow Song' -immortal. - -[107] Madame Laffarge and Daniel Good were the two most talked about -criminals of the time when these lines were written. Madame Laffarge -was convicted of poisoning her husband under extenuating circumstances, -and was imprisoned for life, but many believed in her protestations of -innocence--this, of course, she being a woman and unhappily married. -Daniel Good died on the scaffold on the 23rd of May, 1842, protesting -his innocence to the last, and asserting that his victim, Jane Sparks, -had killed herself, an assertion which a judge and jury naturally could -not reconcile with the fact that her head, arms, and legs had been cut -off and hidden with her body in a stable. He, too, found people to -maintain that his sentence was unjust. - -[108] The two papers here glanced at were _The Age_ and _The Satirist_, -long since dead. - -[109] The expression of contemptuous defiance, signified by the -application of the thumb of one hand to the nose, spreading out the -fingers, and attaching to the little finger the stretched-out fingers -of the other hand, and working them in a circle. Among the graffiti in -Pompeii are examples of the same subtle symbolism. - -[110] Well known to readers of Thackeray's _Newcomes_ as 'The Cave of -Harmony.' - -[111] Sir Peter Laurie, Lord Mayor; afterwards Alderman, and notable -for his sagacity and severity as a magistrate in dealing with -evil-doers. - -[112] Thin boards. - -[113] Burnt. - -[114] See the 'six-text' edition of Chaucer. - -[115] A town in Spain. - -[116] Acquire. - -[117] For those that gave him the means to study with. - -[118] Care. - -[119] Seize upon. - -[120] Would not hesitate. - -[121] All quotations for the 'Oxford Dictionary' illustrating special -uses of English words were written on pieces of paper of a particular -size. - -[122] Find fault with. - -[123] Curious ways. - -[124] In accordance with. - -[125] Written at the Crystal Palace Aquarium. - - - - -Transcriber's Note: - -1. Original spelling has been retained. - -2. Punctuation errors have been silently corrected. - -3. Hyphenated words have been retained as in the original. - -4. Italics are shown as _xxx_. - -5. Printer's errors in Greek quotations have been corrected: - - Εκιᾶς ὄυαρ has been changed to Σκιᾶς ὄναρ in "THE WISE MEN OF - GOTHAM" on page 157. - - Ο δ' Ἔρως χιτῶυα δήσας has been changed to Ο δ' Ἔρως χιτῶνα δήσας. - in "LOVE AND THE FLIMSIES" on page 163. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CENTURY OF PARODY AND -IMITATION *** - -***** This file should be named 64229-0.txt or 64229-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - https://www.gutenberg.org/6/4/2/2/64229/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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