PARODIES
OF THE WORKS OF
ENGLISH and AMERICAN AUTHORS,
COLLECTED AND ANNOTATED BY
WALTER HAMILTON,
Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies;
Author of “A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs,” “A Memoir of George Cruikshank”
“The Poets Laureate of England,” “The Æsthetic Movement in England,” etc.
“We maintain that, far from converting virtue into a paradox, and degrading truth by ridicule, Parody will only strike at
what is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a critical exposition. What do we parody but the absurdities
of writers, who frequently make their heroes act against nature, common-sense, and truth? After all, it is the public, not we, who are
the authors of these Parodies.”
D’Israeli’s Curiosities of Literature.
VOLUME II.
CONTAINING PARODIES OF
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
JOHN MILTON, JOHN DRYDEN, DR. WATTS,
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON,
H. W. LONGFELLOW, THOMAS HOOD, BRET HARTE,
MATTHEW ARNOLD,
E. A. POE, WOLFE’S ODE, AND “MY MOTHER”
REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C.
1885.
“It was because Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most susceptible
of the playful honours of the Greek parodist; unless the prototype is familiar to
us, a parody is nothing!”
Isaac D’Israeli.
“La Parodie, fille ainée de la Satire, est aussi ancienne que la poésie méme. Il
est de l’essence de la Parodie de substituer toujours un nouveau sujet & celui qu’on
parodie; aux sujets sérieux, des sujets légers et badins, en employant autant que
possible, les expressions de l’auteur parodié.”
Traité des Belles-Lettres sur la Poésie Française, par M. le Père de Montespin,
(Jesuite) Avignon, 1747.
BROWN & DAVENPORT, 40, SUN STREET, FINSBURY, LONDON, E.C.
hen this Collection was originally projected it was intended to publish a few only of the best
Parodies of each author. After the issue of the first few numbers, however, the sale rapidly
increased, and subscribers not only expressed their desire that the collection should be made
as nearly complete as possible, but by the loans of scarce books, and copies of Parodies,
helped to make it so.
This involved an alteration in the original arrangement, and as it would have been monotonous to
have filled a whole number with parodies of one short poem, such as those on “To be or not to be,”
“Excelsior,” “My Mother” or Wolfe’s Ode, it became necessary to spread them over several numbers:
In the Index, which has been carefully prepared, references will be found, under the titles of
the original Poems, to all the parodies mentioned. In all cases, where it has been possible to do so,
full titles and descriptions of the works quoted from, have been given; any omission to do this has
been unintentional, and will be at once rectified on the necessary information being supplied.
By the completion of the second Volume of my collection, the works of the following Authors have been
fully treated, William Shakespeare, John Milton, John Dryden, Dr. Watts, Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
H. W. Longfellow, Thomas Hood, Bret Harte, Matthew Arnold, E. A. Poe, Wolfe’s Ode on the Death
of Sir John Moore, and Miss Ann Taylor’s poem “My Mother.” Certainly most of the best parodies
on these Authors have been collected, yet as new ones are constantly appearing, a further collection of
them will appear in a future part of Parodies, which will also contain any good old parodies that may
hitherto have escaped notice.
In a few cases where parodies are to be found in easily accessible works, extracts only have been quoted, or
references given; but it is intended in future, wherever permission can be obtained, to give
the parodies in full, as they are found to be useful for public entertainments, and recitations. When the
older masters of our Literature are reached, a great deal of curious and amusing information will be
given, and it is intended to conclude with a complete bibliographical account of Parody, with extracts
and translations from all the principal works on the topic. Whilst arranging the first and second
volumes, I have been gathering materials for those to come, which will illustrate the works of those
old writers whose names are familiar in our mouths as household words. Much that is quaint and
amusing will thus be collected, whilst many illustrations of our literature, both in prose and verse,
which are valuable to the student, will for the first time be methodically arranged, annotated, and
published in a cheap and accessible form.
In all Collections, such as this, there are some pieces which offend the taste, or run counter to
the prejudice of some individual reader, but great care has been taken to exclude every parody of a
vulgar or slangy description, although it need hardly be said that many such parodies exist.
Every effort has been made to avoid giving preference to the parodies of any Political party, and this
could only be done by inserting the poems on their own merits. If any good Political Parody has been
omitted, ignorance of its existence, not party motive, has been the cause.
I am much indebted to the following gentlemen either for permission to quote from their works, or for
copies of parodies sent to me for publication:--Messrs. P. J. Anderson, of Aberdeen; A. H. Bates,
of Birmingham; W. Butler; George Cotterell (Author of the “Banquet”); T. F. Dillon-Croker; F. B.
Doveton; James Gordon, F.S.A., of Edinburgh; John H. Ingram; Walter Parke (author of “The Lays
of the Saintly”); F. B. Perkins, of the Free Public Library, San Francisco; W. Smith, of Morley, near
Leeds; Basil H. Soulsby, Corpus Christi, Oxford; Joseph Verey; John Whyte; J. W. Gleeson
White; and A. R. Wright. The following ladies have also sent me some amusing parodies:--Miss
E. Orton; Mrs. S. A. Wetmore of New York State; and Mrs. J. E. Whitby. My best thanks are
also due to Mr. Walsh, and his courteous assistants in the Guildhall Library of the City of London, as
well as to the gentlemen in the Library of the British Museum.
WALTER HAMILTON.
64, Bromfelde Road, Clapham, London, S.W.
December, 1885.
CONTENTS OF PARTS I. to XXIV. PARODIES.
EACH PART MAY BE PURCHASED SEPARATELY.
Part 1. |
Introduction. |
|
Alfred Tennyson’s |
Early Poems. |
Part 2. |
Alfred Tennyson’s |
Early Poems. |
Part 3. |
Alfred Tennyson’s |
Later Poems. |
Part 4. |
Page 49 to 62. |
Tennyson’s Poems. |
|
Pages 62, 63 & 64. |
H. W. Longfellow. |
Part 5. |
Page 65. |
A Parody of William Morris. |
|
Page 65 to 80. |
H. W. Longfellow. |
Part 6. |
Page 81 to 96. |
H. W. Longfellow. |
Part 7. |
Page 97 to 105. |
H. W. Longfellow. Hiawatha. |
|
Page 105 to 112. |
Rev. C. Wolfe. “Not a Drum was heard.” |
Part 8. |
Page 113. |
“Not a Drum was heard.” |
|
Page 113 to 128. |
Thomas Hood. The Song of the Shirt, etc. |
Part 9. |
Page 129 to 135. |
Thomas Hood. |
|
Page 135 to 140. |
Bret Harte. |
|
Pages 140 & 141. |
Rev. C. Wolfe. “Not a Drum was heard.” |
|
Page 142 to 144. |
Alfred Tennyson. |
Part 10. |
Page 145 to 160. |
Alfred Tennyson. |
Part 11. |
Page 161 to 176. |
Alfred Tennyson. |
Part 12. |
Page 177 to 186. |
Alfred Tennyson. |
|
Page 187 to 190. |
Rev. C. Wolfe. “Not a Drum was heard.” |
|
Page 190 to 192. |
Thomas Hood’s Song of the Shirt. |
Part 13. |
Page 1 to 4. |
Parodies on Bret Harte. |
|
Pages 4 and 5. |
Thomas Hood. |
|
Page 6 to 16. |
H. W. Longfellow. |
Part 14. |
Page 17 to 24. |
H. W. Longfellow. |
|
Page 25 to 40. |
Edgar Allan Poe. |
Part 15. |
Page 41 to 64. |
Edgar Allan Poe. |
Part 16. |
Page 65 to 88. |
Edgar Allan Poe. |
Part 17. |
Page 89 to 103. |
Edgar Allan Poe. |
|
Pages 103, 4 & 5. |
The Art of Parody. |
|
Page 106 to 112. |
“My Mother,” by Miss Anne Taylor. |
Part 18. |
Page 113 to 135. |
“My Mother.” |
|
Page 136 |
The Vulture, (After “The Raven.”) |
|
Page 136 |
A Welcome to Battenberg (after Tennyson). |
Part 19. |
Page 137 to 141. |
Tennyson’s “The Fleet,” etc. |
|
Page 141 to 143. |
“My Mother.” |
|
Page 144 to 160. |
Hamlet’s Soliloquy. |
Part 20. |
Page 161 to 184. |
W. Shakespeare. The Seven Ages of Man, etc. |
Part 21. |
Page 185 to 206. |
W. Shakespeare. Account of the Burlesques, of his Plays. |
|
Page 206 to 208. |
Dr. Isaac Watts. |
Part 22. |
Page 209 to 217. |
Dr. Isaac Watts. |
|
Page 217 to 232. |
John Milton. |
Part 23. |
Page 233 |
John Milton. |
|
Page 233 to 236. |
Dryden’s Epigram on Milton. |
|
Page 236 to 238. |
Matthew Arnold. |
|
Page 239 to 244. |
W. Shakespeare. |
|
Page 244 to 246. |
Bret Harte. |
|
Page 246 to 255. |
H. W. Longfellow. |
|
Pages 255 and 256 |
Thomas Hood. |
Part 24. |
Page 257 to 259. |
Thomas Hood. |
|
Page 260 to 280. |
Alfred Tennyson. |
NOTES AND CORRECTIONS.
The Parody of “The Village Blacksmith,” on page 9, signed
Sphinx, was written by Mr. W. Sappe, of Forest
Hill.
Foot Note, page 112.—Mr. Artemus Ward is here credited
with the advice “Never to prophecy unless you
know,” an Aberdeen correspondent points out that
Mr. R. Lowell was the real author, the phrase occurs
in “The Biglow Papers:”—
My gran’ther’s rule was safer’n’t is to crow,
Don’t never prophesy—onless ye know.
Page 232. Milton’s Epitaph on W. Shakespeare, the fourth
line should read:—
“Under a star y-pointing pyramid.”
Page 24. Read Charles Baudelure, not Beaudelaire.
Page 219. Wine, a Poem. The Copy of this old poem in
the Editor’s possession, was published anonymously
in 1702. It has been ascribed to John Gay, who was
born in 1688, the poem is certainly a remarkable
production for a youth of twenty-one.
INDEX.
The authors of the original poems are arranged in alphabetical order; the titles of the original poems
are printed in small capitals, followed by the Parodies, the authors of which are named wherever
possible.
Albert Grant, M.P. and Leicester Square |
2 |
Home, Sweet Home |
3 |
Trial by Jury, in 1884, a Burlesque Law Report, from the Pall Mall Gazette |
20 |
The Art of Parody, an Article reprinted from The Saturday Review of February 14th, 1885 |
103 |
Tracy Turnerelli and the Golden Wreath |
237 238 |
NATIONAL ANTHEM OF THE UNITED STATES.— |
Orpheus C. Kerr’s report of the Prize Competition
for a National Hymn, with copies of the rejected
compositions ascribed to Longfellow, Everett,
Whittier, Wendell Holmes, Emerson, Cullen
Bryant, Morris, Willis, Aldwick, and Stoddart |
22 |
——:o:—— |
Matthew Arnold. |
Sonnet to George Cruikshank |
236 |
World—Prize Parody, by V. Amcotts |
237 |
Do. do. by Goymour Cuthbert |
237 |
Do. Competition Parody by Nocturne |
237 |
Do. do. do., by Caraway |
237 |
The subject selected was “Mr. Charles Warner in Drink,” August 20, 1879. |
The Forsaken Merman |
237 |
The World—Prize Parody, by Mrs. Winsloe |
238 |
Do. do. by Miss M. C. Kilburn |
238 |
The subject selected was “Mr. Tracy Turnerelli in the Provinces, with the Golden Wreath.” September 24, 1879. |
The Wreath, from The World, July, 1879 |
238 |
——:o:—— |
John Dryden’s Epigram on Milton. |
“Three Poets, in Three Distant Ages Born” |
233 |
Epigram on Orator Henley, Rock, and Dr. John Hill |
233 |
” on Chatterton, Ireland, Lauder, and Macpherson |
233 |
” by D. O’Connell on Three Colonels |
233 |
” on Three Pens, advertisement |
234 |
” on Hemans, Hallam, and Hogg |
234 |
Parody Competition in Truth, March 27, 1884— |
Epigrams on Brandy and Soda |
234 |
” on Grog and Baccy |
234 |
” on Generals Wolseley, Roberts, and Graham |
234 |
” on Truth |
234 |
” on Beau Nash, Beau D’Orsay, and Beau Brummel |
234 |
” on Three Champion Batsmen |
234 |
” on the Midge, the Gnat, and the Mosquito |
234 |
” on the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle |
234 |
” on Tyndall, Huxley, and Darwin |
234 |
” on a Beau, a Dandy, and a Masher |
234 |
” on Gladstone, Sir S. Northcote, and Randolph Churchill |
234 |
” on the Members for Eye, Bridport, and Woodstock |
235 |
” on Lord Salisbury, Sir S. Northcote, and Lord R. Churchill (several) |
235 |
” on Gladstone, John Bright, and J. Chamberlain |
235 |
” on Gambetta, Prince Bismarck, and Gladstone |
235 |
” on the Irish Party (several) |
235 |
” on Lord Beaconsfield, Mr. Gladstone, and Lord R. Churchill |
235 |
” on Whigs, Parnellites, and Tories |
233 |
” on Sir Wilfrid Lawson |
235 |
” on Pitt, Fox, and Gladstone |
236 |
” on Irving, Bancroft, and Toole |
236 |
” on Toole, Sullivan, and Irving |
236 |
” on Irving, Augustus Harris, and Wilson Barrett |
236 |
” on Mrs. Langtry, Miss Ellen Terry, Miss Mary Anderson |
236 |
——:o:—— |
Bret Harte. |
Dickens in Camp |
1 |
Parodies in print, November, 1884 |
1 |
Plain Language from Truthful James— |
That Hebrew Ben D——, 1878 |
1 |
Plain Language from Truthful Robert |
3 |
That Greenwich M.P. (on Mr. Gladstone) |
244 |
The Heathen M.P. (on Mr. Disraeli, in 1876) |
245 |
“Ben Diz was his name” |
245 |
On Chang, the Chinese Giant |
245 |
The Aged Stranger— |
“I was with Grant” (Albert Grant) 1874 |
2 |
Home, sweet Home, with variations, by Bret Harte, 1881 |
3 |
His Finger, a Prose Parody |
4 |
The Return of Belisarius— |
To “Auld Willie,” September, 1884 |
3 |
“Jim”— |
On Bret Harte |
246 |
——:o:—— |
Thomas Hood. |
The Song of the Shirt— |
The Night “Comp” |
4 |
The Song of the Dirt (Covent Garden in 1884) |
4 |
A Song of the Follies of Fashion, 1880 |
5 |
The Overseer’s Lament in Australia, 1853, by M. P. Stoddart |
255 |
The Song of the Dirt, 1858 |
256 |
The Song of the Student, 1854 |
256 |
The Song of Exams. (Aberdeen) |
257 |
The Song of the Drink |
257 |
The Song of the Wheel |
258 |
The Song of the Sponge |
258 |
The Song of the Streets |
259 |
I Remember, I Remember— |
A Parody of, by Phœbe Carey |
4 |
A Parody of, by Tom Hood, junior |
5 |
What it may come to (the House of Lords) |
5 |
Reminiscences of a Grinder (Aberdeen, 1854) |
258 |
Manchester Musings |
259 |
The Dream of Eugene Aram—
ii |
The Wanstead Home |
5 |
The Blue-coat Boys’ Ghost |
5 |
A Case of Conscience |
259 |
The Lost Child, or Russell’s Lament on the Loss of his Reform Bill, 1867 |
5 |
“Our heads have met, and if thine smarts,” |
258 |
The Bridge of Sighs— |
The Age of Sighs, 1868 |
259 |
Old Year unfortunate (1885) |
259 |
——:o:—— |
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. |
Excelsior— |
Higher |
6 |
Diogenes, 1854 |
6 |
Upwards, 1873 |
6 |
M. Duruof, 1874 |
7 |
The Excelsior Climbing Boy, 1875 |
7 |
“The Swampy State of Illinois” |
8 |
The Dowager-Duchess at a Drawing Room |
8 |
“’Brellas to mend” |
8 |
On Mr. Disraeli’s first speech in Parliament |
17 |
The Workhouse (Bob) |
17 |
The Griffin |
17 |
The Country Fair (Minnie Mum.) |
17 |
What Roads! W. F. Field |
18 |
Sloper |
18 |
Divitior, 1858 |
250 |
Nettle-rash (from St. Bartholomew’s) |
251 |
Young Lambs to sell |
251 |
U-pi-dee, by F. C. Burnand |
251 |
“Loved Arabella,” 1867 |
252 |
Ye poor Mahdi, 1884 |
252 |
“Ten thousand pounds” |
253 |
(re Maskelyne v. Irving Bishop) |
A Psalm of Life— |
What the young woman said to the old maid, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 |
11 |
“Tell me not in doleful murmurs,” by Thomas Thatcher |
11 |
“Please be cheerful,” advice to Novelists |
11 |
A Psalm of Farming |
12 |
A Song of St. Stephen’s, 1882 |
12 |
A Psalm of Burial (on Cremation) |
12 |
On Reading a Life and Letters |
12 |
An Imitation, by C. Baudelaire |
24 |
A Christmas Psalm of Life |
246 |
A Psalm for the Trade |
246 |
The Yankee Merchant to his book-keeper |
247 |
The Psalm of Life as exhibited in Christmas Annuals |
247 |
The Day Is Done— |
A parody of, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 |
12 |
The Arrow and the Song |
13 |
The Birds and the Pheasant, 1867 |
13 |
The Ex-Premier (Mr. Gladstone), 1877 |
13 |
The Arrow and the Hound, 1884 |
13 |
The Bubble and the Bullet, by William Sawyer |
248 |
Beware!— |
“I know a maiden fair to see” (Kate Vaughan) |
9 |
“I know a masher dark to see” |
9 |
“I know a youth who can flirt and flatter” |
247 |
“I know a Barber who in town doth dwell” |
248 |
“I know a maiden with a bag” |
248 |
The Song of the Oyster Land |
248 |
The Village Blacksmith. |
Under Britannia’s spreading Oak, 1884 |
9 |
The Low Bohemian, 1878 |
10 |
The Village Schoolboy |
10 |
“Beside a Dingy Public-house,” |
10 |
The War Blacksmith, 1866 |
18 |
The Lord Chancellor, Finis, 1877 |
19 |
The Village Pet. R. E. Blow |
21 |
The City Blackleg |
249 |
“Before a Study of the Nude” |
249 |
The Norman Baron— |
The Roman Prelate, by Walter Parke |
249 |
Voices of the Night— |
Voices of our Nights, 1861 |
9 |
The Old Clock on the Stairs |
23 |
Imitated by C. Baudelaire |
24 |
Flowers— |
Flowers of Rotten Row in 1858 |
250 |
The Bridge— |
“I lay in my bed at midnight” |
250 |
The Arsenal at Springfield— |
The Soirée, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 |
14 |
Evangeline— |
Dollarine; a tale of California, 1849 |
14 |
The Lost tails of Miletus, by Bret Harte |
15 |
Mabel, the Made-up, Finis 1877 |
21 |
The Song of Hiawatha— |
Marks and Remarks on the Royal Academy, 1856 |
15 |
The Great Medicine-Man, Punch, 1867 |
15 |
Revenge, a Rhythmic Recollection |
16 |
The Song of Big Ben (Truth) |
16 |
The Song of Progress, 1884 |
16 |
Le Calumet de Paix, by C. Baudelaire |
24 |
The Great Tichborne Demonstration |
253 |
Pahtahquahong, by Walter Parke |
253 |
The Song of Cetewayo, 1882 |
254 |
The Printer’s Hiawatha |
254 |
La Belle Sauvage (Princess Pocahontas), 1870 |
255 |
——:o:—— |
John Milton. |
The Splendid Shilling, in imitation of Milton, by John Philips, 1700 |
217 |
The Crooked Sixpence, by Bramston |
219 |
Wine, a Poem, 1709 |
219 |
A Panegyric on Oxford Ale, 1822 |
221 |
The Suet Dumpling |
222 |
The Copper Farthing, by Miss Pennington |
222 |
The School boy, by the Rev. Mr. Maurice |
224 |
The Opening of Parliament, (Prize Parody) by John Foote, 1880 |
225 |
Another version, by H. Hamilton, 1880 |
226 |
Prae-Existence, a poem in imitation of John Milton, by J. B., 1714 |
226 |
Dr. Bentley’s alterations of Milton |
226 |
L’Allegro, and Il Penseroso— |
Whitsuntide, by the Rev. George Huddersford, 1793 |
227 |
Christmas do. do. |
227 |
The Garrulous Man, 1776 |
227 |
L’Allegro; or Fun, a Parody |
227 |
The Hare Hunter, by Mundy, 1824 |
229 |
Fashion, a Paraphrase of L’Allegro, 1814 |
229 |
Ode on the Centennial Birthday of Burns, by Samuel Lover, 1859 |
231 |
Football, by the Author of “The Idylls of the Rink,” 1883 |
231 |
A Reading Man, 1824 |
233 |
A Seaside Sonnet, after Milton-Oysters |
233 |
Milton’s Epitaph on Shakespeare |
232
iii |
Two Parodies on the same, from Punch, dated 1856 & 1863 |
232 |
——:o:—— |
Edgar Allan Poe. |
Sketch of his Career |
25 |
The Philosophy of Composition |
26 |
The Raven |
27 |
A Gentle Puff, 1845 |
28 |
The Gazelle, by C. C. Cooke, 1845 |
28 |
The Whippoorwill, 1845 |
29 |
The Vulture, by Robert B. Brough, 1853 |
30 |
The Tankard, by Edmund H. Yates, 1855 |
31 |
The Parrot, by R. B. Brough, 1856 |
32 |
The Cat-Fiend (in prose), 1868 |
32 |
The Craven (Napoleon III), 1867 |
33 |
The Tailor, by A. Merion, 1872 |
34 |
The Shavin’, John F. Mill |
35 |
Chateaux d’Espagne, by H. S. Leigh |
35 |
A Ravin’. The Figaro, 1873 |
36 |
Dunraven. Punch, 1881, 1884 |
36 57 |
The Dove, a Sentimental Parody. J. W. Scott |
37 |
Lines on the Death of Poe. Sarah J. Bolton |
38 |
My Christmas Pudding |
39 |
On a Fragment of a Five-dollar Bill |
40 |
Nothing More |
40 |
Her Pa’s Dog |
40 |
The Phantom Cat, by F. Field, 1868 |
41 |
The Croaker, 1875 |
42 |
The Stoker (on Dr. Kenealy), 1875. J. Verey |
43 |
The Raven, from the Liverpool Porcupine, 1875 |
44 |
A Black Bird that could sing, but wouldn’t sing, 1876 |
45 |
Cowgate Philanthrophy, 1876 |
46 |
Lines to the Speaker of the House of Commons, from Truth, 1877 |
47 |
The Baby, from Finis, 1877 |
48 |
The Maiden, D. J. M., 1879 |
49 |
The Promissory Note, Bayard Taylor |
50 |
The “Ager,” by J. P. Stelle |
50 |
The Chancellor and the Surplus, 1579 |
51 |
The Raven, dedicated to the Duke of Somerset |
52 |
The Gold Digger, 1880 |
53 |
Quart Pot Creek, by J. Brunton Stephens |
54 |
A Sequel, The Spirits, W. T. Ross |
55 |
The Drama Despondent, 1882 |
56 |
A Voice |
57 |
The Ravenous Bull and the Bicycle |
58 |
A Cat-as-Trophy, in prose, 1866 |
58 |
The End of “The Raven,” 1884 |
59 |
Sequel to the Raven, by R. A. Lavender (a Spirit poem) |
59 |
A Vigil Vision, by H. Bickford |
60 |
Isadore, by Alfred Pike, 1843 |
61 |
Plutonian Shore, by J. E. Tuel, 1849 |
70 |
The Goblin Goose. Punch, 1881 |
71 |
The College Craven. P. G. S., 1884 |
71 |
The (C)raven Student |
72 |
Le Corbeau, by S. Mallarmé, 1875 |
72 |
Vox Corvi, 1694 |
73 |
Poe-tical Forgeries |
73 |
The Fire Fiend, September, 1864, by Charles D. Gardette |
73 |
Golgotha, by Charles D. Gardette |
75 |
The Raven, in Dublin |
92 |
The Raven, said to have been translated by Poe from a Persian Poem |
92 |
Sequel to the Raven, a Spiritual Poem by R. A. Lavender |
93 |
A Grand Poem, by Lizzie Doten, 1872 |
94 |
Farewell to Earth, by Lizzie Doten |
95 |
The Vulture, by Somers Bellamy, 1885 |
136 |
Spiritual Poems, in imitation of Poe, by Mrs. Lydia Tenney |
93 |
The Raven, by R. Allston Lavender |
93 |
A Grand Poem, by Lizzie Doten |
94 |
The Kingdom, ” ” |
94 |
Farewell to Earth ” ” |
95 |
Improvisations from the Spirit, by Dr. J. J. Garth Wilkinson, 1857 |
95 |
Pot-Pourri, reprinted from the scarce New York Edition of 1875— |
The Ruined Palace. (The Haunted Palace) |
96 |
Dream-Mere. (Dreamland) |
96 |
Israfiddlestrings. (Israfel) |
97 |
The Ghouls in the Belfry. (The Bells) |
98 |
Hullaloo. (Ulalume) |
99 |
To Any. (For Annie) |
100 |
Hannibal Leigh. (Annabel Lee) |
101 |
Raving. (The Raven) |
102 |
The Monster Maggot. (The Conqueror Worm) |
102 |
Poetic Fragments |
103 |
Under-Lines |
103 |
The Bells |
75 |
The Swells, by R. B. Brough, 1857 |
76 |
The Ball-Room Belles. Fun. 1865 |
77 |
Pills, by Damer Cape, 1866 |
77 |
The Hells. The Tomahawk, 1867 |
78 |
Christmas Fancies. Fun, 1867 |
79 |
The Bells |
79 |
The Bills, by Thomas Hood, the younger, 1870 |
80 |
The Flute |
81 |
The Chimes done in Rhymes, an American parody, 1871 |
81 |
The Bills, from the Light Green, 1872 |
82 |
The Bells, by an overworked Waiter, 1875 |
82 |
The Girls |
83 |
The Bills, by a Mercantile Poet, 1875 |
83 |
The Belles, Benjamin D——, 1876 |
83 |
The Bills. The Corkscrew Papers, 1876 |
84 |
The Swells. Worthy a Crown? |
85 |
The Bells. Fiz, 1878 |
85 |
The Bills. Funny Folks, 1879 |
86 |
The Hose. Puck, 1879 |
87 |
The Bills. Punch, 1879 |
87 |
Bills. Truth, 1880 |
88 |
The Bells, Mr. Irving in, 1883 |
89 |
The Voice of the Bells, by W. A. Eaton |
89 |
The Bills. Detroit Free Press |
89 |
“O! The Hammers,” by William Allan, 1883 |
90 |
Reminiscences of Summer, 1883 |
90 |
That Amateur Flute, an American Parody |
90 |
The Office Boy’s Mother in America |
91 |
Israfel— |
Bisakel, by J. E. Dalton, 1880 |
91 |
The Steed of Fire ” ” |
91 |
Annabel Lee |
61 |
Samuel Brown, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 |
61 |
The Cannibal Flea, by Tom Hood, the younger |
62 |
The L. C. D. and the L. S. D. by Joseph Verey |
62 |
St. Rose of Lima, by Walter Parke, 1882 |
63 |
Beautiful B—— (Wilson Barrett), J. W. G. W. |
63 |
Annabel Lee, from “Mr. and Mrs. Spoopendyke,” by Stanley Huntley |
64 |
Ulalume |
64 |
Paralune. Punch, 1881 |
64 |
The Willows, by Bret Harte |
65 |
What is in a Name, by Thomas Hood, junior |
65 |
You’ll Resume. Punch, 1882 |
66 |
Hope; An Allegory, by John H. Ingram |
66 |
Covent Garden. Fun, 1867 |
68 |
The Kingdom, a Spirit poem, by Lizzie Doten |
94 |
Lenore
iv |
The Supper of the Four, by A. Merion, 1872 |
67 |
For Annie |
68 |
Tristan and Isolde, by J. W. G. W. |
68 |
Ligiea— |
Hygiea. Punch, 1880 |
69 |
The Demon of the Doldrums |
69 |
——:o:—— |
William Shakespeare. |
A Prologue, in imitation of Othello’s address to
the Senate |
144 |
Correspondence in The Daily News, 1883, concerning
the Gaiety burlesques of The Tempest, and
Hamlet, including letters from Mr. Moy Thomas,
Mr. W. Kennedy, Mr. John Hollingshead, and
Mr. F. C. Burnand |
144 |
The Daily News on Shakespearian Burlesques, October 25, 1884 |
205 |
Dreary Song for Dreary Summer, by Shirley Brooks, 1860 |
205 |
Shakespoke’s Epigram, by J. G. Dalton |
205 |
The Shakespeare Monument Committee, 1823 |
205 |
The “New Shakspere Society,” and Mr. F. J. Furnivall |
162 |
|
THE TEMPEST— |
The Tempest; or, the Enchanted Isle, by Sir W. Davenant and John Dryden |
146 |
The Enchanted Isle; or, Raising the Wind, by R. B.
and W. Brough, produced at the Adelphi Theatre,
1848, with the cast |
203 |
Ariel, by F. C. Burnand, produced at the Gaiety Theatre, October, 1883, with the cast |
204 |
Where the Bee Sucks |
204 |
Who would be Great Grand Lord High? By J. R. Planché |
204 |
“Our Revels now are ended” |
204 |
“Those Golden pallaces,” by Lord Stirling |
204 |
“Our Parodies are ended” |
204 |
|
MEASURE FOR MEASURE— |
“Take, O, Take Those Lips Away” |
188 |
Take, O, take that bill away |
188 |
Take, O, take the haunch away, by W. H. Ireland, 1803 |
188 |
Take, O, take that wreath away (to Mr. Tracy Turnerelli) |
189 |
I bought thee late a golden wreath (after Ben Jonson) |
189 |
Take, O, take Parnell away, 1882 |
189 |
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where |
244 |
Ay, but to love, and not be loved again |
244 |
Oh, but to fade, and live we know not where,
by Phœbe Carey |
169 |
|
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING— |
“Sigh no more, Ladies” |
202 |
Rail no more, Tories, 1823 |
202 |
Sigh no more, Dealers, 1867 |
203 |
|
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM— |
Act I. A Midsummer Nightmare, 1885 |
197 |
Act II. The Casting of the Cabinet, 1885 |
197 |
“That very time I saw,” by Phœbe Carey |
169 |
I Know a Bank |
198 |
I know a Bank (a monody on Money), 1879 |
198 |
I know a Bank (at Paddington), 1883 |
198 |
I am that merry wanderer of the night (Lord R. Churchill) |
199 |
|
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE— |
Shylock; or, the Merchant of Venice Preserved; by F. Talfourd. Produced at the Olympic Theatre, 1853 |
179 |
“What find I here? Fair Portia’s counterfeit” |
180 |
Tell me, where is Fancy bred? |
180 |
Tell me, what is Fancy Bread? |
180 |
A Parody by J. R. Planché, 1843 |
204 |
The Quality of Mercy is not strained— |
The Jollity of Nursey is not feigned, 1883 |
180 |
This Quality of Jelly must be strained, 1880 |
180 |
The Quality of Flirting is not strained |
204 |
|
AS YOU LIKE IT— |
The Seven Ages of Man |
169 |
“All the Town’s a Slide,” 1850 |
172 |
“All the World’s a Stable” |
174 242 |
“All the World’s away” (for the holidays) |
241 |
“All Parliament’s a Stage” (Political) |
241 |
“All the Night’s a Stage” (on noises) |
242 |
“All the Day’s a Plague” (on street noises) |
242 |
“All the World’s a Newspaper,” 1824 |
195 |
The Stage Coach Company, 1803 |
170 |
The Patriot’s Progress, 1814 |
170 |
The Seven Ages of Woman |
170 174 |
The Seven Ages of Æstheticism |
171 |
The Seven Ages of Intemperance, 1834 |
171 |
The Poetry of the Steam Engine, 1846 |
172 |
The Seven Ages of the French Republic, 1848 |
172 |
The Seven Ages of a Public Man, 1855 |
172 |
The Catalogue of the British Museum |
173 |
The Seven Ages in Mincing Lane, 1868 |
173 |
The Politician’s Seven Ages, 1868 |
173 |
The Seven Ages of Acting, 1884 |
174 |
The Seven Ages of Love, 1881 |
174 |
The Seven Carriages of Man, 1885 |
174 |
The Seven Drinks of Man, 1885 |
175 |
The Seven Courses at Dinner |
241 242 |
The Seven Ages of Cricket |
242 |
The Seven Ages of a Clergyman |
243 |
The Seven Ages of a Politician |
243 |
The Seven Forms of Insanity |
243 |
The Seven Ages of a Sailor |
243 |
The Seven Ages of Fashion |
244 |
“Dinner is a Stage,” by F. B. Doveton |
240 |
“Parliament’s a Stage” (Political) |
241 |
Bud, Blossom, and Decay, by T. F. D. Croker |
195 |
Jaques in Capel Court, 1845 (Gambling on the Stock Exchange) |
171 |
A Paraphrase, by E. L Blanchard, 1866 |
196 |
Oxford is a Stage, 1868 |
196 |
A Shakespearian after-dinner Recitation, by F. Upton, |
196 |
A Fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the Forest |
194 |
The same, with a cold in the head (at Combe) |
194 |
A Dude—a dude! I met a dude |
195 |
Blow, blow thou Winter Wind, a parody on |
176 |
Lines on Mrs. Langtry as Rosalind, 1882 |
176 |
Lines on Miss Mary Anderson as Rosalind, at Stratford-on-Avon, August, 1885 |
244 |
Under the Greenwood Tree |
196
v |
Under the Greenwood Shed, by Shirley Brooks, 1866 |
197 |
|
A WINTER’S TALE— |
Perdita, or the Royal Milkmaid, by William Brough.
Produced at the Lyceum Theatre, 1856, with the cast |
200 |
Zapolya, a Christmas Tale by S. T. Coleridge, 1817 |
200 |
|
KING JOHN— |
King John Burlesque, by G. A. A’Beckett. Produced at the St. James’s Theatre in 1837 |
199 |
Cast of Characters in the burlesque, and extracts
from it |
199 |
|
KING HENRY V.— |
Prologue Act IV. |
201 |
Lord Mayor’s Day, 1827 |
201 |
|
RICHARD THE THIRD— |
“Now is the Winter of our discontent” |
189 |
“The World” Parody, Competition. The return of Lord Chelmsford from Zululand |
190 |
Cetewayo’s Soliloquy |
190 |
King Richard ye Third, by Charles Selby, at the
Strand Theatre in 1844 |
190 |
The Rise and Fall of Richard III., or a new Front to
an old Dicky, by F. C. Burnand, at the Royalty
Theatre in 1868, with the Cast |
191 |
Richard III, Travestie, by William By, 1816 |
191 |
Richard III. Burlesque, by J. Sterling Coyne, 1844 |
191 |
|
KING HENRY VIII.— |
Cardinal Wolsey’s Farewell |
191 |
Henry Irving’s Farewell, 1875 |
191 |
Mr. Gladstone’s Farewell to his Old China, 1875 |
191 |
A Parody in College Rhymes |
192 |
|
ROMEO AND JULIET— |
I do remember an old Bachelor, 1832 |
176 |
I do remember a Cook’s shop |
176 |
I do remember a young pleader, by G. Wentworth, 1824 |
176 |
I do remember a strange man, a herald, by R. Surtees |
177 |
Ha! I remember a low sort of shop, by J. R. Planché |
204 |
The Shakespeare of the Period, 1869— |
Romeo and Juliet, as arranged by T. W. Robertson |
177 |
Romeo and Juliet, as arranged by T. Maddison Morton |
178 |
Romeo and Juliet as arranged by H. J. Byron |
178 |
Do. Do. as arranged by Dion Boucicault |
178 |
Romeo and Juliet Travestie, by Andrew Halliday.
Produced at the Strand Theatre, 1859 |
179 |
Romeo and Juliet; or, the Shaming of the True.
Performed at Oxford during Commemoration, 1868 |
179 |
|
JULIUS CÆSAR. |
The Speech of Brutus over the Body of Cæsar |
192 |
The Poacher’s Apology |
192 |
Marc Antony’s Speech |
192 |
Parody Competition in The Weekly Dispatch, June 28, 1885. |
193 |
A Speech by Sir W. Harcourt, by T. A. Wilson |
193 |
A Speech by John Bright, by H. L. Brickel |
193 |
On Mr. Gladstone leaving Office, by George Mallinson |
193 |
|
MACBETH. |
Macbeth, in a Song from Rejected Addresses |
181 |
The Incantation on Penenden Plain, 1828 |
181 |
Is this a Sovereign which I feel behind me? 1852 |
182 |
Macbeth Travestie, in Accepted Addresses |
182 |
Macbeth Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1847. Performed
at Henley; at the Strand Theatre in 1848; and at
the Olympic Theatre in 1853 |
182 |
Making the Pudding; a Christmas Incantation |
183 |
The Modern Macbeth. H. Savile Clarke, 1885 |
183 |
Shakespeare’s Recipe for cooking a Beef Steak |
184 |
M. Alexis Soyer’s Soup for the Poor (on the Incantation Scene) |
239 |
Macbeth’s Soliloquy parodied, 1830 |
240 |
Shakespeare’s Ghost on the New Apocalypse August, 1885 |
240 |
|
HAMLET. |
To be, or not to be (from the 1623 folio edition) |
146 |
Oh, say! To be, or not to be? As a song, from George Cruikshank’s Almanac, 1846 |
146 |
To Be, or not to Be? By T. Thatcher |
146 |
To Be, or not to Be? On London’s Municipal Reform, 1884 |
147 |
To Be, or not to Be? By Mark Twain |
147 |
To Be, or not to Be? As supposed to be amended by Mr. F. J. Furnivall |
163 |
To Act, or not to Act? (on Speculation) |
147 |
To Affiliate, or not to Affiliate? |
148 |
To Bake, or not to Bake? Advertisement |
148 |
To Bathe, or not to Bathe? |
148 |
To Bee, or not to Bee? (Spelling Bee) |
148 |
To Be, or not to Be? (Gladstone’s Soliloquy) Prize Parody by Jessie H. Wheeler |
149 |
To Box, or not to Box? |
149 |
Burgh, or No-Burgh? From the Ardrossan Herald |
146 |
Canal, or no Canal? By F. B. Cottier (on the Suez Canal) |
150 |
To Cheat, or not to Cheat? By an Attorney |
150 |
Clôture or no Clôture? Punch, 1882 |
151 |
To Come, or not to Come? For a Bashful Reciter, by Henry J. Finn |
151 |
Compromise, or no Compromise? 1884 |
151 |
To Dance, or not to Dance? Judy, 1871 |
151 |
To Drink, or not to Drink? American Paper |
152 |
Ditto ditto Punch, 1841 |
152 |
Ditto ditto From Hamlet Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1849 |
152 |
To Dun, or not to Dun? The Mirror, 1823 |
152
vi |
To Dye, or not to Dye? The Tomahawk, 1869 |
153 |
To Dig, or not to Dig? J. M. Dron (Another proposed Suez Canal) |
150 |
Etre, ou ne pas être! A French version |
162 |
A Flea, or not a Flea? by James Robinson |
153 |
To Fight, or not to Fight? 1823 |
202 |
To Go, or not to Go? Ophelia’s Version. |
153 |
To Have it out, or not? A Dental Soliloquy |
153 |
To Hiss, or not to Hiss? The Puppet Show |
154 |
To Hunt, or not to Hunt? The Mirror, 1823 |
154 |
To Pay, or not to Pay? The Debtor’s Soliloquy, by F. J. Overton, 1881 |
154 |
To Pay, or not to Pay? (on the Suez Canal). by Leonard Harding |
150 |
To be, or not to be Polite? Gossip, 1885 |
155 |
To Print, or not to Print? Rev. R. Jago |
155 |
To Yield, or not to Yield? (To the Tories) |
149 |
To Rat, or not to Rat? Once a Week, 1868 |
155 |
To Smoke, or not to Smoke? |
244 |
To Sleep, or not to Sleep? O. P. Q. P. Smiff |
162 |
To Shave, or not to Shave? Diogenes, 1854 |
155 |
Ditto ditto by T. F. Dillon-Croker |
156 |
To Starve, or not to Starve? W. H. Ireland |
156 |
To Sniggle, or to Dibble? by F. C. Burnand |
202 |
To Stick to Hoy, or not? The Argus, 1831 |
157 |
To Stitch, or not to Stitch? The Mirror |
157 |
To Strike, or not to Strike? by a Cabman, 1867, |
157 |
To Stand, or not to Stand, 1808 |
161 |
Trousers, or no Trousers? (The Bloomer Question) The Month, 1851 |
158 |
Tubby, or not Tubby? by F. C. Burnand |
161 |
To Urn, or not to Urn? by William Sawyer |
161 |
To Vaccinate, or not? 1881 |
158 |
To Wash, or not to Wash? by J. P. Roberdeau, 1803 |
158 |
To Write, or not to Write? The New Lady’s Magazine, 1786 |
160 |
On the Marriage Question. |
To Wed, or not to Wed? The New Lady’s Magazine, 1786 |
158 |
To Woo, or not to Woo? Posthumous Parodies, 1814 |
159 |
To Wed, or not to Wed? by W. A. Clouston |
159 |
Marry, or not to Marry? Political Note Book, 1824 |
159 |
To Wed, or not to Wed? Echoes from the Clubs, 1868 |
159 |
Ditto ditto, Anonymous |
161 |
To Be, or not to Be (married)? by W. H. Edmunds |
160 |
To Pop, or not to Pop the fatal question? |
160 |
When a man becomes tired of his life (Song founded
on the Soliloquy) |
162 |
The Soliloquy in Hebrew, 1880 |
202 |
Hamlet in Prose, 1848 |
202 |
The Ghost Scene parodied |
203 |
Hamlet Travestie, by John Poole, 1810 |
161 |
Hamlet, or, not such a fool as he looks, by the Author of “The Light Green” 1882 |
160 |
Very Little Hamlet, by W. Yardley, at the Gaiety Theatre, 1884 |
164 |
Hamlet Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1849 |
164 |
Three Children sliding on the Ice |
162 |
Furnivallos Furioso and the Newest Shakespeare Society, 1876 |
163 |
The advice of Polonius to Laertes, a Parody of, by H. J. Byron |
164 |
Hamlet’s instructions to the Players, Parody of, by W. S. Gilbert, in The Pretty Druidess, 1869 |
165 |
See what an incubus sits on our City, 1882 |
165 |
Look here upon this picture, and on this |
165 |
A Parody Cigarette Advertisement |
165 |
Parody of the scene between Polonius and Ophelia, by F. Talfourd |
165 |
The Barrow Diggers, an Antiquarian conversation in imitation of the Grave Diggers Scene, 1839 |
167 |
An Irish Play bill, 1793 |
169 |
Ben Dizzy patch’d and mended for to-day, Fiz, 1879 |
169 |
Hamlet from a new point of view |
164 |
|
OTHELLO— |
Othello’s Speech to the Senate |
184 |
The Strolling Player’s Apology |
184 |
Kenealy’s Speech to the Senate, 1875 |
184 |
“Good name, in Man and Woman” |
185 |
A Parody in the Ingoldsby Legends |
185 |
Farewell, the tranquil mind! |
185 |
A Parody, by George Colman |
185 |
The Undertaker’s Farewell, 1849 |
185 |
Farewell the quiet chop! (at Evans’s) 1879 |
185 |
Shakespeare’s Farewell |
185 |
Address by J. P. Kemble. (O.P. Riots, 1810) |
186 |
William IV. and Reform, 1832, Parody of a scene from Othello |
186 |
Punch and Lord John Russell, 1848 |
187 |
Henry Irving as Othello |
187 |
Othello Travestie, an Operatic Burlesque Burletta,
by Maurice G. Dowling, produced at Liverpool
in 1834, and at the Strand Theatre |
188 |
|
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA— |
An Extravaganza, founded on Antony and Cleopatra,
by F. C. Burnand, produced at the Haymarket
Theatre, 1866 |
201 |
|
CYMBELINE— |
Fear no more the heat o’ the Sun |
193 |
Fear no more the voice of the don, 1872 |
194 |
“Our Parodies are ended” |
204 |
——:o:—— |
King Queer, and his Daughters Three, at the Strand Theatre, 1855 |
205 |
A Coriolanus Travestie, by J. Morgan, produced in Liverpool, 1846 |
205 |
——:o:—— |
Miss Ann Taylor. |
My Mother |
106 |
A History of the poem “My Mother” |
106 |
My Mary, by William Cowper |
107 |
My Mother, by an Outcast |
107 |
” ” by F. Talfourd |
167 |
My Mother-in-Law |
108 |
Mothers. The Humourist |
143 |
My Baedeker, from Tracts in Norway |
143 |
My Banker. Punch 1855 |
111 |
” ” Judy 1879 |
142 |
My Barrett (Mr. Wilson Barrett), 1884 |
111 |
My Bismarck. Judy 1867 |
112 |
My Broker. Punch 1875 |
111 |
My Brother |
142
vii |
” ” The Boys Own Paper, 1884 |
109 |
My Father |
134 |
My Mother |
134 |
My Brother |
134 |
My Sister |
135 |
My Boot-Hooks. The Man in the Moon |
113 |
My Bicycle. J. G. Dalton |
113 |
My Bishop. Thomas Moore |
123 |
My Chignon. Girl of the Period |
113 |
My Client. Punch, 1875 |
111 112 |
My Dentist. R. E. Egerton-Warburton |
113 |
My Father. Truth, 1877 |
127 |
My Godwin. J. and H. Smith |
121 |
My Hairs. Thomas Hood |
114 |
My Hookah |
114 |
My Jenny (on Jenny Lind) |
114 |
My Landlady. Figaro Album |
115 |
My Lodger. Judy, 1869 |
115 |
My Little-go. College Rhymes, 1865 |
115 |
My Member. Punch, 1852 |
116 |
My Murray. Punch, 1857 |
116 |
My Miguel. Thomas Moore |
122 |
My Nose. John Jones |
116 |
My Punch |
117 |
My Relations. Funny Folks, 1879 |
108 |
My Stockings |
117 |
My Tutor. Paulopostprandials, 1883 |
143 |
My Tailor, by a Man of Fashion |
117 |
My Ticker. Punch, 1842 |
118 |
My Uncle (ascribed to Louis Napoleon) |
118 |
My Uncle. Punch, 1845 |
118 |
My Uncle. John Taylor |
118 |
My Uncle. Punch, 1871 |
119 |
My Valentine. Judy, 1880 |
119 |
My Whalley. The Tomahawk, 1867 |
119 |
My Whiskers. The Belle Assemblée, 1833 |
120 |
My Yot. Punch, 1880 |
120 |
A Lay of Real Life |
109 |
Audi Alteram Partem |
110 |
Harry’s Complaint |
110 |
A Sister’s Complaint |
110 |
“Another,” by J. W. G. W. |
135 |
Avitor, by Bret Harte |
132 |
“Baby” at the Strand Theatre, Fun, 1879 |
128 |
Blucher, Cambridge Odes |
123 |
Cattle Show Queries |
132 |
Free Trade v. Protection, Punch, 1849 |
124 |
Her Mother, Finis |
109 |
Her Mother, Funny Folks |
132 |
King Clicquot, Punch, 1855 |
125 |
Lines by a Girl of the Future, 1869 |
126 |
L. S. D. (Money), Figaro, 1874 |
127 |
Nobody |
132 |
Nursy-Pursy, The Tomahawk, 1869 |
108 |
Our Bishops, Jon Duan, 1874 |
127 |
Our Sunday down East, Punch, 1880 |
129 |
Our Marquis, Truth, 1884 |
130 |
The Turncock, Punch, 1843 |
124 |
The Ramoneur, Punch, 1843 |
124 |
The Baker. Punch, 1853 |
124 |
The Poet, C. Rae Brown, 1855 |
125 |
The Baby Show, Cuthbert Bede, 1856 |
126 108 |
The Russians, Benjamin D——, 1876 |
127 |
The “Doctor,” Funny Folks, 1877 |
128 |
The Weather, Truth, 1879 |
128 |
The Weather, Punch, 1881 |
129 |
The Egyptian Baby (Tewfik) |
130 |
The Fog, Judy, 1882 |
130 |
The Mahdi, The Referee, 1884 |
130 |
The Lords. H. E. Harker |
131 |
The “Comp.” |
131 |
The Newspaper, 1823 |
122 |
The Proctor, The Gownsman, 1831 |
123 |
The Slug, Judy, 1873 |
141 |
The Fog, Judy, 1876 |
141 |
The Nervous, The Argosy, 1866 |
142 |
The Bible |
133 |
The Orange |
133 |
The People’s William, Ipswich Journal, 1885 |
131 |
Tight Lacing, Truth, 1879 |
128 |
Your Friend, Countess of Blessington |
120 |
Another Friend (a Stick) |
121 |
Woman, L. O. Shaw 1815 |
121 |
Velluti, 1828 |
122 |
Valentine (the Curate) |
142 |
What the Seasons bring |
130 |
Who? Ah, who? The Figaro, 1874 |
110 |
Who’s who in 1851. Punch, 1851 |
112 |
——:o:—— |
Alfred, Lord Tennyson. |
Mariana— |
Mariana on the Second Floor, 1851 |
260 |
Mary Anne; or the Law of Divorce, 1858 |
260 |
The Owl’d Yarn, by R. F. Hind |
261 |
Oriana— |
Yule Tide (Oh, my Gracious!) |
261 |
The Ballad of Hoary Anna |
261 |
Idadæca, from Kottabos, 1881 |
262 |
Randy-Pandy, by George Cotterell, 1885 |
203 |
Lady Clara Vere de Vere— |
Miss Matilda Johnson Jones, by Gilbert Abbot à Beckett, 1845 |
263 |
The Merman— |
The Mer(ry)man, by George Cotterell |
264 |
The May Queen— |
“You must save me from the Jingoes,” by J. Arthur Elliott |
139 |
Hodge’s Emancipation, by John H. Gibson |
140 |
Outside the Lyceum, April, 1885 |
140 |
The Lord Mayor |
264 |
The May Queen with a cold |
264 |
Russia to England |
265 |
At the Play |
265 |
The Lotus Eaters— |
The Onion Eaters |
140 |
A Dream of Fair Women— |
A Vision of Great Men |
265 |
A Dream of Fair Drinking |
265 |
A Dream of Unfair Trade |
265 |
Ulysses— |
The Czar of Russia |
265 |
Locksley Hall— |
Lay of Boxing Night, 1847 |
266 |
Lincoln’s Inn, by Albert Smith, 1851 |
266 |
St. Stephen’s Revisited, by G. Cotterell |
267 |
The Grinder, March, 1885 |
267 |
Digwell’s Lament, 1865 |
267 |
Godiva— |
Whittington, 1858 |
268 |
The Eagle, and a Parody |
268 |
Break, Break, Break—
viii |
“Block, block, block,” by G. Cotterell |
263 |
“Sleep, sleep, sleep,” by F. Field |
209 |
The Lost Joke |
269 |
“Talk, talk, talk!” (to Mr. Parnell) |
269 |
“Wake, wake, wake!” by R. H. W. Yeabsley |
269 |
“Thirst, thirst, thirst!” |
269 |
“Broke, broke, broke!” |
269 |
Who breaks pays |
269 |
Gladstone hath us in his net |
270 |
The Brook— |
The Song of the Flirt |
270 |
The Mont Cenis Train, 1868 |
270 |
The Corn, by Jayhay, 1878 |
271 |
The River, a Steamboat version |
271 |
The Song of the Steam Launch |
272 |
The Sherbrooke. A Lowe Ballad |
272 |
A Lay of Lawn Tennis |
272 |
Home they brought her Warrior dead— |
Home they brought her “Worrier” dead |
273 |
“Let me lie here,” by John Cotton |
273 |
Give me no more |
140 |
“The Slander falls in different halls” |
273 |
Tears, Idle Tears— |
Tears, maudlin Tears |
141 |
The Charge of the Light Brigade— |
The Light (Blue) Brigade—The University Boat Race |
273 |
The Gas Stoker’s Strike, by J. Verey, 1873 |
274 |
Clapham Junction, by J. Verey |
274 |
The Charge of the “Light” Brigade, by C. T. Druery |
274 |
The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Kassassin |
275 |
The Charge of the Fire Brigade |
275 |
A Welcome to Alexandra— |
Stradella, by Rose Grey, 1863 |
275 |
A Welcome to Battenberg, Funny Folks |
136 |
In Tennysoniam, by Albert Smith, 1851 |
276 |
A Parody of Tennyson’s Prefatory Sonnet for “The Nineteenth Century” |
276 |
Wages, Judy |
140 |
Idylls of the King— |
A Parody of the Dedication (on John Brown) |
276 |
A little rift within the lute |
277 |
“Too soon, too soon” |
277 |
“Little Miss Muffet” as an Arthurian Idyll |
277 |
Despair, 1881— |
Never say die |
278 |
Hands all round, by John Phelan |
278 |
The Fleet (April, 1885), The Times |
137 |
The Bard (on his reported imbecility) |
137 138 |
A Laurel. J. Fox Turner |
137 |
“We, we.” E. S. Watson |
137 |
Tennyson (on his reported lunacy) |
137 |
Tennyson Tackled. Punch |
137 |
Our Fleet. Moonshine |
138 |
Parody Competition Poems on The Fleet.— |
Prize Parody, by Mrs. Emily Lawrence |
138 |
A Conservative (on his leader’s reported inefficiency). Henry L. Brickell |
138 |
The Government. John Carter |
139 |
The Laureate. Exe |
135 |
The Corporation. Thomas H. Knight |
139 |
To the Jingo. George Mallinson |
139 |
To the Jingo. Edward Scott |
139 |
Gladstone’s Rebuke. Jesse H. Wheeler |
139 |
The Unfitness of the Meat, by F. B. Doveton |
279 |
Lines to Princess Beatrice on her Marriage |
279 |
Two Suns of Love make day of human life |
279 |
Two Moons for thee of honey and of strife |
279 |
Two sums of cash will fill a German purse |
279 |
Two tones of love make woe of married life |
279 |
Two things, no doubt, make day of married life |
280 |
Two tricks of trade make bearable my life |
280 |
Two sorts of grants make rich the royal train |
280 |
Two bridal loves make laugh of “You, you’s” song |
280 |
Tennyson on General Gordon |
141 |
——:o:—— |
Isaac Watts, D.D. |
How doth the little busy Bee |
206 |
How doth the little busy Flea |
206 208 |
How doth the ever busy Wasp |
207 |
How doth the busy Russian Bee, 1875 |
207 |
How doth the dizzy Disraeli, 1858 |
207 |
How doth the lively Spelling Bee, 1876 |
207 |
How doth the little busy Wheeze |
207 |
How doth the busy Parliament, 1876 |
208 |
How doth the little Crocodile |
208 |
How doth the little Mosquito |
208 |
How doth the honest Land League man, 1881 |
208 |
How doth the little coal-hole top |
208 |
How doth the very Bizzy Bee (Bismarck) |
209 |
How doth the gorging, greedy Bee |
209 |
How doth the wobbling, wily wops |
209 |
Buggins’s Variations of the Busy Bee |
209 |
A Prose Version |
207 |
Let Dogs delight to bark and bite |
210 |
Let Canine Animals, 1847 |
210 |
Let Austria delight to bark and bite, 1854 |
210 |
Let peaceful Bright in speech delight, 1854 |
210 |
Let Lords delight to bark and bite, 1869 |
210 |
Let Rads delight to bark and bite |
211 |
Let Bigots write with sneers of spite |
211 |
Let Fools and Bullies brawl and fight |
211 |
Let Cads delight with fists to fight |
212 |
Let Frenchmen fight with kick and bite |
215 |
Whigs in their cosy berths agree, 1849 |
210 |
Birds in their little nests agree |
211 |
Oh, Marcus! You should never let |
211 |
On a Fracas at Newmarket, 1883 |
211 |
To a Policeman |
212 |
When Bishops, who in wealth abound |
216 |
’Tis the voice of the Sluggard |
212 |
’Tis the moan of old Louis (of France), 1823 |
212 |
’Tis the voice of the lobster |
212 |
’Tis the voice of the Czar, 1879 |
213 |
’Tis the voice of the Rinker |
213 |
’Tis the voice of Britannia |
213 |
’Tis the voice of the glutton |
213 |
’Tis the voice of the oyster |
213 |
’Twas the voice of the “Special” |
213 |
A Parody from Funny Folks |
212 |
The Wise one and the Foolish |
213 |
Whene’er I take my walks abroad |
214 |
Do. do. in London Streets |
214 |
The Irish Landlord’s Song |
214 |
I cannot take my walks abroad |
214 |
Another Version, by Shirley Brooks |
215 |
Whene’er abroad we take our walks (in Covent Garden) |
215 |
Abroad in the Boroughs |
215 |
How sweet a thing it is to dwell |
216 |
Why should I relieve my neighbour |
216 |
A Paraphrase on Dr. Watts’ Distich on the Study of Languages, 1792 |
216 |
1
Bret Harte.
Dickens in Camp.
Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
To hear the tale anew;
And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of “Little Nell.”
Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—for the reader
Was youngest of them all,—
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall;
The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows,
Wandered and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes—o’ertaken
As by some spell divine—
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire:
And he who wrought that spell?—
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths intwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,—
This spray of Western pine!
Bret Harte.
July, 1870.
Parodies in Print.
Among the books the gloom was darkly drifting,
The writer’s spirits low;
The duller serials, and the weeklies, lifting
But melodies of woe.
The older authors, with rude humour, painted
The glowing fun of health
Now lost in dreary prose, jokes died or fainted
In sterner race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from the past’s great treasure
Of hundred volumes drew,
A scheme to tap the hoard untold of pleasure
And bid it flow anew;
And so the parodies unearthed grew vaster,
Than ever one could tell,
All mimicking some mighty poet Master,
In many a sprightly “Sell.”
Perhaps ’tis too fond fancy,—that the reader
Should leave the weeklies all,
Let Punch go prosing, scorn the D. T. leader,
And let Police News pall;
While ’mid these gambols of poetic shadows,
Listening to bygone play,
As each mad parody evokes the glad “Ohs!”
(As Browning p’raps would say).
See Tennyson, in mighty verse—o’ertaken,
Mimicked in tripping line—
When jokes from Longfellow, so grave, are shaken
Like gush in penny-a-line.
To find in rush of their poetic fire,
A comic theme told well,
While stately verse, and song, and culture higher,
Are used some joke to tell.
Lost be that scamp, who would no funny story
Tell in the rhyme that thrills
Like farthing rushlight posing as the glory
Of sun o’er ancient hills.
If, in the crowd of puppets, some poor dolly
Should ape a bard sublime,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly—
To jest is not a crime.
J. W. G. W.
November, 1884.
That Hebrew Ben D——
House of Lords, January, 1878.
Which I wish to remark—
And my language is plain—
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The Hebrew Ben D—— is peculiar,
Which the same I would like to explain.
I have mentioned his name,
And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same
He is wary and sly;
And his smile it is mocking and ice-like
And there isn’t no green in his eye.
Now, some rumours had spread,
Which Ben D—— could not burke,
And every one said
He’d been at his old work.
(It was strange, you must know, how he doated
Upon the “Unspeakable Turk.”)
It was Gran-Vil who rose,
And quite soft was his style;
But you must not suppose
That he hasn’t no guile;
Yet D—— played it that day upon Gran Vil
In a way that made most of them smile.
Which some questions he’d brought,
And Ben rose—as ’twas planned—
To reply. What was sought
But he smiled, as he stood at the table,
With a smile that was artfully bland.
How he trifled with sense,
You would scarcely believe;
And with cunning intense,
Fancy statements did weave:
Whilst he kept back his facts by the dozen,
And the same, with intent to deceive.
Yes, the tricks that were play’d
By that Hebrew, Ben D——,
And the points that he made
Were quite shocking to me;
Till at last he sat down amid laughter,
And chuckling himself, I could see.
Then up sprang Ar-Gyle,
With his hair flowing free,
And he gave a wild snort,
And said, “Shall this be?
We are humbugged by Asian myst’ries,
And he went for that Hebrew, Ben D——.
Which the war-dance he had
Was exciting to watch,
Though I feared, lest too mad,
His job he might botch,
For he whooped, and he raved, and he ranted;—
You see he’s so pepp’ry and Scotch.
Still, the scene that ensued
Was uncommonly grand,
For the floor it was strewed,
Like the leaves on the strand,
With the facts that Ben D—— had been hiding,
The facts “He did well understand.”
For his head, which is long,
Contained facts by the score;
Which, with effort so strong,
Ar-Gyle out of it tore;
Till Ben D——, if he has any feelings,
Must have, morally, felt very sore.
Which expressions is strong,
Yet but feebly imply
What I think of the wrong—
Not to call it a lie—
As was worked off by Benjy on Gran-Vil,
Which he can’t go for it to deny.
Which is why I remark—
And my language is plain—
That for ways that are dark,
And tricks that are vain,
The Hebrew Ben D—— is peculiar,
Which the same I am bold to maintain.
Truth, January 31, 1878.
The Aged Stranger.
(An Incident of the War).
“I was with Grant—” the stranger said,
Said the farmer, “Say no more,
But rest thee here at my cottage porch,
For thy feet are weary and sore.”
“I was with Grant—” the stranger said;
Said the farmer, “Nay, no more,—
I prithee sit at my frugal board.
And eat of my humble store.
“How fares my boy,—my soldier boy,
Of the Old Ninth Army Corps?
I warrant he bore him gallantly
In the smoke and the battle’s roar!”
“I know him not,” said the aged man,
“And, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant—” “Nay, nay, I know,”
Said the farmer, “Say no more;
“He fell in battle,—I see alas!
Thou’dst smooth these tidings o’er,—
Nay: speak the truth, whatever it be,
Though it rend my bosom’s core.
“How fell he,—with his face to the foe,
Upholding the flag he bore?
O, say not that my boy disgraced
The uniform that he wore!”
“I cannot tell,” said the aged man,
“And should have remarked, before,
That I was with Grant,—in Illinois,—
Some three years before the war.”
Then the farmer spake him never a word,
But beat with his fist full sore
That aged man, who had worked for Grant
Some three years before the war.
Bret Harte.
The following parody appeared in Jon Duan,
one of Beeton’s Christmas Annuals. The original
poem refers to General Ulysses S. Grant, President
of the United States; the parody is in
allusion to Mr. Albert Grant, M.P., who presented
Leicester Square to the public in July,
1874, and whose name was then prominently
before the public in connection with numerous
financial schemes:—
“I was with Grant.”
“I was with Grant——” the stranger said;
Said McDougal, “Say no more,
But come you in—I have much to ask—
And please to shut the door.”
“I was with Grant——” the stranger said;
Said McDougal, “Nay, no more,—
You have seen him sit at the Emma Board?
Come, draw on your mem’ry’s store.
“What said my Albert—my Baron brave,
Of the great financing corps?
I warrant he bore him scurvily
’Midst the interruption’s roar!”
“No doubt he did,” said the stranger then;
“But, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant——” “Nay, nay, I know,”
Said McDougal; “but tell me more.”
“He’s presented another square!—I see,
You’d smooth the tidings o’er—
Or started, perchance, more Water-works
On the Mediterranean shore?
“Or made the Credit Foncier pay,
Or floated a mine with ore?
Oh, tell me not he is pass’d away
From his home in Kensington Gore!”
3
“I cannot tell,” said the unknown man,
“And should have remarked before,
That I was with Grant—Ulysses, I mean—
In the great American war.”
Then McDougal spake him never a word,
But beat, with his fist, full sore
The stranger who’d been with Ulysses Grant,
In the great American war.
Jon Duan, 1874.
Plain Language from Truthful Robert.
(With Apologies to Bret Harte’s “Truthful James.”)
Do I sleep? Do I dream?
(I’m sarcastic, no doubt.)
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle
and truncheon played out?
Which expressions is strong;
Yet I beg to declare
That the constable throng
Have a grievance to air
While they’re forced to meet murderous cracksmen
upon terms which are far, far from fair.
Charley Peaces abound
In the subbubs to-day;
And they’re apt, when they’re found,
To go blazing away
At a constable all unpertected, which the same
has the worst of the fray.
Can you tap a cove’s head
If you’re progress is checked
By the neat bit o’ lead
That a Colt does eject?
And when bullets is lodged in your stummick, can you
tootle with proper effect?
That you can’t, I submit,
And the truth must be faced
That the Force will get hit,
And the town be disgraced,
Till each Bobby with Billy—that’s Sikes, sir—on a
more equal footing is placed.
Are these shootings a dream?
(I’m sarcastic, no doubt.)
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle
and truncheon played out?
Funny Folks, August 2, 1884.
Scribners’ Monthly for May, 1881, contained a
humorous collection of imitations of various
authors, entitled “Home, Sweet Home, with
Variations.” It commences by giving a couple
of verses from the original poem by John
Howard Payne; next comes a variation such
as might have been written by Algernon Charles
Swinburne. Walt Whitman, Austin Dobson,
Oliver Goldsmith, and Alexander Pope are also
supposed each to contribute a new setting of
the old song, the imitation of Walt Whitman is
exquisitely humorous; but that which principally
concerns us here is the third imitation,
which is entitled:—
Home, Sweet Home
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—
Ben a-saltin’ my specie-stacks down.
Ben a-knockin’ around,
Fer a man from San Juan,
Putty considable 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 aint no kinder gin-palace,
Nor no variety-show lays over a man’s own ranche.
Maybe it hain’t no style, but the Queen in the Tower o’ London
Aint 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’
Fer 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 bed 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.
To “Auld Willie.”
(After Bret Harte’s “The Return of Belisarius.”)
So again you’ve been at it, old fellow,
The old game of four years ago;
You’ve given the Tories a drubbing;
You’ve had, so it seems, quite a go.
By Jove! and you were down upon them,
Denouncing, and all that, you know;
But what about Egypt, old fellow,
And those vows of yours four years ago?
Ah! it’s far, far from jolly, old fellow,
To think it is four years ago,
And scarcely a measure effected,
Attempted, and all that, you know!
4
You denounce Lords and Tories with vigour;
But for all your palaver, I trow,
Matters are about much of a muchness
To-day, they were four years ago!
Avonicus.
The Weekly Dispatch, September 14, 1884.
(Parody Competition).
Bret Harte’s prose writings have been frequently
parodied, and several examples will be
given when the subject of prose parodies is
reached. One of the best of these occurs on
page 156 of The Shotover Papers for November,
1874; it is entitled “His Finger.”
Thomas Hood.
(Continued from Part 12 )
The Night “Comp.”
With fingers weary and worn,
Eyelids heavy and red,
A “comp.” stood at his frame all night,
Picking up “stamps” for bread.
Full-point, comma, and rule,
Colon, and quad, and space,
“Setting” a line, “pie-ing” a line,
Dozing awhile at his “case.”
“Leader,” and “latest,” and “ads.”
“Nonp.” and “brevier” and all that;
Matter all solid, never a “break;”
Oh! for a trifle of “fat!”
Moon peeping in through the pane;
Gas, with its dull yellow glare;
Nought to be heard, save the solemn “click, click,”
And the Editor’s foot on the stair.
One o’clock! two o’clock chimed!
“Proofs,” coming up again, “read;”
Three o’clock! four o’clock! daylight is here;
Trudge away homeward to bed.
Anonymous.
The Song of the Dirt.
(Covent Garden Market, August, 1884)
With boots all dirty and worn,
And trousers heavy with mud,
A Londoner trudged on a market day
With a footfall’s dreary thud—
Splash, splash, splash!
While cabbage-leaves spatter and spirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
He sang “The Song of the Dirt.”
Splash, splash, splash!
From morn to even-time,
Splash, splash, splash!
Through garbage, filth and grime.
Stenches strong in the street,
Streets with stenches strong,
As over the flags I gingerly creep,
I wonder to whom they belong.
Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the man far away in the rear,
But I’m forced to hold my nose,
For I must with such odours near.
Oh! but for one short hour
An appetite good to feel!
I formerly used my dinner to want,
But a walk now costs a meal.
With boots all dirty and worn,
And trousers heavy with mud,
A Londoner trudged on a market-day
With a footfall’s dreary thud.
Splash, splash, splash!
While garbage may spatter and spirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch—
Would that its cry could reach the rich—
He sang “The Song of the Dirt.”
Punch, August 23, 1884.
I Remember, I Remember.
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was wed,
And the little room from which that night
My smiling bride was led;
She didn’t come a wink too soon,
Nor make too long a stay;
But now I often wish her folks
Had kept the girl away!
I remember, I remember,
Her dresses, red and white,
Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,—
They cost an awful sight!
The “corner lot” on which I built,
And where my brother met
At first my wife, one washing-day,—
That man is single yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to court,
And thought that all of married life
Was just such pleasant sport:—
My spirit flew in feathers then,
5
No care was on my brow;
I scarce could wait to shut the gate,—
I’m not so anxious now!
I remember, I remember,
My dear one’s smile and sigh;
I used to think her tender heart
Was close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now it soothes me not
To know I’m farther off from Heaven
Than when she wasn’t got!
Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey,
Boston, United States, 1854.
The first number of Truth, which appeared
January 4, 1877, contained a long parody, signed
by Thomas Hood. This, of course, was Tom
Hood, the Editor of Fun, and son of the author
of the original “I Remember.”
I remember, I remember,
The house—’twas Clunn’s Hotel,
The friends who knocked me up at eight,
I recollect as well;
They never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
For liquor flowed from when they came
Till when they went away.
I remember, remember,
The “brandies”—large and small—
The Chablis and the Veuve Clicquot,
The sodas split by all;
The caraffe at my bedside set,
With cognac well filled up—
And what a time it took to mix
The primal champagne cup.
(Here five verses are omitted).
I remember, I remember,—
Last and fresh this memory comes,—
They brought hot pickle sandwiches,
Which filled my bed with crumbs;
It was a heated taste I own;
But brandy’s apt to cloy,
Unless you pick your palate up
With devilled eggs and soy.
Thomas Hood.
What it May Come to.
I remember, I remember,
The House where I was bred;
The Woolsack, whence the Chancellor
That annual Message read.
He never came till after four,
And rarely stayed till five;
For, if their dinners were delayed,
Could Senators survive?
I remember, I remember,
The Marquises and Earls,
The peerless rows of Peeresses,
Those flowers decked in pearls.
The cross-bench, where the Princes sat;
And where the Prelates shone
In piety and lawn arrayed—
The Bishops now are gone!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to spout,
And thought the papers must be mad
To leave my speeches out.
My eloquence was practised then,
That now is left to rust;
And Statesmen oft, I’m sure, have winced
Before my boyish thrust!
I remember, I remember,
The Commons trooping in;
I used to think that in a fight
The Peers must always win.
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m kicked out of the House
I sat in when a boy!
Punch, September 6, 1884.
An imitation of Hood’s Dream of Eugene Aram
was published in Truth, February 22, 1877.
Its twenty-six verses were descriptive of the
sorrows of a poor orphan girl on leaving the
Wanstead Home to go into service:—
’Tis in the prime of summer-time,
A sunny morn in May,
And scores of merry maidens cease
A moment from their play;
For from their Happy Wanstead Home,
A girl is going that day.
* * * * *
A still more melancholy poem, in imitation of
the same original, appeared in Truth, July 19,
1877. This was entitled The Blue-coat Boy’s
Ghost, and described, in twenty-seven verses,
the horrible manner in which a poor lad, named
Arthur Gibbes, had been killed in Christ’s
Hospital. A public investigation was held,
and the result showed that a brutal system of
fagging was in full force in the school, and that
scarcely any supervision was exercised over the
elder boys.
“Meeting in the Boudoir; or, a Song of the
Follies of Fashion,” which appeared in Truth,
June 24, 1880, was a long parody of Hood’s Song
of the Shirt, in fourteen verses.
“The Lost Child, or Russell’s lament on the
loss of his Reform Bill,” a long, political parody
of Hood’s Lost Child, appeared in Punch,
February 16, 1867.
6
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
(Continued from Part 12)
n page 101, Part VII., of Parodies
there is a poem called The Settler’s
version of Excelsior. It was taken
from a MS. copy, lent by a friend.
The following is probably more correct. It is
an American attempt to translate Excelsior into
plain English:—
Higher.
The shadows of night were a-commin’ down swift,
And the dazzlin’ snow lay drift on drift,
As thro’ a village a youth did go,
A carryin’ a flag with this motto,—
Higher!
O’er a forehead high curled copious hair,
His nose a Roman, complexion fair,
O’er an eagle eye an auburn lash,
And he never stopped shoutin’ thro’ his moustache,
Higher!
He saw thro’ the windows as he kept gettin’ upper
A number of families sittin’ at supper,
But he eyed the slippery rocks very keen,
And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein’—
Higher!
“Take care, you there!” said an old woman; “stop!
It’s blowin’ gales up there on top—
You’ll tumble off on t’other side!”
But the hurryin’ stranger loud replied,
Higher!
“Oh! don’t you go up such a shocking night.
Come sleep on my lap,” said a maiden bright.
On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,
But still he remarked, as he upward clomb,
Higher!
“Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!
Dodge rollin’ stones, if any you see!”
Sayin’ which the farmer went home to bed,
And the singular voice replied overhead,
Higher!
About quarter-past six the next afternoon,
A man accidentally goin’ up soon
Heard spoken above him as often as twice,
The very same word in a very weak voice,
Higher!
And not far, I believe, from quarter off seven—
He was slow gettin’ up, the road bein’ uneven—
Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow,
Still clutchin’ the flag with the motto—
Higher!
Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt,
The lamp of his life being decidedly out,
On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin’!
And there was no more use for him to be sayin’
Higher!
Diogenes!
The carriages were filling fast,
When o’er a railway platform pass’d
A youth who bore, with tread precise,
A paper with this bold device,
Diogenes!
His arm a parcel held beneath;
He drew a number from its sheath,
And shouted, with well-practised lung,
Accents that through the station rung,
Diogenes!
In happy hours he saw the light,—
The Cynic’s lantern glowing bright;
Resolved to make its lustre known,
His lips soon gave the welcome tone,
Diogenes!
“One hither pass,” an old man said,
(Life’s tempests snow’d his aged head;)
He oped his mouth with laughter wide,
While still the clamorous vendor cried,
Diogenes!
“Oh stay!” a maiden cried; the rest
Around her were as much impress’d;
Each looking forth with eager eye,
Urging the vendor to supply!
Diogenes!
Beware! the train moves from the branch;
The sheets fly like an avalanche!
The boy’s blue eyes with pleasure shine,
While voices shout far up the line,
Diogenes!
Far on the way, with breaks down hard,
Two trains each other rush toward;
And midst the wreck so fearful there,
Voices are heard still loud and clear,
Diogenes!
A traveller on a rugged mound
Was in a hundred pieces found;
His hand still grasping like a vice
That paper with its bold device,
Diogenes!
There, as he cold and lifeless lay,
Smiles seem’d around his lips to play!
Still in the air his accents are,
And echo through each passing car,
Diogenes!
From Diogenes, February 4, 1854.
Diogenes was a comic paper, somewhat
resembling Punch in its general features. It
contained many good parodies, principally in
reference to the Crimean War.
A pesky night was coming down,
As a young man pass’d through a rustic town;
And in his hand he clutch’d a flag,
And this is what was on the rag—
Upards!
As he pass’d by three windows he chanced to see
7
Three several families taking tea;
He smelt the cakes, but never swerved,
But as he drop’t a tear, observed—
Upards!
A nice girl holler’d “Stay, oh stay!
And I will marry you right away;”
While tears all down his cheeks did flow,
“Its no use, young woman, I’m bound to go—
Upards!"
Said a cute old cove, “Young man, take care,
There’s a rotten old pine-tree fix’d up there;
Sure as eggs is eggs it will fall on your head,”
The young man only wink’d and said—
Upards!
Next morning at the break of day,
A Shaker chanced to pass that way,
And thought he heard the voice of a coon,
A-singing to a service toon—
Upards!
His dog then sniff’d and smelt about,
And soon discover’d what, without doubt,
Was the young man’s body all cover’d with snow,
What carried the flag with the rum motto—
Upards!
All cover’d in snow the young man lay,
In a sort of uncomfortable kind of way;
And though as dead as any nail,
A voice was heard borne on the gale—
Upards!
A. Z.
The Tonbridgian, April 1873.
M. Duruof.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As from the table d’hôte there pass’d
A pair who cried that they would rise,
Obedient to the people’s cries,
Excelsior!
Their hearts were brave—with reckless breath,
They swore they both could face the Death!
And, answering to the mob’s fell clang,
Foolhardy were the boasts that rang,
Excelsior!
In Calais’ streets they saw the light
Of homes and gas-lamps gleaming bright,
Yet from their lips escaped no groan,
As onward flew the mad balloon,
Excelsior!
“Try not the air,” their friends had said,
“Dark storms are raging overhead;
The seas are tossing far beneath,
And you will meet with certain death,
Excelsior!”
“Come, let us go!” his wife had cried;
“We will not stay, for all beside
Will chaff us, if we do, and jeer;”
He answer’d, “You are right, my dear,
Excelsior!”
“Beware the Tempest’s awful blast!
’Twill sweep you out to sea at last!”
This was the Frenchman’s last good-night.
Cried some one, now far out of sight,
“Excelsior!”
Next morn some sailors out at sea
With nets were toiling wearily;
When loud resounded through the air
A cry that made them wondering stare,
Excelsior!
Two travellers at the dismal sound,
Half-buried in the waves were found,
Grasping with eager clutch the ropes,
On which depended all their hopes,
Excelsior!
There ’mid the tossing billows’ spray,
Wretched and shivering they lay;
The freed balloon then, with its car,
Shot upward like a rising star,
Excelsior!
The Tonbridgian, September, 1874.
The Excelsior Climbing Boy.
(Poëma partìm Canino-Latinum, post
Longum—
seu potiùs, meritò dicatur,—
Excelsiorem Socium).
Some few, whose days are closing fast,
Remember, in their time long past,
How youth, in toil of little price,
Might yet have borne, for their device,
Excelsior!
These youngsters, in that distant time,
Swept chimneys, which they had to climb,
They could have cried as they clomb higher,
Like one who skywards did aspire,
Excelsior!
Our “Climbing Boys,” as they were called,
Howe’er they “Sweep!” and “Soot O!” bawled,
As they ascended up the flue
Were not instructed to halloo
Excelsior!
By reek and close air overcome,
The Climbing Boy was oft struck dumb,
And stifled soon, unless got out—
Of course he then no more could shout
Excelsior!
His knees were worn by rough ascent
Bare to the very ligament;
Flayed were his fingers and his toes;
Because he grazed them as he rose,
Excelsior!
When, jammed in, on his upward way
He stuck fast, oft, some used to say,
His master, in the grate below,
Would light a fire, to make him go
Excelsior!
These horrors having been at last
Dragged into day, an Act was passed
Declaring it, henceforth, a crime
To make a child a chimney climb
Excelsior!
Still certain Bumbles, it appears,
Against the law, these many years,
Have had their Town Hall’s chimneys swept
By means of little boys who crept
Excelsior!
May a new law, more strictly framed,
All parties hit at whom ’tis aimed,
Concerned in making children sweep
Foul flues, whilst painfully they creep
Excelsior!
Long brush, worked deftly by machine,
8
All chimneys must, ye Bumbles, clean,
Law must on cruel masters fall,
Who take to driving urchins small
Excelsior!
Punch, June 26, 1875.
Excelsior.
The swampy state of Illinois
Contained a greenish sort of boy,
Who read with idiotic joy—
Excelsior!
He tarried not to eat or drink,
But got a flag of lightish pink,
And traced on it, in violet ink—
Excelsior!
Though what he meant by that absurd,
Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,
Has not been placed upon record—
Excelsior!
The characters were very plain,
In German text, yet he was fain,
With greater clearness to explain—
Excelsior!
And so he ran, this stupid wight,
And hollered out with, all his might,
(As to a person out of sight)—
Excelsior!
And everybody thought the lad
Within an ace of being mad,
Who cried in accents stern and sad—
Excelsior!
“Come to my arms,” the maiden cried:
The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,
And then appropriately replied—
Excelsior!
The evening sun is in the sky,
But still the creature mounts on high,
And shouts (nor gives a reason why)—
Excelsior!
But ere he gains the topmost crag
His feeble legs begin to lag;
Unsteadily he holds the flag—
Excelsior!
* * * * *
Now P. C. Nab is on his track!
He puts him in an empty sack,
And brings him home upon his back—
Excelsior!
Nab takes him to a lumber store,
They toss him in and lock the door,
Which only makes him bawl the more—
Excelsior!
Edinburgh Sketches and Miscellanies. By Eric.
(John Menzies and Company, Edinburgh, 1876).
The Dowager-Duchess at the Drawing Room.
(“A bleak, nipping south-easterly wind was blowing
throughout yesterday, the glass having again fallen, but the
usual rules as to the Court dress to be worn by all ladies who
attended the Drawing Room were strictly enforced. Low-cut
bodies, both at back and front, were de rigueur.”—Weekly
Paper, February, 1880).
The Dowager-Duchess has been to the Palace,
And duly presented the Honourable Alice;
And now we will show in what sort of condition
Her grace, who is eighty, returned from this mission.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As up a Mayfair street there passed
A carriage with this strange device
As crest:—A rampant cockatrice
And enfant or.
Within was seen an agèd dame,
Whose breath in gasps most frequent came;
Her face was white as Death’s own hue,
Her Roman nose was red; with blue
Her lips spread o’er.
The fair young maiden by her side,
By briskly rubbing, bravely tried
Her grandma’s blood to make reflow—
It seem’d a hopeless object, though,
She labour’d for!
“Oh joy!” this maiden cried, when she
Observed they’d stopped at forty-three;
“We are at home, dear Grandma, come!
Do speak to me!” The Dame was dumb—
E’en as before.
And when she would have left her seat,
She all but tumbled in the street;
Her state, in fact, the house alarms,
When, leaning on the flunkey’s arms,
She gains her door.
“Be quick and heat my grandma’s bed!”
The Honourable Miss Alice said:
“Let well warmed bricks in flannel wrapp’d
Without delay be in it clapp’d,
And bottles hot!
“Beware no window open be,
And blankets bring at once to me!”
Thus was the maiden’s forethought shown—
Her Grandma scarce had strength to groan:
“Hot ginger, dear!”
And ere of minutes ten had fled,
The chilled old Duchess was in bed;
Where, thanks to measures prompt and sound,
She promised shortly to come round
To health once more.
Then in the firelight, thin and gray,
And cold, but not so cold, she lay,
Whilst from her lips, no longer blue,
A voice came, somewhat hoarse ’twas true,
And somewhat sore.
* * * * *
Truth, February 26, 1880.
After Longfellow.
(A Long Way).
The western sun was sinking fast,
As through the quiet street there passed
A tinker with a blackened eye,
Who ever and anon did cry—
“’Brellas to mend.”
His brow was dark with smoke and soot,
His raiment, rags from head to foot;
And like a penny trumpet rung
The beery accents of his tongue—
“’Brellas to mend.”
9
He lingered at the corner “pub,”
He drew his last coin from his fob;
He quaffed his glass of half-and-half,
And only answered to their chaff—
“’Brellas to mend.”
“Go not again,” the landlord said,
“Wild blows the tempest overhead,
Your rags will lash you unto death.”
Our friend replied with bated breath—
“’Brellas to mend.”
“Oh, stay,” the daughter said, “and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast;
Why should’st thou from our presence fly?”
This was the tinker’s sad reply—
“’Brellas to mend.”
“Beware the stern blue-coated man—
Beware the falling chimney-can;”
Such was the landlord’s parting word,
And this was the reply they heard—
“’Brellas to mend.”
In Duke Street, at the break of day,
Within a court the tinker lay;
In falling he his leg had broke,
When gently raised, these words he spoke—
“’Brellas to mend.”
He died; his body calmly rests;
His ghost the lonely streets infests;
And often at the midnight hour
A voice cries, with sepulchral power—
“’Brellas to mend.”
Teddy May and other Poems,
by William Thomson, Glasgow, 1883.
Voices of Our Nights.
(Submitted to the American Poet, by Mr. Wrongfellow).
I heard the feline footsteps in the night
Pad through the Court and Hall!
I saw the sable wretch in the moon’s light
Climb Mrs. Coxe’s Wall!
I felt her (that I did! I’m sure I’m right!)
Step o’er me just above;
With shrill pathetic mewings through the night,
As of a cat in love.
I heard the sounds of passion and of fight,
The caterwauling chimes,
That fill each attic chamber in the night,
Where some starved poet rhymes.
My night-capped head in the cool midnight air
Sought vainly some repose;
The echo of perpetual squalls rose there,
From the new cistern rose.
Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend, you green-eyed fright!
I hate, while thus you screech, and spit, and swear,
The cat-infested night!
Punch, May 4, 1861.
Picked Up at the Stall Entrance to the Novelty Theatre.
I know a maiden fair to see—
K. V.! K. V.! (Cave!)
She dances most bewitchingly—
K. V.! K. V.!
Her twinkling feet, her ankles neat,
Her pirouettes, her glances sweet,
Will make your heart more quickly beat—
K. V.! K. V.!
When you are seeing “Lalla Rookh”—
K. V.! K. V.!
O keep your eyes upon the book—
K. V.! K. V.!
Or Kate’s fair face, and facile grace
Will “mash” you in a moment’s space;
Then yours will be a hopeless case—
K. V.! K. V.!
Truth, May 22, 1884.
(Referring to Miss Kate Vaughan’s performance of the
part of Lalla Rookh, in Mr. Horace Lennard’s burlesque
extravaganza of Moore’s poem).
Picked up at the stage entrance to the
Novelty Theatre:—
I know a masher dark to see,
J. D., J. D.
He mashes most bewitchingly,
J. D., J. D.
His varnished feet, his collars neat,
His buttonhole (gardenia sweet),
Must make her heart more quickly beat,
J. D., J. D.
When you are seeing Lalla Rookh,
J. D., J. D.
Pray keep your eyes upon the book,
J. D., J. D.
For Kate’s fair face and lower lace
Have made you change your mind apace;
Ah, yours must be a dreadful case!
J. D., J. D.
The Topical Times, May 24, 1884.
Suggested by “The Village Blacksmith.”
(With Apologies to the Shade of Longfellow.)
Under Britannia’s spreading oak
The Grand Old Woodman stands;
A presentation axe he wields
With large and sinewy hands;
But the onslaught of his cruel arms
As yet the tree withstands.
His hair is white and dank and long
His collars none can span;
His brow is wet with honest sweat—
He chops down all he can;
He won’t look Duty in the face,
But he’ll talk with any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his speeches flow;
You can hear him wag his ceaseless tongue,
Dreary and loud and slow,
As the sexton’s song on the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
10
The children of his Rebel School
Crowd round his open door;
They love to watch his swelling gorge,
And hear his blatant roar,
And catch the myriad words that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach—
He hears his own loved voice,
Reading the daily lessons,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like an angel’s voice
Singing in Paradise!
Which reminds him he will talk no more
When in the grave he lies,
And with his collar end he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Talking—orating—promising,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Long years don’t see it close;
Too much attempted, nothing done,
How can he seek repose?
Experience by thee, my friend,
Thy country has been taught;
Hadst though been doomed to silent life,
As reckless talkers ought,
Then had thy native land escaped
Much evil thou hast wrought.
Sphinx.
The Globe, September 10, 1884.
The Low Bohemian.
Before the Cheshire Cheese’s bar
The low Bohemian stands;
A sallow, seedy man is he,
With dirty nails, and hands;
And ’tis in a gin-sodden voice
He “four of Cork” demands.
His nose is large and very red,
His mouth ’twere hard to span;
His daily work he likes to shirk,
He borrows when he can,
And he scans new comers anxiously,
For he owes to many a man.
Week in, week out, from morn to night,
He loiters bars before;
He knows the barmaids’ Christian names
(A fact they much deplore;)
Now here, now there, he, with a leer,
Slinks in at the swinging door!
He glories in the Referee,
And reads the Weekly Times,
In Reynolds’ finds congenial stuff,
And sends it jokes and rhymes;
For he’s a writer for the press,
When liquor duly primes.
Loafing—and loitering—liquoring—
Down to his grave he goes;
Each morning finds him “coppery,”
He’s “screw’d” ere night doth close;
Something attempted—some one “done,”
Whilst liquor always flows.
He dies at length, and round his grave
His boon companions tread,
Then go and drink at various bars
Till maudlin tears are shed—
Whilst their dead friend has left a wife
And children lacking bread!
But his lost life and early death,
Do they no sermon preach?
His doom, self-sought, has it no power
A lesson strong to teach?
No; his friends’ brains too sodden are,
The message them to reach.
Truth, Christmas Number, 1878.
The Village Schoolboy.
Under the garden apple-tree
The village schoolboy stands;
The boy, a nasty boy is he,
With muddy, filthy hands;
And the mussel-shells he’s playing with
Are pick’d from dirty sands.
His hair is short, and red, and straight,
His face is like the tar;
He cries and bawls when mother calls,
You hear him near and far,
And when he gets a chance he steals
The sugar from the jar.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
He bellows and he cries,
And in the village there’s not one
So good at telling lies;
Big stones he throws at other boys,
And hits them in the eyes.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And every one annoys;
He pinches all the kids he’s near,
And asks them for their toys;
And when they sing up in the choir
He shouts out, “Hold your noise!”
His father smacks him in the face,
He pulls him by the nose,
The village schoolboy only cries,
And crying—off he goes;
His parents go to bed at night,
And THERE, they’ve no repose.
W. C. L.
The Sporting Times, July 5, 1884.
The Village Blacksmith.
Beside a dingy public-house, the village smithy stands,
The smith, a nasty man is he, with beastly dirty hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms a bruiser well might suit,
His face is void of any charm, he looks a nasty brute.
His brow is wet with beery sweat, he scarcely earns a bob;
But to drink up another’s drink he’s always on the job!
Week in, week out, from morn to night, he curses high and low.
You seldom hear his hammer’s beat, his step is dull and slow;
Communications from his mouth are seldom “yes” or “no.”
And children coming home from school run frightened past his door,
11
They fear to see the ugly beast, and shun his drunken roar,
They’d only catch a kick or blow, if they lingered near his door.
He never goes inside a church, and never sends his boys,
He never heard a parson preach, he hates his daughter’s voice,
Snarling over her kitchen work, it makes him swear like vice,
Reminding him of her mother’s voice—that wasn’t over nice.
And when he thinks of her once more, how in the grave she lies,
He thinks in his heart that Providence is sometimes kind and wise,
Cursing, drinking, borrowing; onward through life he goes.
No morning sees good work begin, no evening sees its close.
Nothing attempted, nothing done, from gin he gets repose.
The Topical Times, September 13, 1884.
The parody of “A Psalm of Life,” entitled
“The Maiden’s Dream of Life,” which was
quoted on page 64, Part IV., of Parodies, was
copied from a Washington (U.S.) newspaper,
dated December, 1871. The idea of this parody
had evidently been borrowed from one contained
in a small volume by Phœbe Carey,
entitled “Poems and Parodies.” The borrower
made some verbal alterations, which were by no
means improvements on Miss Carey’s parody,
which is decidedly the better of the two:—
A Psalm of Life.
(What the Heart of the Young Woman said
to the Old Maid).
Tell me not, in idle jingle,
Marriage is an empty dream,
For the girl is dead that’s single,
And things are not what they seem.
Married life is real, earnest,
Single blessedness a fib;
Taken from man, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Nearer brings the wedding day.
Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts, if there we search,
Still like steady drums are beating
Anxious marches to the Church.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a woman, be a wife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living Present.
Heart within, and Man ahead!
Lives of married folks remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And, departing, leave behind us
Such examples as will tell;—
Such examples, that another,
Sailing far from Hymen’s port,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing, shall take heart, and court.
Let us then be up and doing,
With the heart and head begin;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour, and to win!
Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey,
Boston, 1854.
The following is an amusing specimen of
advertisement parodies. It was written by
Mr. T. Thatcher, of College Green, Bristol:—
Tell me not in doleful murmurs
Ink is but a mouldy stream!
And the pen it rusts, and murders
Writing paper by the ream!
Thatcher’s Ink is Ink in earnest!
And to rust is not its goal;
Mud thou art, to mould returnest,
Was not spoken as its dole.
With enjoyment and not sorrow
Welcome thee in loudest lay:
Ink to write, that each to-morrow
Finds it blacker than to-day.
Blots begone! Vile ink be fleeting!
Penman, be no more a slave!
Let all other inks go beating
Funeral marches to their grave!
In the world’s wide field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Write not like dumb driven cattle!
Use this Ink and end thy strife!
Lines of this Ink all remind us
We may write with ease sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Words to live as long as time!
Pen marks, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck’d brother,
Reading, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,
Seize this Ink before too late,
Thatcher’s now at once securing,
Neither hesitate nor wait!
Shortfellow.
Please be Cheerful.
(Advice to Modern Novelists.)
Tell us not, in mournful numbers,
Life is all a ghastly dream!
Such as those we have in slumbers,
When the nightmare makes us scream.
Life is dark enough in earnest,
Without bringing in the gaol;
Only readers of the sternest
Like their heroines out on bail.
12
Not to swindle, or to borrow,
Is the reputable way;
Not to marry, and to-morrow
Kill your bride, and run away.
Arson’s wrong, and poisoning dreary,
And our hearts, though pretty brave,
Now and then get rather weary
Of the gallows and the grave.
In the great domestic battle,
In the matrimonial strife,
Be not like those Mormon “cattle,”
Give your hero but one wife.
Wives and daughters should remind you
There are women without crime;
Draw them, and you’ll leave behind you
Fictions that may weather time;—
Fictions free from that Inspector
Who is sent by Richard Mayne,
And finds footmarks that affect a
Solemn butler in the lane.
Let us, then, have no more trials,
No more tampering with Wills;
Leave the poisons in the phials—
And the money in the tills.
Punch, December 1, 1866.
A PSALM OF FARMING.
Bell’s Messenger, December 9th, 1878.
What the Heart of the Young Farmer
Said to the Old ’Un.
(After Wrongedfellar).
Tell me not in cheerful numbers
You have known when times was wuss,
Kip on sowin’ wutts and barley,
And things will come right for us.
Rents are too much, labour’s heavy,
And our fair share’s not the goal,
Landlords take all they can gather,
Cow and calf, both mare and foal.
Not enjoyment and not profit
Seems our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Finds us poorer than to-day.
The world is big and steam is quick,
But our hearts, though stout and brave,
Do not like to leave the “dear” land,
’Cause our wives do look so grave!
With the world’s broad field for farming,
With the chance of a free life,
Be not like dumb, driven donkeys,
With such prospects have no strife.
Trust no landlord, howe’er pleasant;
Let the dead past bury its dead.
Act, act in the living present,
Heart within and God o’erhead.
Happy Colonists do teach us
We can go and be the same,
And, departing, leave behind us
Wiser landlords, much more tame.
Landlords, that perhaps another
Year or so might make so wise,
Might then know that ’tis quite certain
Rents must fall as well as rise.
Let us, then, be up and going,
With a heart for any fate,
Then succeeding, more persuading
That ’tis good to emigrate.
Reproduced in “Farming,” by Joseph Mangoldwurzel,
London, W. Ridgway, 1879.
(A small pamphlet on Free Trade versus Protection).
Tell me not in mocking numbers
We shall have to come to town,
And resume our wonted slumbers,
When the leaves are sere and brown.
* * * * *
Lives of patriots all remind us
We can show uncommon nous,
And, departing, leave behind us
Relays that shall “keep a House.”
Relays that perchance our Leaders
O’er that legislative main
May observe, while we are pleaders,
Autumn leisure to attain.
Punch, July 1, 1882.
A Psalm of Burial.
Tell me not with words inflated
Bodies were not meant to burn;
For the moo-cow when cremated
Doth to “frosted silver” turn.
Not the grave-yard, not interment
Is the cheapest, healthiest way;
But to rob the worm preferment
Finds with cultured men to-day.
Lights of learning all have told us
We can shunt the gloomy pall,
And, when churchyards will not hold us,
Roast our flesh for funeral.
Let us, then, keep time with culture:
“Earth to earth” is out of date—
Leave no carrion for the vulture,
Spurn the sexton, and cremate.
Moonshine, May 17, 1884.
On Reading a Life and Letters.
“Lives” of great men all remind us
Friends may after our last breath
Publish what we leave behind us,
Adding thus new fears to death.
Wives of rich men oft remind us,
We may make our wives sublime;
But ten pounds for a lady’s bonnet
Knocks a cheque-book out of time.
“The Day is Done.”
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.
13
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 bakers,
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.
Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey,
Boston, United States, 1854.
The three parodies following are imitations
of Longfellow’s
The Arrow and the Song.
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in his flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterwards, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
The Birds and the Pheasant.
I shot a partridge in the air,
It fell in turnips, “Don,” knew where;
For just as it dropped, with my right
I stopped another in its flight.
I killed a pheasant in the copse,
It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;
For though a pheasant’s flight is strong,
A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.
Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,
I found the birds in jelly lie;
And the pheasant, at a fortnight’s end,
I found again in the carte of a friend.
Punch, October 12, 1867.
Ballad. The Ex-Premier.
(Mr. Gladstone).
I wrote a pamphlet t’other day;
It fell still-born in the usual way;
For the public knew ’twas the old, old tale,
And they thought it just a wee bit stale.
I wrote an article in a “mag,”
And it made its circulation flag;
For the readers knew ’twas my only work
To speak about th’ unspeakable Turk!
Not long after my spirits sunk,
For I found the pamphlet lining a trunk;
And the article (degradation utter)
Was round a pat of the best salt butter.
Truth. Christmas Number, 1877.
The Arrow and the Hound.
At Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight,
I shot an arrow such a height,
It fell to earth, I know not where,
And, sooth to say, I do not care.
A poem to a mag. I sent,
Receiving no acknowledgment;
The subject was, I know not what—
If e’er I knew I have forgot.
A traveller the arrow found
Half-buried in his faithful hound,
And what he said in his distress
I do not know—I dare not guess.
And soon, when reading in the train,
I found my poem once again;
But on the fire that in it burned,
A comic hydrant had been turned.
What verse with arrow had to do
I know not now—I never knew!
But that such things should hap no more
I called upon the editor.
I aimed an arrow with such care,
It hit I scarce remember where;
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
He turned, and called me with a sigh—
But what, to tell you were not right;
Besides, I have forgotten quite;
But arrow, editor, and hound,
Are famed to earth’s remotest bound.
Excelsior Junior.
The Topical Times, June 14, 1884.
14
The Soirée.
(After “The Arsenal at Springfield.”)
This is the Soirée: from grate to entrance,
Like milliners’ figures, stand the lovely girls;
But from their silent lips no merry sentence
Disturbs the smoothness of their shining curls.
Ah! what will rise, how will they rally,
When shall arrive the “gentlemen of ease!”
What brilliant repartee, what witty sally,
Will mingle with their pleasant symphonies!
I hear even now the infinite sweet chorus,
The laugh of ecstacy, the merry tone,
That through the evenings that have gone before us
In long reverberations reach our own.
From round-faced Germans come the guttural voices,
Through curling moustache steals the Italian clang,
And, loud amidst their universal noises,
From distant corners sounds the Yankee twang.
I hear the Editor, who from his office
Sends out his paper, filled with praise and puff,
And holy priests, who, when they warn the scoffers,
Beat the fine pulpit, lined with velvet stuff.
The tumult of each saqued, and charming maiden,
The idle talk that sense and reason drowns,
The ancient dames with jewelry o’erladen,
And trains depending from the brocade gowns—
The pleasant tone, whose sweetness makes us wonder,
The laugh of gentlemen, and ladies, too,
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of some lady blue,—
Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With pastimes so ridiculous as these,
Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
Were half the wealth that fills the world with ladies,
Were half the time bestowed on caps and lace,
Given to the home, the husbands, and the babies,
There were no time to visit such a place.
Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey
(Ticknor, Reed, and Fields).
Boston, United States, 1854.
The following old parody was written in imitation
of the hexameters of Evangeline:—
DOLLARINE; A TALE OF CALIFORNIA.
A Fragment in Hexameters.
By Professor W. H. Longandshortfellow,
Of Cambridge, Connecticut.
In St. Francisco located was Nathan Jehoiakim Bowie;
Down by the wharf on the harbour he traded in liquors and dry goods,
Darned hard knot at a deal, at Meetin’ a powerful elder.
There at his store, in the shade, they met, onbraced and enlightened
Traders and trappers and captings, and lawyers and editors also.
Freely they liquored and chewed, indulgin’ in expectoration,
Rockin’ with heels over heads, and whittling’, laborious, the counter.
Like dough-nut at a frolic, or yellow-pine stump in a clearin’,
Sharp as a backwoodsman’s axe, and cute as a bachelor beaver,
Glimmer’d, through clouds of Virginny, the cypherin’ mug of Nathaniel.
Sweeter nor candy of maple, a’most too genteel to be raal,
Straight as a hickory sapling and clean as a Nar’ganset pacer
Tall she moved through the bar, a-sarvin’ of juleps and cock-tails,
Sweetenin’ the cobblers with smiles, and firin’ Havannahs with glances,
Nathan J. Bowie’s fair darter, splendiferous Miss Dollarina!
Tall she moved thro’ the bar, collectin’ the joes and the cents in:
Not that she needed to did it, but ’cause nigger helps there’s no trustin’,
And she was too tender-hearted to get the black varmint cow-hided.
—There in pastoral peace, since first the location was ceded,
Dwelt the old man and his child, beneath their own vine and their fig-tree,
Doin’ a good stroke of business, for cash or beaver-skins only.
On Nat’s. roof of split shingle, illustrious Governor Tarbox
Hoisted the Stars and the Stripes, representative there of the Mighty,
The Free, and the Fearless of airth, the Go-a-head ’Merican people;
Boarded there the great Tarbox, and took his horn like a mere man,
Paying four dollars per diem for grub, grog, shake-down, and washin’.
Then came down, like iled lightning, on St. Francisco a rumour—
Fame her brazen trump turned best mint metal to puff it—
How that the root of all evil was found growin’ wild up the country,
How gold stuck to folk’s fingers that washed in the St. Sacramento!
Nat. chawed two plugs extra to hear it; the editor swore he
Wished to be darned, if it wasn’t a caution how folks could be gammoned.
“My!” sighed sweet Dollarina, and paused as she squoze a half lemon;
But the magnanimous Tarbox, he reckoned ’tmight be kinder likely,
Seein’ the States whipt the airth for men, and why not for metals?
Came from the diggins a straanger, with two carpet-bags full of goold dust;
Nathan diskivered the fact, as he traded a pinch for a gin-sling;
And as that straanger loafed, thro’ the bar, from parlor to bedroom,
Streams of the glorious sand oozed out through a hole in his trousers.
—Gathered the rumour and grew, and soon rose a sudden demand for
Calabash, can, keg, and kettle; and Nathan’s prime lot of tin fixin’s,
Crockery, also, went off at figgers that beat to eternal
Smash all prices he’d thought, in dreams e’en, of e’er realisin’.
Soon the traders upped hook, and the editor talked edifyin’
All about lucre and dross; and the lawyer convened it was awful;
Till one mornin’ trampoused the lawyer and editor with him.
Off were the trappers for beaver, they said, but “it warn’t noways likely,”
15
Nathan remarked, “they would strike beaver-trail in them there locations.”
Then the captings went too, they said, to bring back their sailors;
And as it stands to natur’, their customers followed the captings.
Next the Meetin’s they thinned—that’s a fact—till, down to the elders,
Dropped, like leaves in the fall, congregations of e’en the awakened.
Ontil the deacon was forced to look arter the flock of backsliders,
Minister mizzlin’ himself, before long, to look arter the deacon.
Why should Nathan hold on, with his bar of its customers empty,
Strawers unsucked in the cobblers, and mint unplucked in the garding,
Swopped his prime tin doin’s, or sold to the uttermost pipkin?
So he went—but before him the helps, black and Irish, had vanished.
Lone in the shanty she lingered, the fair and forlorn Dollarina—
Lone like a flower, in the face of great natur’, and Governor Tarbox!
Blushin’ she bowed to the governor’s snigger, when first to his bed-room,
Bearin’ his boots and his breakfast, she came like a minist’rin’ angel—
Blushin’ she raised her bright face—and the Governor swore catawampus,
“Burn my old bree—that is, boots—gals like you didn’t ought for to do it.”
—Soft was the heart of Great Tarbox, and most horrid hansum the maiden,
Loftily spoke he of goold, and the tarnal low hitch of the humans,
Leavin’ such gals all alone, to go the whole hog at the washin’s.
Sweetly she’d set there beside him, the while with his governor’s hands he
Washed his own dicky or fried his simple repast of pork fixins;
Sweetly she sot there beside him, and Tarbox a-slavin’ was happy!
Still now and then that bright eye from its tail would glance up to the mountains,
And a faint sigh be the echo of Tarboxes glowin’ soft sawder;
Oft in her pail of ablution he’d catch her a rinsin’ the water;
And once she ventured to murmur, “I wonder what nateral goold’s like.”
—Down came the moment at last—set Tarbox a-mendin’ his shoe-sole,
Breathin’ his love in a Sonnet, and chawin’ a plug of tobaccer—
Entered the maiden so stately—and bowin’ her beauty before him,
Smilingly, sobbingly uttered, “Adoo—I am off for the diggins!”
* * * * *
Burst the full heart of Great Tarbox——
(
Here the MSS., becomes illegible, apparently from tears).
Punch, January 20, 1849.
The Lost Tails of Miletus.
High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover,
Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet,
She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr
Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts.
Vainly the Mænid and the Bassarid gambolled about her,
The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan—the renowned, the accomplished—
Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their gambols and dances!
High o’er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shepherdess, wailing—
“Ai! for the fleecy flocks,—the meek-nosed, the passionless faces;
Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high-stepping;
Ai! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, sagacious,
Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion!”
Her then Zeus answered slow: “O daughter of song and sorrow,—
Hapless tender of sheep,—arise from thy long lamentation!
Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a Greek maiden,
Look and behold thy sheep.”—And lo! they returned to her tailless!
Bret Harte.
In 1856 a pamphlet was published (at the
price of two shillings), by W. J. Golbourn, of
Princes Street, Leicester Square, entitled:
“Marks and Remarks for the Catalogue of the
Exhibition of the Royal Academy, MDCCCLVI.
(after the manner of ——) by A. E., to which is
added a Dirge (in imitation of another).” This
very scarce pamphlet consists of thirty-two
pages, mostly occupied by descriptions of the
pictures in the Royal Academy for that year,
and the author’s comments upon them, in the
metre of Hiawatha, commencing thus:—
“Should you ask me whence the Stories?
Whence the legends and traditions’
That have furnished forth our Artists
With the most attractive subjects
For the present exhibition?”
“I should answer, I should tell you,
They have drawn them from the Poets,
From the Book-of-books have drawn them,
From the best Historic sources,
From the Mountains, Lakes, and Rivers,
From the Hills, the Lanes, the Meadows,
From the Highland and the Lowland,
And the mighty surging Ocean;
And the Portraits, large and little,
And the Portraits of all sizes,
With their frequent repetitions,
Pillars, table cloths and curtains,
From the Court, the Camp, the Senate,
And plain Gentlemen and Ladies.”
* * * * *
A long political parody appeared in Punch,
February 23, 1867, entitled “The Great Medicine-Man;
a new Canto of Hiawatha.” This
16
was apropos of Mr. Disraeli’s Reform proposals,
then submitted to the House of Commons in
Thirteen Resolutions.
On page 95, Part VI., a long extract was
given from a parody of Hiawatha, entitled The
Song of Big Ben, which appeared in Truth,
February 15, 1877. It was descriptive of the
opening of Parliament, and the subsequent proceedings
in the Houses have since been related
in the same metre, and under the same title, in
many other numbers of Truth. On page 80
reference was made to a parody which appeared
in Tom Hood’s Comic Annual for 1877; unfortunately,
it is much too long to give in full.
The following short extract will, however, give
an idea of its style:—
Revenge. A Rhythmic Recollection.
If you ask me where I found it, found this very dreadful
legend, with its strange coincidences and its tragic repetitions,
I should answer, I should tell you, in the columns of
the “Pleecenoos,” in the pages of the “Standard,” in the
Organ of the Knife Board, in all sheets of published scandal,
published in the month of August, published in the midst
of Fleet Street, where the tide of life rolls onward, whilst
the modest newsman murmurs low amid the noise of traffic,
“Buy the ‘Hecker,’ fifth edition! Buy the ‘Standard,’
latest war news! Buy the Organ of the Knife Board!”
’Twas the pleasant April weather, and a coach was bound
for Cambridge, and four youths alike in feature sat together
in the rumble; each alike was bound for Cambridge, each
alike in air was noble, each alike in hair was curly, each in
speech was Hebraistic, and they all were bound for Cambridge.
Never had they met before this, though their fathers in
four townships wide apart had heard the rumours of each
other’s great successes in the art of habit-making, famed for
thirteen-shilling trousers; and each parent, little recking of
the others’ great successes, said, “My son shall rise to swelldom;
he shall have his fling at college, and shall dwell
among the nobles who, by my fair art made nobler, wear
my thirteen-shilling trousers.”
As in April’s pleasant weather all the four rolled on to
Cambridge, did they swear eternal friendship; and alighting
from the rumble, pledged each other in great beakers, drank
each other’s healths in “dogsnose;” sought the portals of the
college where they had matriculated, crossed the sunny green
quadrangle, and betook them to their chambers; parted
tearful on the landing, and betook them to their chambers.
* * * * *
Then they severed at the doorway; but by devious ways
returning, met again before the doorway.
Then with scowling brows they entered; and the barmaid—most
impartial of the race of British barmaids—sweetly
winked in turn upon them till their hearts within them
gladdened; and they drank the luscious “dogsnose,” and
their friendly vows repeated, till with arm-in-arm close
linking they once more the dim quadrangle crossed, and all
was wrapped in silence.
* * * * *
D. Christie Murray.
The Song of Progress.
Should you ask me, “Why this hubbub?
Why this coming strife of parties?
Why the Hyde Park Demonstration?
Why the mighty northern meeting?
Why Conservatives take counsel
With their own selected members,
Each admitted with a ticket?”
I should answer you in this wise,
“Harken to the Song of Progress,
Listen to the din of warfare—
Listen for the coming triumph
Of the People o’er the Peerage.”
By the dark and murky waters,
Foul and dank with filth and sewage,
Waters which are not pellucid,
Of the noble river Isis,
Stands a large and stately Palace,
Where th’ elected of the people
Meet for work of legislation.
One a Party firm, united,
Loved and trusted by the People.
They the Party are of Progress—
Ever have been, ever must be;
They the champions who do battle
’Gainst hereditary privilege.
Their opponents are a Party
Smaller far and disunited.
Dwarfed in mind, with doings crooked,
Quick to “execute a sharp curve,”
With no Policy whatever,
Save to stop the work of Progress,
They the Party are of Privilege,
Who oppose, and ever have done,
Social progress of the masses.
Should you ask me why the Peerage
Rule responsible to no one,
What their deeds of wondrous valour,
What their wisdom unsurpassed,
What their nobleness of nature,
What their learning, power, or goodness,
That they thus should reign supreme there,
I should answer you, “I know not.”
This I know, that tho’ their country
Scarcely knows the names of any,
On the racecourse every welcher,
Every gambling scoundrel, blackleg,
Knows them there by tens and dozens.
I should answer ’tis a relic
Of the ignorant Middle Ages,
When the king held all the country,
Shared it with his greater barons,
And the toilers were in bondage.
One by one the links of thraldom
Have been rent and burst asunder;
Few the fetters that are left us
Of the hateful Feudal system;
But this one stands trembling, tottering,
Till the breath of further Freedom,
Strengthened by the voice of Gladstone,
Bright, and Chamberlain, and Picton,
Broadhurst, Illingworth, and Lawson,
Shall abolish it for ever.
Funny Folks, August 16, 1884.
17
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
(Continued from Part 13.)
There was a competition for Parodies on
“Excelsior” in Truth, fourteen parodies appeared
on November 11, 1880, and the following week
nine more were published, each consisting of five
verses. The parody with the refrain, “That
Thirty-four,” which was selected as the prize
winner, has already appeared in Part VI. of
Parodies. A few of the others may be given
here; the first evidently refers to Mr. Disraeli’s
entry into political life, when he was not favorably
received:—
The shades of night were falling fast,
When, through the House of Commons, passed
A youth, with curls not over nice,
Who bore as motto and device—
Excelsior!
His brow was dark, his eye beneath
Flashed from its eyelid’s dusky sheath,
And, with a nasal music, rung
The accents of his Hebrew tongue—
Excelsior!
“Thou offshoot of a withered branch!
Beware the scornful avalanche,
Which shall o’erwhelm thy speech to-night!”
A voice replied, in shame and spite,
Excelsior!
“Stay,” said the maiden Muse, “and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast;”
He either wept or winked his eye,
And said with simulated sigh,
Excelsior!
Now in life’s twilight, old and grey,
He seems to hear his rival say,
From his high place, serene and far,
“Ha, Lucifer! thou fallen star,”
Excelsior!
Gossamer.
The Workhouse.
The shades of night were falling fast
As through a London alley passed
A woman, wan, with hands of ice,
The workhouse sought, from cold and vice—
Moritura!
In happy homes she saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the planets glittering shone,
From her pale lips escaped a groan—
Moritura!
“Try not to pass,” the porter said;
Dark lowers his visage overhead—
“No order; rules I must abide;”
And weak that weary voice replied,
Moritura!
“O stay,” a sister said, “and rest
Thy weary head upon my breast.”
A tear stood in her dull grey eye,
And still she answered with a sigh,
Moritura!
There, in the daybreak, cold and gray,
Lifeless, on workhouse steps she lay;
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Est Mortua!
Bob.
The Griffin.
The tawny folds of London fog
Fell round the lamp-lit Court of Gog.
Clarions and toasts were loud within;
A weird cry mingled with the din—
“One blunder more!”
Forth from that glorified Guildhall
A griffin reeled with easy sprawl;
Through mire and midnight, floundering west
He hooted, like a brute possessed—
“One blunder more!”
“Halt!” cried the watchmen of St. Bride,
As hastily they edged aside.
“Try Scotland Yard!” a small boy said;
The answer came, from far ahead—
“One blunder more!”
A pilgrim, under Street’s new clock,
Beheld him climb the Temple block,
A chuckle through the darkness passed—
“This blessed night we’ve crowned at last
“One blunder more!”
And when the morn broke, soft and fair,
Lifeless he stood, erect in air;
A stark and startling beast of brass,
Completing, in the Fleet-street pass
One blunder more!
Glen June.
The Country Fair.
Night was fast falling o’er the scene,
As through the crowd on village green,
There passed a youth, who once or twice
Said, as he stopped to eat an ice,
Excelsior!
“Climb not the pole,” an old man said,
“The grease will spoil your trousers, Ned;”
With upward glance the youth replied,
“The mutton at the top is tied.”
Excelsior!
“O stay,” a maiden said, and sighed,
“And take me for a donkey ride;”
He grasped the pole, and in reply,
He softly murmured with a sigh,
Excelsior
18
“Beware!” a withered crone cried out,
“Take care, take care what you’re about:”
Far up the pole they heard him pant,
As though his breath was rather scant,
Excelsior!
Just as he neared the prize he stopped,
Then quick as falling star he dropped,
He laid upon the ground and groaned,
Yet still in feeble accents moaned,
Excelsior!
Minnie Mum.
“Wheeling Annual” for 1885 contains many
excellent parodies, relating principally, of course,
to the joys and troubles of bicyclists.
What Roads!
At a recent sessions of the Uxbridge Court a gentleman
pleaded guilty to riding on the footpath with a bi., and
excused himself on the ground that the roads were very
muddy. P.C. X. 20. proved the case, and a fine of 5s. was
imposed.—Uxbridge Gazette.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As thro’ a local village pass’d
A youth, who rode a Rudge, once bright,
He cried, as onward sped his flight,
“What roads!”
His brow was sad, the road beneath
Resembled much dull Hounslow Heath,
And in a voice, just tinged with ire,
Cried as he still rode through the mire,
“What roads!”
In happy “pubs.” he saw the light
Of Argand burners very bright,
Said he, “I’ll stop and try a drink.”
Mine host replied with knowing wink,
“What roads!”
“Try on the path,” the landlord said,
“Our Robert’s ‘off,’ e’en gone to bed.”
“A good idea,” the youth replied,
“And one that shall be quickly tried,
“What roads!”
“Oh! stay,” the barmaid said, “and rest.”
The wheelman answered, “Pray don’t jest!”
I’ll TRY the path, it can’t be worse,
Which brings us to another verse.
What roads!
“Beware the stones that lie in heaps
“Beware the dog the farmer keeps.”
The wheelist mounted, sped away,
And hailed the light of breaking day.
What roads!
Just then, X 20, on his track,
Stopp’d short the youth’s career, alack!
In vain he pleads, “This isn’t fair!”
X 20 takes him you know where.
What roads!
There in the Court with face quite ruddy
He urges that, “The roads were muddy.”
Vain hope! The Chairman with a sob,
Murmur’d serenely, “Fined Five Bob!”
“What roads!”
W. F. Field.
Sloper.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As o’er a station platform passed
A youth, who bore, with step precise,
A paper with the strange device
Of Sloper.
His coat was torn, his hair unkempt,
His face from water long exempt,
But quick his action, sharp his eye
As loud he shouted, “Who will buy
A Sloper.”
“Stay!” said an old man, “stay, my boy,
Who ought to be your mother’s joy,
Linger a while, and give to me
(For I would wish amused to be)
A Sloper.”
“Here!” said a maiden, sad yet “swell,”
In accents like a silver bell,
“Come here, my youth, and I will try
To drown my sorrow; I will buy
A Sloper.”
And soon from every side there came
The accents of that well-known name,
Until the little urchin stands,
And there’s not in his dirty hands
A Sloper.
There in the gas-light, clearly seen,
The little boy stood “all serene;”
A smile lit up his bright blue eye,
He whistled loud, and ceased his cry
Of Sloper.
The War Blacksmith.
Under its sulphurous canopy
Old Vulcan’s smithy stands,
And Vulcan, grown a man-of-war,
Has so much on his hands,
That stocks run low, and files but show
War-orders and demands.
His Cyclops when he needed most,
Off every Cyclops ran;
For why should not a Cyclop do
As another working-man,
And take the time when trade is brisk
To insist on all he can?
So every day, and all day long
Poor Vulcan’s sweat must flow,
Toiling for Europe’s sovereigns,
And still the orders grow
For breech-loaders, and armour-plates,
Steel-shot and chilled also.
With Chassepots for the Emperor
(O’er Dreyses they’ve the pull);
With Remingtons for Austria,
And Sniders for John Bull,
Balls, Cochranes, Mountstorms, Henries,
His hands may well be full.
Meanwhile the Emperor writes to us,
And bids us be good boys:
It does one good to hear him preach,
And see how he enjoys
The shift of weights that trim the Powers
For Europe’s equipoise.
19
How glad he is that Prussia comes
So strong out of the row,
That Italy Venetia gains—
Viâ France, as all allow:
Proving “whatever is, is best”—
At all events, just now.
And when France sulks that East and South
Her neighbours’ power increases,
He hints, ’tis not from every smash
She can “pick up the pieces,”
While Peace is Peace, although it brings
No Savoys, and no Nices.
Some say ’tis like the voice that once
Wiled Eve in Paradise:
But it preaches so delightfully,
And gives such good advice,
Bidding France arm, because she’s sure
Of peace at any price.
So Vulcan all his toil and stock
Must on War’s task bestow,
And iron, good for spade and share
For sword and gun must go:
For before this the Emperor’s word
Has been a word and blow.
Then let us thank the Emperor
For the lesson he has taught,
That it is in the forge of War
The arms of Peace are wrought,
And if we haven’t breech-loaders,
Breech-loaders must be bought.
Punch, September 29, 1866.
It will be remembered that the Austrians had
been completely defeated by the Prussians at
Sadowa, on July 3, 1866, and that the Emperor
Francis Joseph had ceded Venetia to Napoleon
III., requesting his intervention with the
King of Prussia to arrange the terms of peace.
From that period until the outbreak of the
Franco-Prussian War, Napoleon was looked
upon as the arbiter of Peace or War in Europe.
Although the following parody is taken from
an old Christmas annual, it is singularly à propos
at the present time, when disgust is universally
expressed at the costliness and uncertainty of
our Legal system. Recent scandals have also
greatly detracted from the confidence and respect
which should be felt for the administrators of
Justice:—
The Lord Chancellor. (
Loq.)
“Were it once known that only right could win,
No villain then an action would begin;
Did rogues not know how equal was their chance
With honest men’s, false claims they’d not advance;
In short, were only simple justice done,
The special pleader’s course were well-nigh run.”
Song: The Lord Chancellor.
Tune: “The Village Blacksmith.”
Under a stunted black elm tree
The Q.C.’s chambers are;
Q.C., a leading silk is he,
With name known near and far;
And the practice he’s contrived to make
Is famous at the bar.
His wig is crisp, and soiled, and black—
That’s where the ink once ran—
His eye is bright, and apt to roll,
’Tis his most favourite plan;
And he looks a jury in the face
As very few men can.
Week in, week out, from ten till four,
You can hear his language flow;
You can see him hitch his gown and swing
His arm with motion slow,
Like a ranter beating the Holy Book
With a downright thumping blow!
And country people up in town
Look in at the Law-court’s door;
For they like to see the great Q.C.,
And hear his voice’s roar;
And ’tis thought a bit of luck to catch
Him standing on the floor.
He sits on Sundays in his rooms,
And “tots” up his week’s fees;
He thinks on those he hasn’t earned,
And had no right to seize:
And much it makes his heart rejoice
As he turns over these.
He thinks of verdicts he has won,
By torture and by lies;
Of verdicts lost through his default
Thoughts will unbidden rise:
Through one a widow lost her all,
He seems to hear her sighs.
Toiling—speechmaking—circuiting,
Onward through life he goes;
Each evening sees some briefs begun,
How many? goodness knows!
Something attempted, some one “done,”
He’s earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my legal friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
That fortune quickly comes to one
Who does what he “didn’t ought;”
And that taking fees for work not done
Is a very “happy thought.”
Finis (Beeton’s Christmas Annual, 1877.)
In a recent trial for libel brought against the
son of the Lord Chief Justice, the plaintiff had
to conduct his case in person, and was subjected
to continual interruptions, and hostile remarks
from the bench. This conduct on the part of
the judge, Mr. Justice Manisty, was even more
noticeable than his contemptuous treatment of
the verdict of the jury, and the following parody
of a Law Report (which appeared in the Pall
Mall Gazette, November 25, 1884)—is really but
a mild exaggeration of the actual proceedings:—
Trial by Jury in 1884.
20
The libel case of —— versus —— was tried in the Court
of ——, before Mr. Justice Manifest. The plaintiff conducted
his own case; the defendant was represented by his
counsel, a great legal luminary, and several of the most
prominent names at the bar. The defendant is the son of a
person high placed in the legal world, and is himself a
barrister. The plaintiff is, vernacularly speaking, “the
deuce knows who.” The alleged libel is contained in a
letter written by the defendant to a widow lady (his great
aunt by marriage), who wished to ally herself by marriage
to the plaintiff.
The plaintiff was proceeding to open his own case, when
the judge asked him why he was not properly represented
by professional counsel, after the manner of a gentleman,
and warned him that such an omission was likely to tell
against him in the gravest manner.
Plaintiff: May it please your lordship, I am a poor man,
and cannot well afford—
Mr. Justice Manifest: The question of your means is
wholly irrelevant. I must request you to keep strictly to
the matter in hand.
Plaintiff: My other reason was that I feared no member
of your respected profession would be quite whole-hearted
in conducting my case, in view of who the defendant is.
(Groans from the members of the Bar present.)
The great legal luminary: I protest against the plaintiff’s
speech as an insult to the entire profession, including your
lordship.
Mr. Justice Manifest condoled warmly with the outraged
feelings of the legal gentlemen present, but urged them to
allow the plaintiff to proceed; as by so doing he would best
reveal to the jury the manner of man he was.
Plaintiff: With the permission of the court, I will first
read the letter.
The great legal luminary objected to this, as unnecessarily
wounding to the feelings of the defendant’s eminent family.
Plaintiff humbly submitted to the court that unless he
were allowed to produce the letter it would be difficult for
the jury to decide whether it were a libel or not. Mr.
Justice Manifest begged the great legal luminary to allow
the letter to be read as a personal favour to himself. The
great legal luminary consenting, the plaintiff read the letter,
which was as follows:—“My dear Aunt,—It is with sincere
regret that I see myself forced to point out to you the true
character of the unprincipled scoundrel you are thinking of
marrying. Should you be surprised to hear that he is a
professed atheist? Should you be surprised to hear that he
has been three times married already, and that one of these
marriages took place while the former wife was still alive?
Should you be surprised to hear that many excellent people
suspect him of having made away with his last wife, though
the murder has never been brought home to him? Should
you be surprised to hear that he has on several occasions
embezzled large sums of money? Should you be surprised
to hear that he is a convicted felon? Should you be surprised
to hear that he has a daughter in the workhouse?”…
At this point the reading of the letter was interrupted
by the great legal luminary, who said that the remainder
of it had no bearing on the case.
The plaintiff said he thought he had read enough to give
the court some idea of the animus of the document. He
would next ask if the defendant denied having written it?
The great legal luminary said his client acknowledged
having written the letter.
Mr. Justice Manifest said this was one more instance of
the manly and straightforward manner in which the case
for the defendant was being carried on.
The plaintiff said he had given the defendant an opening
to withdraw his statements in presence of the defendant’s
fa….
Mr. Justice Manifest (interrupting): “I must beg you not
to mention eminent people in no way connected with the
case.”
The plaintiff apologised and continued: The defendant
refused either to withdraw or substantiate his charges.
Mr. Justice Manifest: Quite right too. (Loud cheering.)
The plaintiff next called witnesses to speak to his
character and disprove the charges contained in the letter
which the defendant acknowledged having written, and
refused to withdraw.
The Rev. Lord Bishop of —— was sworn, and in answer
to questions said he had known the plaintiff from a boy, and
that he had always borne the highest character.
Several other reverend gentlemen, of whose congregations
the plaintiff had at various times been a prominent member,
were called, and deposed to the same effect—namely, that
he was a man against whom there had never been a breath
of even ordinary scandal. Also that he was of a most
edifying piety.
Plaintiff: Would it have been possible that such facts as
my having murdered my wife, embezzled money, been a
convicted felon, &c., could have remained unknown to you
during the time I was a member of your congregations?
The Reverend Gentlemen; “Quite impossible.” Plaintiff
then produced evidence that the period during which he had
sat under the various reverend gentlemen extended over his
whole life, from the age of eighteen to the present day.
Mr. Justice Manifest asked the great legal luminary if he
did not wish to cross-examine the witnesses.—Great legal
luminary: “No, my lord, I have no questions to ask.”
Mr. Justice Manifest thanked him for so considerately
saving the time of the court.
The plaintiff next called witnesses to prove that he had
only been once married, that he had lived in great peace
and harmony with his late wife, that she had died a natural
death, that he had sincerely mourned her, that he had
always supported his daughter honourably, and as well as his
small means would allow.
The great legal luminary scornfully refused to cross-examine
any of the witnesses.
The plaintiff then declared his case closed.
Mr. Justice Manifest: And high time too.
The great legal luminary then opened the case for the
defence: My lord I do not mean to waste the valuable time
of the court, already so mercilessly squandered by the
plaintiff. My client, acting on my advice, has considerately
refused to appear in the witness-box, or to call any witnesses.
I shall not soil myself by attempting to set aside any of the
evidence the plaintiff has thought fit so tediously to inflict
upon the patience of the court. The fact that a man is
obliged to call such evidence to his personal character is, I
should hope, sufficiently significant to all right-thinking and
unprejudiced minds. The law of libel is happily clear and
concise, and is known to all. That the position occupied by
the defendant’s family could in any way influence the
judgment of the court, which, monstrous as it may seem, the
plaintiff has not hesitated to imply, is a supposition I need
not even repudiate. My lord, I have done.
Mr. Justice Manifest: I cannot sufficiently express my
admiration for the moderation with which the counsel for the
defence has expressed himself, or my regret that such a case
should have been brought into court at all. The jury must
now consider carefully whether such a letter, written confidentially
by one member of a family to another, can in any
sense of the word be rightly called a libel, or whether the
whole thing is not a base conspiracy to annoy a family of
high position, and degrade the law. For my own part my
mind is quite made up, and though I have the highest
opinion of juries and their decisions, I must warn the jury
that in the extremely improbable event of their disagreeing
21
with me, I shall reserve to myself the right of setting aside
their decision.
The jury, without retiring, consulted for a few moments,
when the foreman said, My lord, we are unanimously
agreed.
Mr. Justice Manifest: I was sure you would be; and your
verdict is?
The Foreman: We find unhesitatingly for the plaintiff.
Mr. Justice Manifest (with withering sarcasm): Oh, do
you? Then may I ask at what you fix the damages?
The Foreman (after a brief consultation with the other
jurors): At £2,000, my lord.
Mr. Justice Manifest: I have no hesitation in overruling
the decision of the jury, and have much pleasure in deciding
that the court finds for the defendant with costs.
The Village Pet.
Around their panting captain
The village clubmen stand;
A presentation “pot” he bears
In his large and sinewy hand;
For he just has won the mile “cham,”
To the music of the band!
His hair is gingery, coarse, and long;
His muscles none can span,
His brow is wet with honest sweat—
He’s “put in” all he can;
He ain’t much to look at in the face,
But he’ll ride ’gainst any man!
(In the village!)
Week after week, morn, noon, and night,
You could see him rushing round
The cricket-field the club had hired
For an impromptu training-ground;
You could hear his back wheel clump and clatter,
Although with wire bound!
The loafers and cadgers of the place:
Crowd round the open gate:
They love to watch him wheeling round
Like some pursuing Fate;
To count each gasp, to cheer each spurt,
And fill with pride his pate!
He goes on Sunday to the church;
And sits among his pals:
Receiving homage from each youth,
And winking at the gals!
Makes weak attempts to “mash” ’em, and
Criticises their “fal-lals!”
He sleeps—dreams—hears his trainer’s voice
Telling him when to “stick it on!”
Remembers that he’ll ride no more
When the cold earth lays his chest upon!
Waking, he checks a deep, loud snore,
And finds his “mashes” homeward gone!
Training—perspiring—grinding:
Onward through life he goes—
Each evening sees a mile begun,
2m. 50s. sees it close!
Something attempted, something done,
Has gained a broken nose!
Experience by thee, my friend:
Thy chums, they have been taught,
Hadst thou been doomèd nées to ride
As reckless fellows ought
Then had thy Roman nose escaped
Much evil thou hast wrought!
R. C. Blow.
The Wheeling Annual for 1885.
Finis (Beeton’s Annual, 1877) contained a long
parody on “Evangeline,” from which the following
lines may be quoted:—
Mabel, The Made-up.
This is the Forest of St. John. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss and with lichens, have nothing to do with this Forest.
Here ’stead of pines there are lamp-posts; and ’stead of the hemlocks, post-pillars;
And as for the moss and the lichens, there’s dust and there’s slush in their places.
This is the Forest of St. John—but here are no beasts save cab-horses;
Birds, though—soiled doves as some call them—roost pretty thick in its villas.
Sooth ’tis a forest, say some, where one may find lots of “dears-talking.”
Certainly is it a tract for growing wild oats very famous!
Ye who believe in fair beauty, in beauty skin deep and enduring,
Ye who believe in the truth and the genuine charms of a woman,
List to my mournful experience gained not long since in the Forest;
List to the tale of Miss Mabel, a belle of that north-western quarter.
In the Ranunculus Road, near to the underground station;
In a small villa, detached, bounded on all sides by garden;
Lived on a competence easy, Mabel, the belle I have mentioned.
Fair as to face and so slim; flawless, in sooth, was this damsel;
Rounded her bust in a manner approved of by painters and sculptors;
Golden her hair as the sunshine that, careless, got tangled amongst it;
Blue though her eyes as the ocean, jet black her brows and her lashes;
Soft was the bloom on her cheeks as the delicate blush upon peaches;
Seeing her smile, teeth and lips seemed like pearls set in pinkest of coral;
Snow in her bosom had melted, despairing to rival its whiteness;
Taper and lithe were her fingers, each with its pink pearl-shell helmet;
Lightly had Time run the wheels of his chariot over her forehead,
Never a rut had they made, for the road was like white alabaster,
All this I saw and still more, though I am not a little short-sighted,
When at a morning performance by chance I happened to meet her.
22
Known to the friend I was with, he in the entr’acte introduced me;
And from that moment her box became the shrine of a goddess.
Little I saw of the play, now even its name I’ve forgotten;
Little I thought of my friend, but sheltered behind a box curtain,
Kept I my lorgnette on Mabel, watching her moods and her glances.
Perfect was each of her poses as that of a painter’s lithe model;
E’en when she talked to her friends the shape of her lips seemed like poetry;
Smiles rippled over her face like sunshine upon broken water.
* * * * *
During the war between the Northern and
Southern States of America many humorous
works were published which were intended to
expose the weaknesses, and abuses, in the policy
and administrations of both sides in the struggle.
Amongst these, few were more amusing, or more
popular than the Orpheus C. Kerr (i.e., office-seeker)
Papers, and the following chapter is
quoted, as it contains imitations of the poets
most popular in the States twenty odd years ago.
Under the thin veil of initials the names may
be traced of H. W. Longfellow, Edward Everett,
J. G. Whittier, Dr. O. W. Holmes, R. W. Emerson,
W. C. Bryant, G. P. Morris, N. P. Willis, T. B.
Aldwick, and R. H. Stoddart.
LETTER VIII.
The Rejected “National Hymns.”
Washington, D.C., June 30th, 1861.
Immediately after mailing my last to you, I secured a
short furlough, and proceeded to New York, to examine
into the affairs of that venerable committee which had
offered a prize of 500 dollars for the best National Hymn.
Astounding and distracting to relate, the committee
announces the reception of no less than eleven hundred and
fifty “anthems!”
And all these “anthems” are rejected by the venerable
committee! But must they all, therefore, be lost to the
world? I hope not, my boy,—I hope not. Having some
acquaintance with the discriminating rag-merchant to whom
they were turned over as rejected, I have procured some of
the best, from which to quote for your special edification.
Imprimis, my boy, observe this
NATIONAL ANTHEM
By H. W. L——, of Cambridge.
Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch
Over the sea-ribbed 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
Fluttered and flew the original Star-Spangled Banner.
The committee have two objections to this: in the first
place, it is not an “anthem” at all; secondly, it is a gross
plagiarism from an old Scandinavian war-song of the
primeval ages.
Next, I present a
NATIONAL ANTHEM
By the Hon. Edward E——, of Boston.
Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands,
Fell on our Liberty’s poor infant head,
Ere she a stadium had well advanced
On the great path that to her greatness led;
Her temple’s propylon was shattered;
Yet thanks to saving Grace and Washington,
Her incubus was from her bosom hurled;
And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,
She took the oil, with which her hair was curled,
To grease the “Hub” round which revolves the world.
This fine production is rather heavy for an “anthem,”
and contains too much of Boston to be considered strictly
national. To set such an “anthem” to music would require
a Wagner; and even were it really accommodated to a tune,
it could only be whistled by the populace.
We now come to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM
By John Greenleaf W——.
My native land, thy Puritanic stock
Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,
And all thy sons unite in one grand wish—
To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.
Preserv-ed 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.
The sectional bias of this “anthem” renders it unsuitable
for use in that small margin of the world situated outside of
New England. Hence the above must be rejected.
Here we have a very curious
NATIONAL ANTHEM
By Dr. Oliver Wendell H——.
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—
The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the
above, after reading thus far; for such an “anthem” could
only be sung by a college of surgeons, or a Beacon-street tea-party.
Turn we now to a
23
NATIONAL ANTHEM
By Ralph Waldo E——.
Source immaterial of material naught,
Focus of light infinitesimal,
Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,
Of which 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.
This “anthem” was greatly praised by a celebrated
German scholar; but the committee felt obliged to reject it
on account of its too childish simplicity.
Here we have a
NATIONAL ANTHEM
By William Cullen B——.
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.
Upon finding that this did not go well to the air of
“Yankee Doodle,” the committee felt justified in declining
it; being furthermore prejudiced against it by a suspicion
that the poet has crowded an advertisement of a paper which
he edits into the first line.
Next we quote from a
NATIONAL ANTHEM
By Gen. George P. M——.
In the days that tried our fathers
Many years ago,
Our fair land achieved her freedom,
Blood-bought, you know.
Shall we not defend her ever
As we’d defend
That fair maiden, kind and tender,
Calling us friend?
Yes! Let all the echoes answer,
From hill and vale;
Yes! Let other nations, hearing,
Joy in the tale.
Our Columbia is a lady,
High-born and fair;
We have sworn allegiance to her—
Touch her who dare.
The tone of this “anthem” not being devotional enough
to suit the committee, it should be printed on an edition of
linen-cambric handkerchiefs, for ladies especially.
Observe this
NATIONAL ANTHEM
By N. P. W——.
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.
Several members of the committee being pious, it is not
strange that this “anthem” has too much of the Anacreon
spice to suit them.
We next peruse a
NATIONAL ANTHEM
By Thomas Bailey A——.
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.
This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like
Tennyson. Though it was rejected by the committee, it
can never lose its value as a piece of excellent reading for
children. It is calculated to fill the youthful mind with
patriotism and natural history, besides touching the youthful
heart with an emotion palpitating for all.
Notice the following
NATIONAL ANTHEM
By R. H. Stod——
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.
And this is the last of the rejected anthems I can quote
from at present, my boy, though several hundred pounds
yet remain untouched.
Yours, questioningly,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
Longfellow has borrowed the refrain of “The
Old Clock on the Stairs” from a phrase of
Jacques Bridaine:—
“L’éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit
sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des
tombeaux: ‘Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours!’”
“And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,—
‘For ever—never!
Never—for ever!’
24
“Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,—
‘For ever—never!
Never—for ever!’”
It is somewhat remarkable that such a poet
as Charles Beaudelaire, the tone of whose
writings is generally far removed from that
of Longfellow, should so often have borrowed
sentiments and ideas from him. Thus in
“L’Horloge” he has two verses distinctly
reminiscent of “The Old Clock”:—
“Horloge! dieu sinistre, effrayant, impassible,
Dont le doight nous menace, et nous dit: Souviens-toi!
Les vibrantes Douleurs dans ton cœur, plein d’effroi,
Se planteront bientôt comme dans une cible.
* * * * *
“Trois mille six cents fois par heure, la seconde
Chuchote “Souviens-toi!”—Rapide avec sa voix
D’insecte, maintenant dit: Je suis autrefois,
Et j’ai pompé ta vie avec ma trompe immonde!”
Another poem in “Les Fleurs du Mal”
contains not only two verses appropriated
from “A Psalm of Life,” but curiously weaves
in with them a verse from Gray’s “Elegy in a
Country Church-yard.” This piece of patchwork
is entitled—
Le Guignon.
Pour soulever un poids si lourd,
Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage!
Bien qu’on ait du cœur à l’ouvrage,
L’Art est long, et le Temps est court.
Loin des sépultures célèbres,
Vers un cimetière isolé,
Mon cœur, comme un tambour voilé,
Va battant des marches funèbres.
—Maint joyau dort enseveli
Dans les ténèbres et l’oubli,
Bien loin des pioches et des sondes;
—Maint fleur épanche à regret
Son parfum doux comme un secret
Dans les solitudes profondes.
[1]
Beaudelaire himself admits that “Le Calumet
de Paix” is an imitation of Longfellow, it is, in
fact, a translation of The Peace-Pipe in “The
Song of Hiawatha,” and opens thus:—
“Or Gitche Manito, le Maître de la Vie,
Le Puissant, descendit dans la verte prairie,
Dans l’immense prairie aux coteaux montueux;
Et là, sur les rochers de la Rouge Carrière,
Dominant tout l’espace et baigné de lumière,
Il se tenait debout, vaste et majestueux.”
The spirit of the original poem is fairly well
rendered throughout, but the exigencies of
French rhyme do not admit the versification
of “Hiawatha.” Whilst on the topic of paraphrases,
it might be asked whether Longfellow
did not borrow his line—
“Tell me not in mournful numbers,”
from
“Singet nicht in Trauertönen,”
in Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister?”
It should have been mentioned that the
parody quoted on page 88, Part VI., entitled
“The Close of the Season,” originally appeared
in Punch, August 8, 1868, under the title,
“Flight,” also, that a political parody of “The
Bridge” was contained in Punch, July 8, 1865.
25
Edgar Allan Poe.
eird, thrilling, and mysterious as
are the poems and novels of this
unfortunate man of genius, nothing
that he ever wrote could call up
the emotions of pity and regret
more powerfully than the melancholy story of
his own wayward career, and his sad and early
death.
Much has recently been written about Poe,
and no difficulty can be found in learning all
that is known, with any certainty, of his singular
career; but an impenetrable veil of mystery still
obscures the record of several years of his life,
in spite of all the research of his numerous
biographers.
The name of Mr. John H. Ingram has long
been associated with these investigations, and
his pen has supplied biographical, and critical
essays, to all the best modern editions of his
works. Many of the following parodies are
copied from the large collection formed by Mr.
Ingram, and especial mention must here be made
of the curious so-called “Spiritual Poems,” supposed
to have been written by the shade of Poe,
which will be referred to later on.
Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, United
States, on January 19, 1809. His parents, who
were actors, died leaving him an orphan at an
early age; he was adopted by a wealthy childless
couple, of the name of Allan, by whom he
was brought to England in 1816, and placed in
a school at Stoke Newington. In 1821 he
returned to the United States, and spent some
years in desultory study and romantic rambles
abroad, of which very little, that is reliable, is
known.
At length his friends obtained a nomination
for him to the West Point Military Academy,
to which institution he was admitted as a cadet
on July 1, 1830. But Poe soon took a dislike to
a military career, and wilfully set the authorities
at defiance, so that they had no option but to
expel him. Having thus cast away all chance
of an honourable career in the United States
army, Poe returned to Richmond, to the house
of his only friend and protector, Mr. Allan.
But that gentleman, incensed at his conduct,
would not receive him, and Poe was thus
thrown penniless on the world.
He had already published a few poems, and
now adopted the precarious profession of
journalism, at which he laboured hard for
several years, and then, with no settled income,
still almost unknown, and with few prospects of
an encouraging character, he was rash enough
to marry his cousin, a girl but a little over
fourteen years of age. This was in May, 1836;
after a few years of struggling poverty and
anxiety, his young wife broke a blood-vessel,
and although she lingered on several years, it
was as a doomed invalid, whose death was
almost daily expected.
Poe was much attached to his wife, and
having a highly strung sensitive nature, the
grief and anxiety about her, unfitted him at
times for all mental labour. On such occasions
Poe had recourse to drink, thus adding new
sorrow and fresh misery to his already darkened
home. Yet, during this melancholy period of
his life, Poe produced many of his wonderful
tales of the imagination, and was maturing his
finest poems.
His wife died early in 1846, and Poe, for a
time, led a retired and solitary life; then he
resumed his newspaper work, and his practice
of lecturing on poetry and kindred topics. He
was now fast making his way to a good position,
his fame as a poet was rapidly spreading, his
lecture engagements were remunerative, and it
was rumoured that he was about to marry a
wealthy widow.
With ordinary steadiness and application, a
brilliant future awaited him, but his craving for
drink proved fatal, although he struggled against
it so far as to take the pledge of total abstinence.
He started to visit New York, on business, and
reached Baltimore on October 3, 1849, where it
is supposed that he took some drugged whiskey,
as he was found helpless in the streets. He
was conveyed to the Washington University
Hospital, where he died on the 7th of October,
1849.
Of his Poems, those which are the best known,
and the most generally admired, are amongst the
latest he produced. Thus, “The Raven,” which
obtained a great and immediate success, was
not published until early in 1845; “Eulalie,” in
26
August, 1845; “Ulalume,” most musical, most
melancholy of poems, appropriately appeared
soon after his wife’s death.
“To my Mother” was addressed to his
mother-in-law, and best friend, Mrs. Clemm,
in 1849; “Eldorado” and “For Annie” came
out in the same year; whilst the two very celebrated
poems, “Annabel Lee” and “The Bells”
were not published until after their author’s
death.
All his poems have a melancholy tinge, and,
unlike most modern American authors, Poe
seems almost destitute of humour.
“The Raven” is at once the most characteristic
and the most popular of his poems; it
is also that which is most frequently selected
for parody, or imitation. Many authors have also
adopted the metre for serious poems, such as
“The Gazelle” and “The Dove.” Poe wrote
an ingenious and amusing account of the origin
and growth of “The Raven.” The article is
much too long, and too discursive, to give in
full; but the following extracts contain its most
important passages:—
The Philosophy of Composition.
* * * * *
Holding in view these considerations, as well as that
degree of excitement which I deemed not above the popular,
while not below the critical taste, I reached at once what I
conceived the proper length for my intended poem—a
length of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hundred
and eight.
My next thought concerned the choice of an impression,
or effect, to be conveyed: and here I may as well observe
that, throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the
design of rendering the work universally appreciable. I
should be carried too far out of my immediate topic were I
to demonstrate a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted,
and which, with the poetical, stands not in the slightest need
of demonstration—the point, I mean that Beauty is the sole
legitimate province of the Poem.
Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question
referred to the tone of its highest manifestation—and all
experience has shown that this tone is one of sadness.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development,
invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is
thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.
These points being settled, I next bethought me of the
nature of my refrain. Since its application was to be
repeatedly varied, it was clear that the refrain itself must
be brief, for there would have been an insurmountable
difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sentence
of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence,
would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This led
me at once to a single word as the best refrain.
The question now arose as to the character of the word.
Having made up my mind to a refrain, the division of the
poem into stanzas was, of course, a corollary; the refrain
forming the close to each stanza. That such a close, to
have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted
emphasis, admitted no doubt; and these considerations
inevitably led me to the long o as the most sonorous vowel,
in connection with r as the most producible consonant.
The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it became
necessary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the
same time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy
which I had pre-determined as the tone of the poem.
In such a search it would have been absolutely impossible to
overlook the word “Nevermore.” In fact, it was the very
first which presented itself.
The next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous use
of the one word “Nevermore.” In observing the difficulty
which I at once found in inventing a sufficiently plausible
reason for its continuous repetition, I did not fail to perceive
that this difficulty arose solely from the pre-assumption that
the word was to be so continuously or monotonously spoken
by a human being—I did not fail to perceive, in short, that
the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with
the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating
the word. Here, then, immediately arose the idea of a
non-reasoning creature capable of speech; and, very
naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself,
but was superseded forthwith by a Raven, as equally
capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the
intended tone.
I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven—the
bird of ill omen—monotonously repeating the one word,
“Nevermore,” at the conclusion of each stanza, in a poem
of melancholy tone, and in length about one hundred lines.
Now, never losing sight of the object supremeness, or perfection,
at all points, I asked myself—“Of all melancholy
topics, what, according to the universal understanding of
mankind, is the most melancholy?” Death—was the obvious
reply. “And when,” I said, “is this most melancholy of
topics most poetical?” From what I have already explained
at some length, the answer here also is obvious—“When it
most closely allies itself to Beauty: the death, then, of a
beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic
in the world—and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips
best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover.”
I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover lamenting
his deceased mistress and a Raven continuously repeating
the word, “Nevermore.” I had to combine these, bearing
in mind my design of varying, at every turn, the application
of the word repeated; but the only intelligible mode of such
combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the
word in answer to the queries of the lover. And here it
was that I saw at once the opportunity afforded for the effect
on which I had been depending—that is to say, the effect of
the variation of application. I saw that I could make the
first query propounded by the lover—the first query to which
the Raven should reply “Nevermore” that I could make
this first query a commonplace one—the second less so—the
third still less, and so on—until at length the lover, startled
from his original nonchalance by the melancholy character of
the word itself—by its frequent repetition—and by a consideration
of the ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered
it—is at length excited to superstition, and wildly propounds
queries of a far different character—queries whose solution he
has passionately at heart—propounds them half in superstition,
and half in that species of despair which delights in
self-torture—propounds them not altogether because he
believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird
(which, reason assures him, is merely repeating a lesson
learned by rote) but because he experiences a frenzied
pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the
expected “Nevermore” the most delicious because the most
intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus
afforded me—or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in the
progress of the construction I first established in mind the
climax, or concluding query—that query to which “Nevermore”
27
should be in the last place an answer—that query in
reply to which this word “Nevermore” should involve the
utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.
Here, then, the poem may be said to have its beginning—at
the end, where all works of art should begin—for it was
here, at this point of my preconsiderations, that I first put
pen to paper in the composition of the stanza:—
“Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us—by the God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore,”
* * * * *
The Raven.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door,—
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow,—sorrow for the lost Lenore,—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer:
“Sir,” said I, “or, madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you,”—here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,—
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind, and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door,—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,—
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast, and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,—
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore.’”
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
28
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er
She shall press, ah! nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch!” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore,
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting,
“Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor:
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
At the time when Poe produced “The Raven”
he was editor of “The Broadway Journal,”
published in New York. The first number
appeared on January 4, 1845, and in the number
for April 26, 1845, Poe inserted the following
editorial note, which shows that he was not
averse to a parody of even his own most grave
and solemn poem:—
A Gentle Puff.
“If we copied into our Journal all the complimentary
notices that are bestowed upon us, it would contain
hardly anything besides; the following done into poetry
is probably the only one of the kind that we shall
receive, and we extract it from our neighbour, the
New World, for the sake of its uniqueness.”
Then with step sedate and stately, as if thrones had borne him lately,
Came a bold and daring warrior up the distant echoing floor;
As he passed the Courier’s Colonel, then I saw The Broadway Journal,
In a character supernal, on his gallant front he bore,
And with stately step and solemn marched he proudly through the door,
As if he pondered, evermore.
With his keen sardonic smiling, every other care beguiling,
Right and left he bravely wielded a double-edged and broad claymore,
And with gallant presence dashing, ’mid his confreres stoutly clashing,
He unpityingly went slashing, as he keenly scanned them o’er,
And with eye and mien undaunted, such a gallant presence bore,
As might awe them, evermore.
Neither rank nor station heeding, with his foes around him bleeding,
Sternly, singly and alone, his course he kept upon that floor;
While the countless foes attacking, neither strength nor valor lacking,
On his goodly armor hacking, wrought no change his visage o’er,
As with high and honest aim, he still his falchion proudly bore,
Resisting error, evermore.
C. C. Cooke, a young Virginian poet, who
died at a very early age, also wrote “The
Gazelle,” a poem of which Poe said “Although
professedly an imitation, has a very great deal
of original power.”
This was headed:—
“The following, from our new-found boy poet
of fifteen years of age, shows a most happy
faculty of imitation”:—
The Gazelle.
(After the manner of Poe’s “Raven.”)
Far from friends and kindred wandering, in my sick and sad soul pondering,
Of the changing chimes that float, from Old Time’s ever-swinging bell,
29
While I lingered on the mountain, while I knelt me by the fountain,
By the clear and crystal fountain, trickling through the quiet dell;
Suddenly I heard a whisper, but from whence I could not tell,
Merely whispering, “Fare thee well.”
From my grassy seat uprising, dimly in my soul surmising,
Whence that voice so gently murmuring, like a faintly sounded knell,
Nought I saw while gazing round me, while that voice so spell-like bound me,
While that voice so spell-like bound me—searching in that tranquil dell,
Like hushed hymn of holy hermit, heard from his dimly-lighted cell,
Merely whispering, “Fare thee well!”
Then I stooped once more, and drinking, heard once more the silvery tinkling,
Of that dim mysterious utterance, like some fairy harp of shell—
Struck by hand of woodland fairy, from her shadowy home and airy,
In the purple clouds and airy, floating o’er that mystic dell,
And from my sick soul its music seemed all evil to expel,
Merely whispering, “Fare thee well!”
Then my book at once down flinging, from my reverie up springing,
Searched I through the forest, striving my vain terror to dispel,
All things to my search subjecting, not a bush or tree neglecting,
When behind a rock projecting, saw I there a white gazelle,
And that soft and silvery murmur, in my ear so slowly fell,
Merely whispering, “Fare thee well!”
From its eye so mildly beaming, down its cheek a tear was streaming,
As though in its gentle bosom dwelt some grief it could not quell,
Still those words articulating, still that sentence ever prating,
And my bosom agitating as upon my ear it fell,
That most strange, unearthly murmur, acting as a potent spell,
Merely uttering, “Fare thee well!”
Then I turned, about departing, when she from her covert starting,
Stood before me while her bosom seemed with agony to swell,
And her eye so mildly beaming, to my aching spirit seeming,
To my wildered spirit seeming, like the eye of Isabel.
But, oh! that which followed after—listen while the tale I tell—
Of that snow-white, sweet gazelle.
With her dark eye backward turning, as if some mysterious yearning
In her soul to me was moving, which she could not thence expel,
Through the tangled thicket flying, while I followed panting, sighing,
All my soul within me dying, faintly on my hearing fell,
Echoing mid the rocks and mountains rising round that fairy dell,
Fare thee, fare thee, fare thee well!
Now at length she paused and laid her, underneath an ancient cedar,
When the shadowy shades of silence, from the day departing fell,
And I saw that she was lying, trembling, fainting, weeping, dying,
And I could not keep from sighing, nor from my sick soul expel
The memory that those dark eyes raised—of my long lost Isabel.
Why, I could not, could not tell.
Then I heard that silvery singing, still upon my ear ’tis ringing,
And where once beneath that cedar, knelt my soft-eyed sweet gazelle,
Saw I there a seraph glowing, with her golden tresses flowing,
On the perfumed zephyrs blowing, from Eolus’ mystic cell
Saw I in that seraph’s beauty, semblance of my Isabel,
Gently whispering, ‘Fare thee well!’”
“Glorious one,” I cried, upspringing, “art thou joyful tidings bringing,
From the land of shadowy visions, spirit of my Isabel?
Shall thy coming leave no token? Shall there no sweet word be spoken?
Shall thy silence be unbroken, in this ever blessed dell?
Whilst thou nothing, nothing utter, but that fatal, ‘Fare thee well!’”
Still it answered, ‘Fare thee well!’”
“Speak! oh, speak to me bright being! I am blest thy form in seeing,
But shall no sweet whisper tell, me,—tell me that thou lovest still?
Shall I pass from earth to heaven, without sign or token given,
With no whispered token given—that thou still dost love me well?
Give it, give it now, I pray thee—here within this blessed dell,
Still that hated ‘Fare thee well.’”
Not another word expressing, but her lip in silence pressing,
With the vermeil-tinted finger seeming silence to compel,
And while yet in anguish gazing, and my weeping eyes upraising,
To the shadowy, silent seraph, semblance of my Isabel,
Slow she faded, till there stood there, once again the white gazelle,
Faintly whispering, “Fare thee well!”
C.
Evening Mirror, New York, April 29, 1845.
The Whippoorwill.
* * * * *
In the wilderness benighted, lo! at last my guide alighted
On a lowly little cedar that o’erspread a running rill;
Still his cry of grief he uttered, and around me wildly fluttered,
Whilst unconsciously I muttered, filled with boundless wonder still;
“Wherefore dost thou so implore me, piteously implore me still?
Tell me, tell me, Whippoorwill!
Soon beneath him, as he hover’d, by the starlight I discovered
That his gentle mate was lying on the dead leaves, dead and still:—
30
“Then,” said I, “he did implore me, in my chamber flitting o’er me,
Flitting to and fro before me, to avert some fearful ill;—
With prophetic instinct surely, he entreated human skill
To save the dying Whippoorwill.”
* * * * *
O’er the lifeless bird then kneeling, all his grief within me feeling,
And my soul within me moving all its longing to fulfil,
On her velvet wing I laid her, in a grave my hands had made her,
Underneath the little cedar, and beside the running rill:—
Odorous leaves her shroud and pillow, and her dirge the running rill—
Buried I the Whippoorwill.
* * * * *
Evening Mirror, New York, May 30, 1845.
This somewhat dull imitation consists of
twenty-four verses in all, the extracts sufficiently
indicate its style. The numerous parodies to
be found in the American papers as early as
1845 attest how rapidly “The Raven” had
acquired popularity.
The following clever parody appeared originally
in “Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac” for
1853, but it was reproduced in “The Piccadilly
Annual,” published in 1870 by John Camden
Hotten. The parody was written by Robert
Brough, and was most humorously illustrated
by H. G. Hine:—
THE VULTURE:
An Ornithological Study.
(After the late Edgar A. Poe.)
The Vulture is the most cruel, deadly, and voracious of
birds of prey. He is remarkable for his keen scent, and for
the tenacity with which he invariably clings to the victim on
whom he has fixed his gripe. He is not to be shaken off
whilst the humblest pickings remain. He is usually to be
found in an indifferent state of feather.—New Translation of
Cuvier.
Once upon a midnight chilling, as I held my feet unwilling
O’er a tub of scalding water, at a heat of ninety-four;
Nervously a toe in dipping, dripping, slipping, then out-skipping,
Suddenly there came a ripping, whipping, at my chambers door.
“’Tis the second floor,” I mutter’d, “flipping at my chambers door—
Wants a light—and nothing more!”
Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the chill November,
And each cuticle and member was with influenza sore;
Falt’ringly I stirr’d the gruel, steaming, creaming o’er the fuel,
And anon removed the jewel that each frosted nostril bore,
Wiped away the trembling jewel that each redden’d nostril bore—
Nameless here for evermore!
And I recollect a certain draught that fann’d the window curtain
Chill’d me, fill’d me with the horror of two steps across the floor,
And, besides, I’d got my feet in, and a most refreshing heat in,
To myself I sat repeating—“If I answer to the door—
Rise to let the ruffian in who seems to want to burst the door,
I’ll be ——” that and something more.
Presently the row grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Really, Mister Johnson, blow it!—your forgiveness I implore,
Such an observation letting slip, but when a man’s just getting
Into bed, you come upsetting nerves and posts of chambers door,
Making such a row, forgetting”—Spoke a voice beyond the door:
“’Tisn’t Johnson”—nothing more!
Quick a perspiration clammy bathed me, and I uttered “Dammy!”
(Observation wrested from me, like the one I made before)
Back upon the cushions sinking, hopelessly my eyes, like winking,
On some stout for private drinking, ranged in rows upon the floor,
Fix’d—and on an oyster barrel (full) beside them on the floor,
Look’d and groan’d, and nothing more.
Open then was flung the portal, and in stepp’d a hated mortal,
By the moderns call’d a Vulture (known as Sponge in days of yore),
Well I knew his reputation! cause of all my agitation—
Scarce a nod of salutation changed, he pounced upon the floor;
Coolly lifted up the oysters and some stout from off the floor,
Help’d himself, and took some more!
Then this hungry beast untiring fix’d his gaze with fond admiring
On a piece of cold boil’d beef, I meant to last a week or more,
Quick he set to work devouring—plates, in quick succession, scouring—
Stout with every mouthful show’ring—made me ask, to see it pour,
If he quite enjoy’d his supper, as I watch’d the liquid pour;
Said the Vulture “Never more.”
Much disgusted at the spacious vacuum by this brute voracious
Excavated in the beef—(he’d eaten quite enough for four)—
Still, I felt relief surprising when at length I saw him rising,
That he meant to go surmising, said I, glancing at the door—
“Going? well, I won’t detain you—mind the stairs and shut the door——”
“Leave you, Tomkins!—never more.”
Startled by an answer dropping hints that he intended stopping
All his life—I knew him equal to it if he liked, or more—
Half in dismal earnest, half in joke, with an attempt at laughing,
31
I remarked that he was chaffing, and demanded of the bore,
Ask’d what this disgusting, nasty, greedy, vile, intrusive bore
Meant in croaking “Never more?”
But the Vulture not replying, took my bunch of keys, and trying
Sev’ral, found at length the one to fit my private cupboard door;
Took the gin out, fill’d the kettle; and with a sang froid to nettle
Any saint, began to settle calmly down the grate before,
Really as he meant departing at the date I named before,
Of never, never more!
Then I sat engaged in guessing what this circumstance distressing
Would be likely to result in, for I knew that long before
Once (it served me right for drinking) I had told him that if sinking
In the world, my fortunes linking to his own, he’d find my door
Always open to receive him, and it struck me now that door
He would pass, p’raps never more!
Suddenly the air was clouded, all the furniture enshrouded
With the smoke of vile tobacco—this was worse than all before;
“Smith!” I cried (in not offensive tones, it might have been expensive,
For he knew the art defensive, and could costermongers floor);
“Recollect it’s after midnight, are you going?—mind the floor.”
Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!”
“Smith!” I cried (the gin was going, down his throat in rivers flowing),
“If you want a bed, you know there’s quite a nice hotel next door,
Very cheap. I’m ill—and, joking set apart, your horrid smoking
Irritates my cough to choking. Having mentioned it before,
Really, you should not compel one—Will you mizzle—as before?”
Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!”
“Smith!” I cried, “that joke repeating merits little better treating
For you than a condemnation as a nuisance and a bore.
Drop it, pray, it isn’t funny; I’ve to mix some rum and honey—
If you want a little money, take some and be off next door;
Run a bill up for me if you like, but do be off next door.”
Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!”
“Smith!” I shriek’d—the accent humbler dropping, as another tumbler
I beheld him mix, “be off! you drive me mad—it’s striking four.
Leave the house and something in it; if you go on at the gin, it
Wont hold out another minute. Leave the house and shut the door—
Take your beak from out my gin, and take your body through the door!”
Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!”
And the Vulture never flitting—still is sitting, still is sitting,
Gulping down my stout by gallons, and my oysters by the score;
And the beast, with no more breeding than a heathen savage feeding,
The new carpet’s tints unheeding, throws his shells upon the floor.
And his smoke from out my curtains, and his stains from out my floor,
Shall be sifted never more!
The Tankard.
Sitting in my lonely chamber, in this dreary, dark December,
Gazing on the whitening ashes of my fastly-fading fire,
Pond’ring o’er my misspent chances with that grief which time enhances—
Misdirected application, wanting aims and objects higher,—
Aims to which I should aspire.
As I sat thus wond’ring, thinking, fancy unto fancy linking,
In the half-expiring embers many a scene and form I traced—
Many a by-gone scene of gladness, yielding now but care and sadness,—
Many a form once fondly cherished, now by misery’s hand effaced,—
Forms which Venus’ self had graced.
Suddenly, my system shocking, at my door there came a knocking,
Loud and furious,—such a rat-tat never had I heard before;
Through the keyhole I stood peeping, heart into my mouth upleaping,
Till at length, my teeth unclenching, faintly said I “What a bore!”
Gently, calmly, teeth unclenching, faintly said I, “What a bore!”
Said the echo, “Pay your score!”
At this solemn warning trembling, some short time I stood dissembling,
Till again the iron knocker beat its summons ’gainst the door,
Then, the oak wide open throwing, stood I on the threshold bowing—
Bows such as, save motley tumbler, mortal never bowed before,
Bows which even Mr. Flexmore never yet had tried before.
Said the echo, “Pay your score!”
Grasping then the light, upstanding, looked I round the dreary landing,
Looked at every wall, the ceiling, looked upon the very floor;
Nought I saw there but a Tankard, from the which that night I’d drank hard,—
Drank as drank our good forefathers in the merry days of yore.
In the corner stood the Tankard, where it oft had stood before,
Stood and muttered, “Pay your score!”
Much I marvelled at this pewter, surely ne’er in past or future
Has been, will be, such a wonder, such a Tankard learned in lore?
Gazing at it more intensely, stared I more and more immensely
When it added, “Come old boy, you’ve many a promise made before,
False they were as John O’Connell’s who would ‘die upon the floor.’
Now for once—come, pay your score!”
32
From my placid temper starting, and upon the Tankard darting
With one furious hurl I flung it down before the porter’s door;
But as I my oak was locking, heard I then the self-same knocking,
And on looking out I saw the Tankard sitting as before,—
Sitting, squatting in the self-same corner as it sat before,—
Sitting, crying, “Pay your score!”
And the Tankard, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
In the very self-same corner where it sat in days of yore:
And its pewter still is shining, and it bears the frothy lining,
Which the night when first I drained its cooling beverage it bore,
But my mouth that frothy lining never, never tasted more,
Since it muttered, “Pay your score!”
Edmund H. Yates.
Mirth and Metre, 1855.
The Parrot.
By Edgardo Pooh.
Once, as through the streets I wandered, and o’er many a fancy pondered,
Many a fancy quaint and curious, which had filled my mind of yore,—
Suddenly my footsteps stumbled, and against a man I tumbled,
Who, beneath a sailor’s jacket, something large and heavy bore.
“Beg your pardon, sir!” I muttered, as I rose up, hurt and sore;
But the sailor only swore.
Vexed at this, my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “now really, truly, your forgiveness I implore!
But, in fact, my sense was napping——” then the sailor answered, rapping
Out his dreadful oaths and awful imprecations by the score,—
Answered he, “Come, hold your jaw!
“May my timbers now be shivered—” oh, at this my poor heart quivered,—
“If you don’t beat any parson that I ever met before!
You’ve not hurt me; stow your prosing”—then his huge peacoat unclosing,
Straight he showed the heavy parcel, which beneath his arm he bore,—
Showed a cage which held a parrot, such as Crusoe had of yore,
Which at once drew corks and swore.
Much I marvelled at this parrot, green as grass and red as carrot,
Which, with fluency and ease, was uttering sentences a score;
And it pleased me so immensely, and I liked it so intensely,
That I bid for it at once; and when I showed of gold my store,
Instantly the sailor sold it; mine it was, and his no more;
Mine it was for evermore.
Prouder was I of this bargain, e’en than patriotic Dargan,
When his Sovereign, Queen Victoria, crossed the threshold of his door;—
Surely I had gone demented—surely I had sore repented,
Had I known the dreadful misery which for me Fate had in store,—
Known the fearful, awful misery which for me Fate had in store,
Then, and now, and evermore!
Scarcely to my friends I’d shown it, when (my mother’s dreadful groan!—it
Haunts me even now!) the parrot from his perch began to pour
Forth the most tremendous speeches, such as Mr. Ainsworth teaches—
Us were uttered by highway men and rapparees of yore!—
By the wicked, furious, tearing, riding rapparees of yore;
But which now are heard no more.
And my father, straight uprising, spake his mind—It was surprising,
That this favourite son, who’d never, never so transgressed before,
Should have brought a horrid, screaming—nay, e’en worse than that—blaspheming
Bird within that pure home circle—bird well learned in wicked lore!
While he spake, the parrot, doubtless thinking it a horrid bore,
Cried out “Cuckoo!” barked, and swore.
And since then what it has cost me,—all the wealth and friends it’s lost me,
All the trouble, care, and sorrow, cankering my bosom’s core,
Can’t be mentioned in these verses; till, at length, my heartfelt curses
Gave I to this cruel parrot, who quite coolly scanned me o’er—
Wicked, wretched, cruel parrot, who quite coolly scanned me o’er,
Laughed, drew several corks, and swore.
“Parrot!” said I, “bird of evil! parrot still, or bird or devil!
By the piper who the Israelitish leader played before,
I will stand this chaff no longer! We will see now which is stronger.
Come, now,—off! Thy cage is open—free thou art, and there’s the door!
Off at once, and I’ll forgive thee;—take the hint, and leave my door.”
But the parrot only swore.
And the parrot never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the very self-same perch where first he sat in days of yore;
And his only occupations seem acquiring imprecations
Of the last and freshest fashion, which he picks up by the score;
Picks them up, and, with the greatest
gusto, bawls them by the score,
And will swear for evermore.
Our Miscellany (which ought to have come out,
but didn’t),
by E. H. Yates and R. B. Brough, 1856.
The Cat-Fiend.
(An Original Adaptation.)
On a bleak evening of December I sat alone in my gloomy
chambers and brooded over the past. I had sought in vain
to turn the current of my thoughts by plunging into metaphysical
researches: Watts on the Mind lay open, but
33
unheeded, beside me. Never had the apartment worn so
ghostly an aspect. My lamp threw a fitful gleam upon the
sumptuous but sombre furniture; the fire was expiring, yet I
lacked energy to put on more coals. If I had been expiring
myself I should have hated the man who put coals upon me.
The chief object of my memories was a young person to
whom I had formerly been attached. I dwelt fondly, but
bitterly, upon the day when my Leonora, accompanied by
her vulgar and intrusive mother, had brightened my dingy
rooms in ——’s Inn with her presence to tea, previous to
visiting Drury Lane Theatre. That was all over now;
Leonora married into the city and left me desolate. I am
not even acquainted with her present name; but it fills me
with despondency to think that her graceful form will never
again press the velvet lining of my quaintly carved arm-chair.
While I sat buried in my sad reflections, it seemed as
though there came a soft rapping at my outer door. It was
growing so late that I made my mind up to disregard the
summons. “It is only Briggs,” I murmured; “if I admit
him he will weary me with platitudes until the dawn. Or it
is Potter, perchance, advanced in liquor, I will none
of him.”
At this point the rapping was renewed more loudly. My
resolution suddenly changed, and I resolved that I would
explore the mystery. Making my way to the door I flung it
wide open. The landing was in darkness; no voice gave
answer to my challenge, and, feeling a little nervous, I
slammed the door and went back to my arm-chair by the
fire.
Weird—ghastly—inscrutable—was the apparition that
awaited me! Stretched upon the hearth-rug at my feet
lay a large cat of ebon blackness, glaring at me with a pair
of wild eyes in which anger was mingled with an expression
of diabolical sarcasm. The blood curdled in my veins; I
seized the poker and yelled, “Get out, beast! How dare
you come in here? Go away directly, or——!”
The lips of the animal opened and pronounced slowly and
solemnly the words “Never no more!”
My hair stood on end, and the poker fell from my grasp.
“Horrible being!” I cried;—“fearful and ungrammatical
being leave me, and return to darkness and the Stygian
shore.”
“Never no more!” said the brute: “I’ve come to stay
for ever.”
“Nonsense, monster; you are insane,” I shouted.
“Fact, I assure you,” replied my tormentor;—“they
hadn’t got no raven handy, and so they sent me. It’s about
the Leonora business.”
“Ah, that name! Tell me, I implore you, tell me—is she
a widow yet? May I hope? Shall I again behold her?”
“Never no more!”
This was too much. I ran and threw the door open again—came
back—firmly grasped the poker, and——
But the beast had sought refuge under the sofa. Thence
it retreated beneath my table, and thence under the arm-chair.
Round and round the apartment I chased it vainly.
Its demoniac laugh thrilled me with rage and horror.
* * * * *
The cat-fiend still inhabits my gloomy chambers. I have
abandoned all hope of expelling it. The creature exists
without food, so that the expedient of starvation is impracticable.
At all hours of the day and night I am haunted by
the wild eyes of my hated persecutor: at all hours of the
day and night I hear the detested brute murmuring with a
chuckle that maddens me,
“Never no more!”
Fun, February 1, 1868.
The Craven.
Once upon a midnight lately, might be seen a figure stately,
In the Tuileries sedately poring over Roman lore;
Annotating, scheming, mapping, Cæsar’s old positions sapping,
When there came a something rapping, spirit-rapping at the door.
“’Tis some minister,” he muttered, “come, as usual, me to bore.”
So to Cæsar turned once more.
Back to Caesar’s life returning, with a soul for ever yearning,
Towards the steps his promise-spurning prototype had trod before.
But the silence was soon broken; through the stillness came a token
Life had moved again, or spoken on the other side the door.
“Surely I’ve no trusty servant,” said he, “to deny my door
Now De Morny is no more.”
Rising, of some trespass certain, slow he draws the purple curtain,
On whose folds the bees uncertain look like wasps, and nothing more:
Open flings the chamber portal, with a chill which stamps him mortal.
Can his senses be the sport all of his eyes! For there before
He sees an eagle perching on a bust of Janus at the door:
A bleeding bird, and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, not in fear, but only fearing
Adrien’s vulgar indiscretions, Marx
[2] of eaves-dropping in store:
“Though thy wings are torn and bleeding,” said he, with a voice of pleading:
“Thou’rt a bird of royal breeding: thou hast flown from foreign shore.”
Quoth the Eagle, “Matamore.”
Started with the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken,
“Silence,” said he, “never utter memories of that field of gore,
Where your poor Imperial master, whom imperious disaster
Followed fast, was tortured faster, till his heart one burden bore:
Till the dirges of his hope, this melancholy burden bore—
Never see Carlotta more.”
Then upon the velvet sinking, he betook himself to thinking
How he’d forced the murdered Prince to leave his quiet home of yore;
How he’d made him wield a sceptre, which no erudite preceptor
Might have told would soon be wept or lost on that forbidding shore,
Where earth cries for retribution, where for justice stones implore.
Quoth the Eagle, “Matamore.”
“Wretch!” he cried, “some fiend hath sent thee, by that mocking voice he lent thee
Conscience-driven accusations rising up at every pore—
Must my master-mind so vaunted, ever hence be spectre haunted—
Must I see that form undaunted, dying still at Matamore?”
Quoth the Eagle, “Evermore.”
34
“Prophet!” shrieked he, “thing of evil! Here we fear nor God nor Devil!
Wing thee to the House of Hapsburg! Up to Austria’s heaven soar,
Leave no bloody plume as token, of the lies my soul has spoken,
Leave my iron will unbroken! Wipe the blood before my door!
Dost thou think to gnaw my entrails with thy beak for evermore?”
Quoth the Eagle, “Jusqu’à Mort.”
The above parody appeared in The Tomahawk
after the execution, on June 19, 1867, of the
Emperor Maximilian in Mexico. “The Craven”
was intended for Napoleon III., to whose Government
The Tomahawk was bitterly opposed.
The Tailor.
Once upon a morning dismal, as I smoked in blues abysmal,
Gazing at the curious patterns on the dressing gown I wore,
While my cat her milk was lapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
Like a fellow’s knuckles rapping, rapping at my chamber door;
“It’s that nuisance Smith,” I muttered, rapping at my chamber door—
He may rap his fingers sore.”
Ah! I do remember clearly small was then my income yearly,
And to pay my lodging nearly did my slight finances floor;
And my prospects, never sunny, fishy were as any tunny,
And I sadly wanted money, money to pay Baize and Blore,
Pay the fashionable tailors called in Oxford Baize and Blore,
Who will dun me evermore.
But my cat, prophetic pussy, now got ominously fussy,
Clawed me, pawed me with her talons as she’d never done before;
So that now to stay her terror and convince her of her error,
“Tabby,” said I, “it is Smith entreating entrance at my door;
It’s that feeble Smith demanding entrance at my chamber door,
Only Smith and nothing more!”
Presently my chair removing, and most seriously reproving
My grimalkin, for the dreadful way in which she spat and swore,
From my writing-table’s kneehole stole I softly to the weehole
Which the people call the keyhole—keyhole of my chamber door,
Peeping through it saw another eye the other side the door,
Looking at me—nothing more.
Straight to stop that sly eye’s prying, to the key my lips applying,
Blew I such a puff of smoke as no man ever puffed before;
Then I heard him backward starting, rub his eye as if ’twere smarting,
And he seemed to be departing, so I whispered, “Is it sore?”
This I whispered through the keyhole; echo answered “It is sore.”
Answered thus, and nothing more.
Back I went and felt elated, and my blues had now abated,
When again I heard that rapping rather louder than before;
“Surely,” said I, rising, “surely, if he thinks I’ll sit demurely
While he makes that din securely, his mistake he shall deplore;
If I only catch him at it, his misdeed he shall deplore—
He shall not annoy me more.”
Open here I flung the portal, when there entered in a mortal,
Crooked legged, with clothes too short all—seedy garments that he wore;
Never once “good morning” bade me—not a bow or scrape he made me,
But upon my table laid me down a bill from Baize and Blore,
Took his stand upon the oilcloth just within my chamber door,
Stood and hiccupped—nothing more.
Then this festive creature winning all my sad soul into grinning,
Such a visage idiotic I had never seen of yore;
“Well, you have been drinking brandy,” said I, “and your legs are bandy,
And you hardly look a dandy, though you come from Baize and Blore;
Tell me what on earth your name is in the firm of Baize and Blore?”
Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!”
Scarce I wondered this unsightly dun had answered unpolitely,
And his answer little comfort, little consolation bore;
For you cannot help confessing that it’s surely not a blessing
When you find yourself addressing dun within your chamber door;
Man or dun upon the oilcloth just within your chamber-door,
With a name like Tick-no-more!
But the tailor standing solus gave me like a bitter bolus
That one word, as if his vacant soul in that he did outpour;
Me with no fine words he buttered, this from time to time he stuttered,
Till I very softly muttered, “other duns have been before;
They will give me further credit as my tradesmen have before;”
Then the dun said, “Tick-no-more!”
Startled that he spoke so flatly and replied so very patly,
“Limited,” I said, “it seems is his linguistic stock and store;
If of no more words he’s master, if he duns not harder, faster,
Verily he’ll bring disaster on the house of Baize and Blore,
And I shall remain indebted to the firm of Baize and Blore
For ever, evermore.”
35
Still his strange demeanour winning all my sad soul into grinning,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned couch in front of oilcloth, dun, and door;
Then upon the cushions sinking I betook myself to drinking
Little sips of sherry, thinking what this plague from Baize and Blore,
What this gloomy, greasy, groggy messenger from Baize and Blore
Meant by stuttering “Tick-no-more.”
But my cat I soothed by stroking, and small bits of bread kept soaking
In the milk, and gave them to her, dropped them for her on the floor:
Long I sat, strange things divining, with my head at ease reclining
Near the sherry I was wining that the dun’s eye gloated o’er;
But the liquor I was wining with his green eyes gloating o’er
He shall taste, oh! nevermore.
Cloud by cloud the air grew denser, perfumed from my meerschaum censer,
I should think I must have smoked of pipes that morning half a score;
“Man,” I said, “I have no treasure, or I’d pay the bill with pleasure,
Only once more take my measure for a suit from Baize and Blore,
Take your tape and take my measure for a suit from Baize and Blore.”
Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!”
“Dun!” I cried, “inhuman creature, human still in form and feature,
Much I’ve hoped you’d take my orders as you’ve always done before;
Tell me—for although you’re fuddled, you’re not utterly bemuddled—
Tell me if this hope I’ve cuddled is well-founded, I implore;
Will they, will they give me credit? tell me clearly, I implore?”
Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!”
“Dun!” I cried, “inhuman creature, human still in form and feature,
By the piper who performed for Moses in the days of yore,
Tell me won’t, oh! brainless brute, your firm supply to me in future
Raiment of unequalled suture—genuine make of Baize and Blore,
Clothes of rare and radiant suture—splendid make of Baize and Blore?”
Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!”
“Then be off, you sour curmudgeon!” cried I, starting up in dudgeon,
“Get you back to goose and scissors, get you back to Baize and Blore;
Leave no long account suggestive of reflections most unfestive,
Such as make me sleepless, restive—quit my chamber, quit my door;
Take your bill from off my table, take yourself from out my door!”
Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!”
Thus the tailor dunned for payment for the raiment, for the raiment
Mentioned in the bill he did not take from out my chamber door;
Thus he left me grimly staring, and that long account up tearing,
Part went up the chimney flaring, part lay scattered on the floor;
But that bill whose shreds went flying, or lay scattered on the floor
Now is settled ever more.
Odd Echoes from Oxford, by A. Merion, B.A.
(John Camden Hotten, London, 1872.)
The Shavin’.
(A piece of ravin’ à la Edgar A. Poe.)
One morning after sleeping I thought I heard a creeping,
As if some one were approaching close to my bedroom door:
Then a loud impatient tapping put an end unto my napping,
And I wondered who was rapping, rapping at my bedroom door,
So I timidly enquired who was at my bedroom door—
Only that, and nothing more.
When there came another knock, with, “Sir, ’tis eight o’clock,”
And, only half awakened, I leaped out upon the floor;
And by want of proper care hit my leg against a chair,
Which improperly stood there, as ’twas left the night before,
And I limped a very little as I crept towards the door—
Just a little, nothing more.
Then on asking, “What’s the matter?” said the servant, “Here’s your water,”
And you’ve slept in rather later than you ever did before;
So as I was rather press’d I got very quickly drest
In my trousers and my vest; then I opened up the door,
And I muttered as I took it and shut to my bedroom door—
“Oh, that shavin’, what a bore!”
While inwardly I cursed—thus my feelings I disbursed—
I set about to rummage and to busily explore;
But I couldn’t find the strop, and someone had nailed the soap,
Which completely put a stop to my shavin’—horrid bore!
And my razor, too, was blunter than it ever was before—
Than it ever was before!
As I rushed about half raving, I bethought me of this shaving,
And I wondered that I hadn’t stopped the practice long before:
So I made an inward vow, that from this moment now,
My beard should, like my pow, grow at pleasure evermore,
And my resolution echoed as I ope’d my bedroom door—
“I shall shave, ah! nevermore!”
John F. Mill.
The above Parody appeared, some years ago,
in a Scotch magazine called The People’s Friend.
Chateaux D’Espagne.
(A Reminiscence of “David Garrick” and
“The Castle of Andalusia.”)
Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord Dundreary
With his quaint and curious humour set the town in such a roar,
36
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 linger’d 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 enlighten’d 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 center’d
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?”
(With a bust of Julius Cæsar up above the study 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!”
Carols of Cockayne, by Henry S. Leigh
(John Camden Hotten, London, 1872.)
A Ravin’.
Once upon a midnight dreary, as I slumbered cross and weary,
Cross from several horrid boring books of theologic lore,
While they haunted me in napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some confounded rapping, rapping at my bedroom door.
“’Tis some rascal,” low I muttered, “who’s too screwed to find his door,—
Only this and nothing more!”
Ah! I vividly remember, it was in a cold December,
And of fire I had no ember till the price of coals should low’r;
Eagerly I wished the morrow; being broke, again I’ll borrow,
Even although it end in sorrow, from an Uncle, loved of yore—
From a useful, prosp’rous Uncle, who to me is worth a score.
Surely this, if nothing more!
(One verse omitted.)
* * * * *
Up I got, and ope’d the shutter, when without the slightest flutter,
Sat a dissipated Tom-cat coolly down upon the floor;
Though he looked exceeding shady, not a moment stopped or stayed he,
But with impudence unheard of walked right to the bedroom door,
Perched upon a corner cupboard just beside my bedroom door,
Whisked his tail, and nothing more!
(Three verses omitted.)
* * * * *
“Prophet,” said I, “Thing of evil! prophet still, if cat or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss’d thee here ashore;
Battered thou, and all undaunted, in this room they say is haunted,
If you are at all enchanted, tell me truly, I implore,
Will the coals be ever cheaper? Tell me, tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Tom-Cat, “Never more!”
The Figaro, August 27, 1873.
Dunraven.
[The Earl of Dunraven, in protesting against the short
time allowed for the consideration of the Irish Land Bill,
said “he was not a strict Sabbatarian, and had even
advocated in that House the desirability of enjoying
reasonable recreation on the Sunday, but it was impossible
that racking one’s brains over the tangled intricacies of that
Bill could be considered wholesome recreation for anyone.”]
And Dunraven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
O’er that blessed Bill of Billy’s, puzzling at it o’er and o’er;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a child’s that hath been screaming,
And the gaslight o’er him streaming shows them heavy, red, and sore;
And his voice from out its pages rises in a muffled roar:—
“Hang the Bill! it is a bore!”
Punch, August 13, 1881.
37
The Dove.
A Sentimental Parody.
Once upon a storm-night dreary, sat I pond’ring, restless, weary,
Over many a text of Scripture, helped by ancient-sages’ lore,
Anxious, nervous, far from napping; suddenly there came a tapping!
As of some one gently rapping—rapping at my chamber-door.
Night like this ’tis scarce a visitor, tapping at my chamber-door?
This, I thought, and nothing more.
Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember, glimmer’d ghostly on the floor:
Earnestly I wished the morrow; vainly had I sought to borrow
From my Bible ease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Annore—
For a saintly, radiant matron, whom the angels name Annore
Lately wife, now wife no more.
She had passed the gloomy portals, which forever hide from mortals
Spirit myst’ries, which the living are most eager to explore.
Poring o’er the sacred pages, guides to all the good for ages,
Sat I, helped by lore of sages, when the rapping at my door,
Startled me as if a spirit had come to my chamber-door,
Tapping thus, and meaning more.
And the plaintive, low, uncertain rustling of each window-curtain
Thrill’d me—filled my quaking heart with terrors never felt before.
Is there, then, a life of glory, as we’re taught in sacred story?
Can this be some prophet hoary, standing at my chamber-door—
Prophet from the dead arisen, standing at my chamber-door—
Rapping thus, and meaning more?
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Truly, friend, I treat you badly, your forgiveness I implore;
Surely I have not been napping, but so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping—tapping at my chamber-door,
That I scarce knew what the sound meant”—here I opened wide the door:
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Awe-struck, thinking thoughts few mortals ever happ’d to think before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken, was the whisper’d word, “Annore!”
This I whisper’d, and an echo murmur’d back the word “Annore!”
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into my chamber hasting, anguish deeper still now tasting,
Soon again I heard a rapping—something louder than before.
Surely, thought I, that is something at my window-lattice;
Let me see, then, what there at is, and this mystery explore;—
Oh! my heart, be still a moment, till this mystery I explore;—
Is’t the wind, and nothing more?
Open here I flung the shutter, when with gentle nod and flutter,
In there came a gracious white dove of the saintly days of yore.
Then, as if obeisance made he, and no longer stopp’d or stay’d he,
But in innocence array’d, he perch’d above my chamber-door,—
Perch’d upon a bust of Paulus, just above my chamber-door—
Perch’d and sat, and nothing more.
Then this snowy bird surprising my sad heart into surmising,
Whether this was done at random, or some mystic meaning bore,—
“Surely,” said I, “thou art fairer than of ill to be the bearer,
Of such saintly guise the wearer, thou art from some heav’nly shore;
Wilt thou help me on my journey toward that bright celestial shore?”
Quoth the white dove, “Evermore!”
Startled now as one from dreaming, suddenly awak’d and seeming
To have heard a voice mysterious thrilling to his heart’s deep core,—
Ev’ry thought and feeling reaching after light and further teaching.
In attitude of one beseeching, gazed I at my chamber-door,—
At the bird, which had so aptly—perch’d upon my chamber-door—
Spoken out that “Evermore!”
But the white dove’s aspect childly, and his soft eyes beaming mildly,
Loving looks, as if a full heart speedily he would outpour,
Led me to expect revealing, unto which my soul appealing,—
With a strange hope o’er me stealing, such as never came before,—
“May I look for peace and comfort such as I’ve ne’er felt before?”
And the bird said, “Evermore!”
So the bright bird thus beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheel’d a cushion’d chair in front of bird and bust and door;
Then upon the soft seat sinking, I betook myself to linking
38
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this holy bird of yore—
What this lovely, sweet, angelic, quaint, prophetic bird of yore—
Meant by saying, “Evermore?”
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing,
Till the calm light from those mild eyes seem’d to illume my bosom’s core;
Banishing all fear and sadness, bringing thither peace and gladness,
Driving out surmise of madness—lately coming o’er and o’er—
Madness casting dreadful shadow,—lately coming o’er and o’er—
Shadow deep’ning evermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,
Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Oh, my soul, thy God hath heard thee, by these angels and this bird He
Hath to sweetest hopes now stirr’d thee—hopes of finding thy Annore
In the far-off land of spirits—of reunion with Annore!”
Quoth the dove, “For evermore!”
“Prophet,” said I, “thing of glory! prophet, as in ancient story,
Whether sent from heaven directly, or by chance cast here ashore,
Blessings many on thee rest now! yea, thou surely shalt be blest now!
Come into my open’d breast now—tell me truly, I implore,
Is there a heaven of rest and rapture? tell me, tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the white bird, “Evermore!”
“Prophet,” said I, “thing of glory! prophet, as in ancient story,
By that Heav’n which bends above us—by the God the good adore,
Tell this soul with hope upspringing—faith undying to it bringing—
If that radiant matron singing midst the angels, named Annore,
Shall be mine again to love—the sainted matron, named Annore?”
And the dove said, “Evermore!”
“Be that word thy sign of dwelling in my heart, of to it telling
Messages of love and mercy from the far-off shining shore;
Let thy white plumes be a token of the truth thy soul hath spoken;
Keep my faith and hope unbroken; always perch above my door;
Keep thy eyes’ light in my heart; and keep thy form above my door;”
Quoth the sweet bird, “Evermore!”
And the white dove, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the polish’d bust of Paulus, just above my chamber-door;
And his eyes with kindness beaming—holy spirit’s kindness seeming,—
And a soft light from him streaming, sheds its radiance on the floor;
And my glad soul in that radiance, that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be basking—Evermore!
This parody was written by the Rev. John W.
Scott, D.D., Professor in the West Virginia
University, on the death of his wife, and was
published with some other poems by Claxton
and Co., Philadelphia, in 1874.
Lines by Sarah J. Bolton, of Richmond, on the Death of Edgar A. Poe.
(Written for the Memorial Committee; November, 1875.)
They have laid thee down to slumber where the sorrows that encumber
Such a wild and wayward heart as thine can never reach thee more;
For the radiant light of gladness never alternates with sadness,
Stinging gifted souls to madness, on that bright and blessed shore;
Safely moored from sorrow’s tempest, on that distant Aidenn shore,
Rest thee, lost one, evermore.
Thou wert like a meteor glancing through a starry sky, entrancing,
Thrilling, awing, wrapt beholders with the wondrous light it wore;
But the meteor has descended, and the “nightly shadows blended,”
For the fever-dream is ended, and the fearful crisis o’er—
Yes, the wild unresting fever-dream of human life is o’er—
Thou art sleeping evermore.
Ocean, earth, and air could utter words that made thy spirit flutter—
Words that stirred the hidden fountain swelling in the bosom’s core;
Stirred it till its wavelets, sighing, wakened to a wild replying,
And in numbers never dying sung the heart’s unwritten lore—
Sung in wild, bewitching numbers, thy sad heart’s unwritten lore,
Now unwritten nevermore.
39
There was something sad and lonely in thy mystic songs that only
Could have trembled from a spirit weary of the life it bore;
Something like the plaintive toning of a hidden streamlet moaning
In its prismed darkness—moaning for the light it knew before.
For the fragrance and the sunlight that had gladdened it before—
Sighing, sighing, evermore.
To thy soul, for ever dreaming, came a strange effulgence, beaming,
Beaming, flashing from a region mortals never may explore;
Spirits lead thee in thy trances through a realm of gloomy fancies,
Giving spectres to thy glances man had never seen before—
Wondrous spectres such as human eye had never seen before
Were around thee evermore.
Thou did’st see the sunlight quiver over many a fabled river,
Thou did’st wander with the shadows of the mighty dead of yore,
And thy songs to us came ringing, like the wild, unearthly singing
Of the viewless spirits winging o’er the night’s Plutonian shore—
Of the weary spirits wandering by the gloomy Stygian shore—
Sighing dirges evermore.
Thou did’st seem like one benighted—one whose hopes were crushed and blighted—
Mourning for the lost and lovely that the world could not restore;
But an endless rest is given to thy heart, so wrecked and riven—
Thou hast met again in heaven with the lost and loved Lenore—
With the “rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore;”
She will leave thee nevermore.
From the earth a star has faded, and the shrine of song has shaded,
And the Muses veil their faces, weeping sorrowful and sore;
But the harp, all rent and broken, left us many a thrilling token,
We shall hear its numbers spoken, and repeated o’er and o’er,
Till our hearts shall cease to tremble—we shall hear them sounding o’er,
Sounding ever, evermore.
We shall hear them, like a fountain tinkling down a rugged mountain,
Like the wailing of the tempest mingling ’mid the ocean’s roar;
Like the winds of autumn sighing when the summer flowers are dying;
Like a spirit-voice replying from a dim and distant shore;
Like a wild, mysterious echo from a distant, shadowy shore,
We shall hear them evermore.
Nevermore wilt thou, undaunted, wander through the palace haunted,
Or the cypress vales Titanic, which thy spirit did explore;
Never hear the ghoul king, dwelling in the ancient steeple tolling,
With a slow and solemn knelling, losses human hearts deplore;
Telling in a sort of Runic rhyme the losses we deplore;
Tolling, tolling, evermore.
If a living human being ever had the gift of seeing
The grim and ghastly countenance its evil genius wore,
It was thou unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till thy song one burden bore—
Till the dirges of thy hope the melancholy burden bore—
Of never, nevermore.
MY CHRISTMAS PUDDING;
or
The Schoolboy’s Dream.
(With the Author’s apologies to Edgar Allan Poe.)
(By special request.)
Listen, all! I tell what happened on the night of Christmas Day,
After I’d been eating pudding in a very reckless way.
Just as Christmas Day was dying, as I on my bed was lying,
When to slumber I was trying, when I’d just begun to snore,
I became aware of something rolling on my chamber floor—
Of a most mysterious rumbling, rolling on my chamber floor,
Only this and nothing more!
Partly waking, partly sleeping, all my flesh with horror creeping,
I could hear it tumbling, leaping, rolling on my chamber floor;
Underneath the bedclothes sinking, I betook myself to thinking
If it might not be a kitten that had entered at the door;
“Yes,” said I, “it is a kitten, entered at the open door,
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Cat,” said I, “or kitten, kindly stop that rolling on the floor.”
But it was most irritating, for the sound was unabating,
On my nerves for ever grating was the rolling on the floor;
Till at last I cried in anguish, “Stop that rolling I implore;”
And a voice said, “Nevermore.”
This convinced me of my error, up I rose in greatest terror,
Certain that ’twas not a kitten that had spoken just before;
Then into the darkness peering, shivering, wondering, doubting, fearing,
I could dimly see a pudding rolling on my chamber floor;
I could see a big plum pudding rolling on my chamber floor;
May I see it nevermore!
40
From its mouth a vapour steaming, while its fiery eyes were gleaming,
Gleaming fiercely bright, and seeming fixedly to scan me o’er;
Soon it rolled and rumbled nearer, and its aim becoming clearer,
I could see that it intended jumping higher than the floor;
Yes, it jumped upon my chest, and when in pain I gave a roar,
All it said was, “Nevermore.”
Though my back was nearly broken, this reply so strangely spoken,
Seemed to me to be a token that it wished for something more;
So my thoughts in words expressing, I began my sins confessing,
Saying I had eaten pudding many a time in days of yore,
But although I’d eaten pudding many a time in days of yore,
I would eat it nevermore.
Still in spite of my confessing, that plum pudding kept on pressing,
Pressing with its weight tremendous ever on my bosom’s core,
Till I cried, “O, monster mighty, in my work I’m often flighty,
But, if you will now forgive me, I’ll work hard at classic lore!”
At the end of this vacation I’ll work hard at classic lore,
Quoth the pudding “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, pudding!” then I shrieked, upstarting,
“Get thee back—get off my stomach, roll again upon the floor!”
Thus I struggled, loudly screaming, till I found I had been dreaming,
Dreaming like a famous poet once had dreamt in days of yore;
But although ’twas like the poet’s dream he dreamt in days of yore,
May I dream it nevermore!
Detroit Free Press Christmas Number, 1884.
The major of a Georgian regiment, writing to the United
States Treasurer, said, “I send to you for redemption a
fragment of a five dollar bill, the rest of which was destroyed
under strangely curious circumstances. I dropped it into my
pocket in company with some loose tobacco, and, after
supper, taking a quid, I chewed money and tobacco, leaving
scraps of the bill and fragments of tobacco in my pocket.
When I discovered the sad catastrophe I went for the masticated
quid, but all traces of the money had vanished, and,
‘like the baseless fabric of a dream, left not a wreck behind.’”
“Vainly was I bending, crooking, and with both my eyes a-looking,
Looking for my lost spondulic, like the Pleiad lost of yore;
Looking for the well-chewn fragment which I lost the night before;
Only this, and nothing more.”
“Spuds,” quoth I, “for thee I pineth,
Gone to where the woodbine twineth;
Gone, departed, doomed, and fated,
Gone to fragments dessicated;
Gone, as I’ve already stated,
Where thy worth no longer shineth,
I follow—thou art gone before.”
Nothing More.
The ass stood by the stable door,
The sweepings of the stable floor—
Some scantled, musty, broken straw—
He munched, and munched, and—nothing more.
Yon politician struts the floor,
His speech is gemmed with pot-house lore,
His goose essays the eagles soar:
Words, only words, and—nothing more.
The preacher, dear, good, pious bore,
Proves all the prophets once foresaw,
Knows what the future has in store,
Knows what he—thinks, and—nothing more.
The lawyer quotes you score on score
Of great authorities in law
To prove your case without a flaw;
He gains his—fee, and nothing more.
The doctor knows you to the core,
Apt with each fibre, nerve and pore;
Can catch you from Death’s greedy maw,
He “bleeds” you well, and—nothing more.
The ass still stands beside the door,
And still is munching as before,
Gown, book, and pill, are broken straw;
He’s the same ass, and—nothing more.
Anonymous.
Her “Pa’s” Dog.
Memories of the past steal o’er me, and remind me of a story,
That in all its doleful sadness I have never told before.
Well, I loved a girl named Mary, whose old daddy owned a dairy,
And a bull-dog, large and powerful, who a frightful visage wore,
And one night I went to court her as I’d often done before,
But I’ll court her nevermore.
Quite distinctly I remember, ’twas one warm night in September,
That I sat and held my Mary—held her till my arms were sore,
And upon her lips I kissed her till I almost raised a blister.
Since that night, oh, how I’ve missed her—missed the girl whom I adore;
Oh, ye gods of Mount Olympus, lend your pity, I implore,
I shall kiss her nevermore.
“Seems to me the air grows hotter. How I love this old man’s daughter!”
Were my musings as I held her—held the girl whom I adore.
While my Mary Ann was napping, suddenly I heard a rapping
Like a footfall softly tapping on the old man’s bedroom floor,
And I muttered, as I listened through the slightly opened door,
“I have heard that step before.”
41
I shook Mary Ann to wake her, and I said “May Old Nick take her!”
(But I’m sure I didn’t mean it), then she woke with one loud snore.
While she sat up widely gaping, barely wakened from her napping,
I informed her of the tapping I have spoken of before;
Then she laughed and said, “’twas nothing but the mice upon the floor,
Little mice and nothing more.”
Then once more like some huge boulder fell her head upon my shoulder,
And I held her very tightly as she snored snore after snore;
Soon again I heard the falling of more footsteps, and the calling
Of her daddy, and I wished I was in Spain or Ecuador.
“Mary Ann!” the old man uttered, as he strode across the floor,
“Mary Ann,” and nothing more.
Suddenly, as if like magic, with a face that looked quite tragic,
Mary woke and saw her daddy standing in the parlour door,
Then with eyeballs wildly gleaming, and her hair about her streaming,
From the room the girl ran screaming as the clock was striking four,
Ran more swiftly, screamed more loudly than she ever had before,
Ran and screamed, and nothing more.
At the barn the cock was crowing, and I thought I would be going,
So I started very quickly to retreat across the floor,
But the old man quick did foller, then he took me by the collar,
And you oughter heard me holler as he pitched me through the door.
“Seek ’em, Bull!” he loudly uttered, in a sort of fiendish roar.
Merely that, and nothing more.
Quickly to my feet I scrambled, and across the yard I ambled.
As I heard that bull-dog coming, bent on tasting human gore.
Soon he seized me by the breeches, and I gave some awful screeches,
As the entire seat in fragments from my Sunday pants he tore.
With my right hand lifted skyward, “I will kill that dog!” I swore.
This I said, and nothing more.
Soon the dog his grip releases, and from chasing me he ceases
While he stopped to chew the pieces that he from my breeches tore.
Once across my shoulder glancing, with the moonlight o’er him dancing,
I espied the old man prancing like a madman in the door,
And I muttered, “Men like you should be slaughtered by the score,
And you’ll raise the count one more.”
While the broadcloth Bull was chewing, I my way was still pursuing,
And I soon, quite tired and panting, lay upon my cottage floor.
Then I cursed my Mary’s daddy, and I called him an old paddy,
And I swore I’d whip the laddy till my pardon he’d implore.
But she’s lost to me for ever, the dear girl whom I adore,
Ay, for ever—evermore.
Anonymous.
The Phantom Cat.
On the ocean swiftly sailing, with the western daylight failing,
And a fair south-wester with us, scudding o’er the waters blue,
O’er the bulwarks I was leaning, and my eyes my hand was screening;
For I wish’d to learn the meaning of a strange sail now in view,
Of a vessel in the offing, coming slowly into view.
I had little else to do.
* * * * *
And all thought, with expectation, what the country, what the nation,
Might the stranger vessel hail from, sailing slowly through the night;
For a landsman has no notion of the sailor’s heart’s emotion
When he hears upon the ocean that a vessel heaves in sight,
Like an old friend coming to him, is a ship that heaves in sight,
With her sails so broad and white.
* * * * *
Scarcely had the sailor spoken, when the evening air was broken
By a blast from speaking-trumpet: “Ship ahoy! what cheer, what cheer?
We’ve been sailing, three years sailing, round about the Horn a-whaling.
Food is scarce and water failing—stranger, spare a trifle here—
Biscuit, grog, and cask of water; just a trifle, stranger, here;
You’ll be paid back never fear.”
Skipper says, “We can afford, man, if you only come on board, man,
Two or three good casks of water, one of biscuit, one of ale.
Shove the boat off; I’m delighted, such a vessel to have sighted,
From the mighty States United; come and taste a glass of ale;
Come and chat for half an hour o’er the friendly glass of ale
I take nightly without fail.”
And our ladder was made ready by two seamen strong and steady,
And up came the whaler captain; on his shoulders stood a cat,
With her eyes both brightly gleaming, with her tail outstretched, outstreaming.
Surely, thought I, I am dreaming, to see visitor like that,
See a captain come to see us in a way so strange as that!
What on earth can he be at?
Then the cabin did we enter, and before we could prevent her,
Came the cat with tail uplifted, straightway down the cuddy stair;
42
And the lamps were not yet lighted, and we sat down, half benighted,
We three; and the uninvited—the intruder, she was there,
On the shoulders of the captain, the intruder standing there,
With green eyes and ebon hair.
Still upon the captain’s shoulder, strange it seemed to the beholder,
In the twilight of the cabin, among strangers standing so;
And I fancied it would fright her when the cuddy lamps grew lighter.
And I mused upon the writer of “The Raven,” Edgar Poe,
On that weird and wondrous genius, wilful, wayward Edgar Poe,
Dead now eighteen years ago!
There she stood, with green eyes gleaming; there she stood, with tail outstreaming,
A black line athwart the cuddy, rising somewhat high in air.
And the captain look’d behind him, as though puss in spell did bind him,
And, without a sound, inclined him to keep looking o’er his chair,
To keep turning to the black cat, on his shoulder o’er the chair,
With a look that held despair!
(The Yankee skipper relates that he had formerly been a
slave-dealer, and that having bought a negro with his child,
he was entreated not to part them.)
“Deaf was I to all compassion; brutally I laid the lash on
His defenceless naked shoulders; yet I tortured him in vain
And my anger growing bigger, out with pistol, pull’d the trigger;
With a cry, dropp’d down the nigger, with a startling cry of pain,
With the spasm of the death-pang shooting o’er his face of pain,
Never more to move again!”
“Sitting in my parlour lonely, thinking on my day’s work only,
This black cat you see before you, sat herself upon the chair;
And in vain I tried to please her, all in vain I sought to tease her,
Oh, if I could but release her from her hold upon me there!
On my chair, or on my shoulder, ever will that cat be there,
With her eyes of constant glare!”
“Smile you may, and disbelieve me; that black cat can ne’er deceive me;
She is sent me from the darkie, come to haunt me for my crime,
And will leave me never, never, and on earth will haunt me ever.
Oh, that I the tie could sever! Oh, the dismal, dismal time!
All the horrors of the past, and all the dreary present time,
Far too sad for prose or rhyme!”
* * * * *
“Why should I detain you longer? Every day the tie grows stronger,
Binding me to my familiar, who will never say farewell.
I am here to ask your aid, sir, and have somewhat you delay’d, sir,
With my story, I’m afraid, sir, with the sorry tale I tell;
Of this cursed weird grimalkin, this strange history to tell,
Of this visitor from hell.”
* * * * *
Soon the ship away was steering, and the whaler’s crew were cheering
Loudly the brave British vessel that had help’d them when afloat;
On the poop two eyes were beaming, green eyes through the darkness gleaming,
And a tail outstretch’d, outstreaming, as it stream’d when in the boat,
When the captain bade farewell, and sadly left us in the boat,
Fear in eye and husky throat.
* * * * *
Several verses of this very long parody have been omitted;
it is contained in The Mocking-Bird and other Poems, by
Frederick Field (J. Van Voorst) London, 1868.
The Croaker.
Once in a dress-circle, weary with discussing many a query
Of the palmy days of acting, and of quaint dramatic lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at a chamber-door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “outside the dress-circle door,
Wants a seat, and nothing more.”
Then the flapping—sad, uncertain, rustling of the painted curtain—
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic visions never felt before
Of the coming Macbeth’s greeting, wondering if his repeating
Would delight me; while the visitor kept tapping at the door,
And I said “Where is the box-keeper, to open yonder door?
For the tapping is a bore.”
And myself the door unlocking, just to end the tiresome knocking,
In there stepped a solemn Croaker of the palmy days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he,
Passed each fashionable lady with long skirts upon the floor,
Scanned his voucher through gold-mounted and green spectacles he wore,
Took his seat, and nothing more.
Then this Croaker grave, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
By the grave and stem decorum of the countenance he wore.
Though his aspect was unnerving, I began to speak of Irving—
For I’ doubted not that he had seen of Macbeths many a score—
And I blandly then suggested a Shakespearian treat in store,
When he answered, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly swell to hear discourse so plainly
In the midst of Irving advocates, who voted him a bore—
In an audience all agreeing that no living being
Ever yet was blest with seeing acting such as that in store,
Quoting Hamlet, Richelieu, and The Bells, and many pieces more,
For the laurels Irving wore.
43
But the Croaker, sitting lonely, in his cushioned chair spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; I was net a little fluttered,
And at last I feebly muttered, “Other Macbeths played before—”
“Kemble, Kean, Macready, Young,” he cried, “I saw them all of yore—
Won’t be equalled any more!”
Startled at the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken—
“Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his sole dramatic lore,
Caught from some Shakespearian master, when unmerciful disaster
Followed faster still and faster, as the crowd his parts ignore,
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore—
“Tragedian, play no more!”
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from a Rimmel censer,
Swung by pretty girls, whose footfall tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch!” I cried; “pray who-hath sent thee? Hath some rival Macbeth lent thee
His spare ticket to content thee with fond memories a store,
Of the Macbeths seen of yore?”
“Croaker,” said I, “pray be civil, and of Irving speak no evil.
Whether rivalry hath brought thee or stage memories of yore,
Are you really not enchanted by this new Macbeth undaunted
In this house by Hamlet haunted? Tell me truly, I implore,
Is there, is there hope of Macbeth? Tell me, tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Croaker, “Say no more!”
“Croaker,” said I, “cease to level those stern glances at the revel.
By the bust of Shakespeare o’er us—by the bard we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within thy distant Aidenn
Ever widow, wife, or maiden Lady Macbeth’s mantle wore
With a grace beyond Miss Bateman?” Still this croaking man of yore
Answered grimly, “Yes, a score.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, Croaker,” then I said, upstarting;
For the curtain now is rising, and I hear a deafening roar.
Not a word hath Macbeth spoken; he can only bow in token
Of the homage all unbroken. Then the Croaker spoke once more:
“Truly this Macbeth reminds me of a figure seen before
Over many a snuff-shop-door.”
And the Croaker, never flitting, still was sitting, his brows knitting,
Growling oft at Irving’s action, voice, and costume that he wore,
And his eyes had all the seeming of a croaker who was dreaming
Of Macready, Kemble, Kean, and Young, in palmy days of yore;
And the last words that he muttered, as he passed the circle-door,
Were—“I’m very glad ’tis o’er.”
Funny Folks, October 9, 1875.
The Stoker.
Once in February dreary, while the Commons, weak and weary,
Pondered many a quaint and curious Tory measure then in store,
While they nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the chamber-door;
“Some new member ’tis,” they muttered, “tapping at our chamber-door;
’Tis Kenealy—nothing more!”
But the house was in a flutter when, without a “Hem” or stutter,
In there walked a stately Counsel some of them had seen before;
Not the least obeisance made he—not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But with mien of ancient member took his place upon the floor,
Hitched his “gamp” upon the mace, and hung his hat behind the door—
Hitched and stood, and nothing more!
Stood the Counsel grim, beguiling their “gay wisdom” into smiling
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore—
“None come here without proposer,” said the Speaker, as a poser;
“’Tis the Parliamentary custom for two hundred years and more;”
But outspoke the doughty Premier, “Truly all know how he came here;”
He’s Kenealy—nothing more!
Mr. Whalley, sitting lonely on his placid bench, spoke only
But one word, as if his soul on that one word he did outpour;
Nothing further then he uttered. He was just a little fluttered.
While a host of members muttered, “Other bores have flown before;
Some fine morning he will leave us as our bores have left before.”
Whalley whispered, “Nevermore!”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said they, “what he utters is his only stock and store,
Caught from Liberal disaster when that party had no master,
When mistakes came fast and faster, and their songs one burden bore,
When the dirges of their hopes that melancholy burden bore
Of never, nevermore.”
Members willing to be civil said, “Oh, quit the Tichborne drivel!
By the roof that bends above us—by the Commons we adore.
Tell our souls with sorrow laden that our Parliamentary Aidenn
Shall not echo with the name of “Arthur Orton” any more;
That the mystery unriddled who the name Sir Roger bore
Shall not vex us any more!”
But Kenealy, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
With his gingham hitched upon the mace, his hat behind the door,
And his eyes have all the seeming of a Counsel who is dreaming,
44
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor,
And the Commons, in that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Have a pretty treat in store!
This amusing parody originally appeared in
Funny Folks, March 6, 1875, accompanied by a
portrait of Dr. E. V. Kenealy. This was immediately
after his election as member for Stoke,
and the week after it appeared the clever but
eccentric advocate of the “unfortunate nobleman”
inserted the parody in his newspaper,
The Englishman, with a compliment to its author,
and it was re-copied in many other newspapers.
The author, Mr. Joseph Verey, a well-known contributor
to dramatic and humorous periodicals,
has written many other clever parodies, amongst
them being “Mariana at the Railway Station,”
inserted on page 4, Volume I.; and “The
Night Policeman,” after Longfellow, inserted
on page 68, Volume I. of this collection.
“The Raven.”
(After Edgar Allan Poe.)
Late at midnight I was seated, and my brain was overheated
With reflections quaint and curious as I thought my subject o’er;
While I pondered, almost napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone softly rapping, rapping at the parlour door,
And my heart it fairly fluttered, hearing at the parlour-door,
Just a tap, and nothing more.
Yes! distinctly I remember how I trembled in each member,
Thought I saw in every ember ghastly forms of one or more;
Goblins came before my vision, grinning wildly with derision,
There I sat as though in prison, prison closed by parlour-door,
Icy chill came creeping o’er me whilst I gazed upon the door,
Getting frightened more and more.
And the windy gusts uncertain through the window shook the curtain,
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.
Then methought perhaps the rapping might be but the servant tapping
That awoke me from my napping, she might then be at the door,
Bringing me the nightly candle, candlestick with broken handle,
As she’d often done before.
Then my soul grew strong in valour, and my cheeks lost all their pallor,
“Maid,” said I, “or Mary, just you place the candle at the door,
Pond’ring was I, almost napping, when you came so gently tapping,
And you came so softly rapping, rapping at the parlour-door;
Mary, scarcely could I hear you,” then I went unto the door—
Darkness there, and nothing more!
Scarcely had I got me seated, feeling still all over-heated,
When again I heard the rapping louder than it was before,
“Bless me!” said I, “This again, something’s at the window-pane,
Now some knowledge I’ll obtain of this strange mysterious bore;
Courage, heart! a single moment, while this mystery I explore.
’Tis the wind, and nothing more!”
Scarce the words my tongue had spoken, scarce the silence I had broken,
Thro’ the window stepped a raven like to Ingoldsby’s of yore,
Notice took he of me never, off he hopped and looked so clever,
Flight he took with bold endeavour, perching o’er my parlour door,
From his perch he eyed me closely, watched me from the parlour-door,
Sat and looked—did nothing more!
Cunning looked he, as though chaffing—funny bird! he set me laughing,
Perched aloft, and looking grave, with both his eyes upon the floor:—
“Ebony friend, with head all shaven, surely thou canst be no craven,
Out so late, you funny raven, tell me what misfortune bore
Thee unto my humble roof, and to sit above my door.”
Quoth the raven, “Say no more!”
“Tell me, raven, what has brought you, how it is that you’ve bethought you
Here to fly in midnight darkness, coming hither to explore.
Hast thou good or evil omen to pronounce to men or women,
Which thou wilt reveal to no men—speak the message, I implore.”
Then he ruffled all his feathers, speaking from the parlour-door,
Said he, “Think the matter o’er.”
There he was with mien so stately, looking solemn and sedately.
Like a monk he was “complately,” thinking something deeply o’er,
All at once his wings he fluttered, and in tone sepulchral muttered
Something indistinctly uttered, as it came from o’er the door;
Most intently did I listen, listened as I ne’er before
To a raven o’er a door.
—At the Prince’s Pierhead, said he, there you’ll find a policeman steady,
Strutting proudly ever ready to annoy the cabmen there,
With the Jehus roughly dealing, causing them a bitter feeling,
Vain it is the men appealing, one and all they now declare
Pierhead rank they’ll never stand in, never ply for landing “fare”
Whilst that “bobby’s” stationed there!
At the Town Hall banquet lately, was a Colonel bold and stately,
Full of pomp he was “complately,” sitting rigid in his chair.
When the Army’s health was toasted, up he rose and proudly boasted,
Whilst with with’ring tongue he “roasted” Captain Douglas sitting there,
That the Naval forces never, whilst he sat upon that chair
With the Army must compare!
45
When the Colonel Yates, conceited, had his fulsome speech completed,
And upon his chair was seated,—Colonel Steble, gallant “Maire,”
Said with gracious tone and manly, how the noble House of Stanley
Oft in former times like him had sat upon the civic chair;
Then the noble Earl, replying, said with truth he might declare
“Such an honour now was rare!”
Chinamen out there in “Peeking,” Treaty obligations breaking,
Our Ambassador is seeking wily stubborn men to awe,
Telling them the British nation anger’d cannot brook evasion;
Better listen to persuasion, or he threatens he’ll withdraw;
So they wisely yield submission. Frightened of the Lion’s paw,
China says she’ll keep the law.
Sea is rough and weather breezy, still “Serapis,” steaming easy,
Slowly sails from out Brindisi, bearing son of Britain’s Queen,
Foaming billows nobly riding, Eastern seas her prow dividing,
Soon in sunny waters gliding Royal Standard will be seen;
Prince will have a royal welcome, Rajahs proud, of royal mien,
Greeting son of India’s Queen—
Thus he spake what he intended, and his croaking speech was ended,
Flapping wings he soon descended from his perch above the door.
Not another word was spoken, nor again the silence broken,
He had given me the token, and he hopp’d along the floor,
Thro’ the window into darkness—glancing at my parlour door,
Raven saw I nevermore!
The Porcupine (Liverpool), October 30, 1875.
A Black Bird that Could Sing but Wouldn’t Sing.
(A Lyric of the American Southern States.)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
O’er the War of the Rebellion and the things that were before;
While I sat absorbed in thinking, brandy cocktails slowly drinking,
Suddenly I saw a blinking, one-eyed figure at my door—
Saw a nasty, stinking, blinking, one-eyed figure at my door,
Standing up as stiff as steel-yards, just across my chamber floor,
Peeping in, and—nothing more.
Ah! I never shall forget it, how in glancing round I met it,
And I ever shall regret it that I looked towards that door,
For I saw a monstrous figure—like a giant, only bigger,
And there stood a big buck nigger, with his back against the door,
Darting, with a hideous snigger, glances right across my floor,
A reeking, lantern-jaw’d buck nigger bolt upright against my door,
Glancing in, and—nothing more.
Quick instinctively espying where my ham and eggs were frying,
There I saw a poker lying near the hearth upon the floor,
And with most determined vigour seized and hurled it at the nigger,
But so quick was he on the trigger, as he jump’d it struck the door,
Struck beneath him, as he bounded just like lightning from the floor,
As like a tarr’d and feather’d Mercury, up he bounded from the floor,
Grazed his heel, and—nothing more.
Back toward my hearth-stone looking, where my ham and eggs were cooking,
Shaking, quaking as no mortal ever shaked or quaked before,
Soon I heard the ugly sinner mutter forth these words, “Some dinner,”
Looking still more gaunt and thinner, even than he looked before,
These the words the heathen mutter’d—the sole and only sound then uttered,
As down from his high jump he flutter’d ’lighting on his major toe,
“Dinner,” said he, nothing more.
Then his impudence beginning, he displayed his gums in grinning,
And with eyes aught else but winning, leer’d upon me from the door,
Speaking thusly: “’Tis your treat, man, I’ll never go into the street, man,
Till I get some grub to eat, man, I shall never leave your door,
Never quit them aigs and bacon, now just done, I’m very sure,
Never till I’ve cleaned the platter, though you beat me till I roar,
Treat me, or I’ll charge ’em sure.”
Then toward the fireplace marching, where my coffee too was parching,
Boldly stalked this sassy nigger right across my chamber-floor,
Never stopped to bend or bow, sir, then I knew there’d be a row, sir,
For I made a solemn vow, sir, he should soon recross that floor,
And I kicked him through the room, sir, back again toward the door,
Kick’d and cuffed him, in my anger, back against my chamber-door,
Then I kicked him yet once more.
But this midnight bird beguiling my stirr’d spirit into smiling,
By the wretched, rabid, ravenous look his hungry visage wore,
“Tho’,” I said, “thou art a freedman, thou hast gone so much to seed, man,
So I’ll give you one good feed, man, as you seem to be so poor—
One good feed in your sore need, man, as you seem so very poor;
The eggs and meat shall be my treat, if with light work you’ll pay the score.”
Quoth the nigger—“Work no more.”
46
Much I marvelled this ungainly nigger should refuse so plainly
Just to do a little work, for food he craved and needed sore,
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Should decline to labour seeing that he was so deuced poor;
Should refuse to earn a dinner, which he hungered for I’m sure,
And would have damned his soul by stealing had he hoped to make the door;
Escaping thence to—work no more.
Awhile I sat absorbed in musing, what meant he by this refusing,
Till, mad, I turned into abusing the odious, odorous blackamoor.
“Sure,” said I, “you must be crazy, to be so infernal lazy,
So cussedly, outrageous lazy, as to want to work no more;
You ugly, grim, ungainly, ghastly, heathen, savage blackamoor,
Will you even work for wages—food and clothes and payment sure?”
Quoth the nigger—“Work no more.”
“Nigger,” said I, “horrid demon! Nigger still if slave or freeman,
Pause and ponder ere you answer this one question, I implore:
Have you got no sense of feeling? do you mean to live by stealing?
Or by working and fair dealing; tell me truly, I implore,
On your honour as a nigger, will you ever labour more?
Plough in corn or hoe in cotton, as you did in days of yore?”
Quoth the Nigger—“Nevermore!”
Startled by the stillness broken by reply so flatly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “this big nigger once could eat enough for four,
When on some grand rice plantation, he could out-eat all creation,
Until his corporal situation warned him he could eat no more;
Scorning any calculation of how much cash it cost I’m sure,
For the master paid the piper in the good old days of yore,
Days he’ll revel in no more!”
“Nigger,” said I, “thing of evil! quit my sight! go to the devil!
Or even yet, pause, reconsider terms I’ll offer you no more,
Tell me truly, I implore you, for the last time I conjure you,
If good wages I ensure you, and clothes the best you ever wore,
Will you work three days in seven, at tasks far lighter than of yore?
Only three short days in seven—labour light and payment sure?”
Quoth the nigger—“Work no more.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, nigger man,” I said upstarting,
“Get you gone to where you came from, let me see your face no more.
Quick, vamose, cut dirt—skedaddle—seek some far-off, distant shore,
Haste, relieve me of that visage—darken not again my door,
Join the army—go to Texas! Never come back here to vex us,
Take your gaze from off my victuals—take your carcase from my door”—
Quoth the nigger—“Nevermore.”
And the nigger, never working, still is shirking—still is shirking
Every kind of honest labour, in the house or out of door,
And his eye has all the seeming of a vulture’s starved and dreaming,
And my bacon, gently steaming tempts him still to cross my floor.
But I’ll gamble with that poker that I hurled at him before,
That I’ll maul his very lights out, if he dares to pass that door,
He shall work or—eat no more!
The Figaro, February 16, 1876.
Cowgate Philanthropy.
Once, while in the Cowgate dirty, on an evening damp and murky,
Mournfully I gazed at objects swarming there from door to door,
From a whisky palace, swearing, a poor woman issued, bearing
A child upon her bosom bare, and that bosom stained with gore,
And she uttered dreadful threats against the man that kept the store—
Idle threats, and nothing more.
To myself I said, in terror, “Surely here there is some error;
This woman seems in deep distress—distress which pierces to the core;”
So I stepped into the palace, with the view of getting solace,
For that creature whose deep sorrow my soft heart with anguish tore,
That shadow of an angel bright, for her countenance yet bore
Trace of beauty, now no more.
But the jingling of the glasses, and the glare of many gases,
Made me feel so very squeamish that I was almost forced to roar,
When my tongue its wonted action ceased, as if by some attraction,
So I stood a perfect dummy at this dreadful gin-house door,
Pointing to that weeping woman, whom no one would now adore;
This I did, and nothing more.
To my speech at last succeeding, I asked gravely why the bleeding,
Helpless, ill-clad, ill-fed woman had been out-cast from the store?
And the answer from the monster who had been this woman’s wrongster
Was, she had not filthy lucre to pay off her whisky score;
He’d be blowed, or something stronger, if he’d give her any more;
And he thought her quite a bore.
Then I felt my fingers itching, and my muscles all a twitching,
To seize the rascal by the throat, and stretch him straight upon the floor;
But he gave a loud hoarse chuckle, let me see his mighty knuckle,
And advised me for my safety that I’d better seek the door—
If I didn’t vanish quickly I might go upon all four:
So I vanished—nothing more.
The Modern Athenian (Edinburgh), March 11, 1876.
47
LINES
Respectfully dedicated to the
Right Honourable Henry Bouverie William Brand, M.P.,
Speaker of the House of Commons.
“Once upon a Wednesday dreary, while I listened somewhat weary,
To the dull and dismal business going on upon the floor,
On me, in my melancholy, broke the voice of Mr. Whalley,
Pouring forth of words a volley, and this, too, I meekly bore;
‘’Tis near five o’clock,’ I muttered, and my lot I meekly bore,
Hoping there was little more.
“For since noon I had been sitting, and the daylight now was flitting,
As M.P.’s, their places quitting, noiselessly pass’d through the door,
Motions, though, in such a number did the notice-book encumber,
That I’d vainly sought to slumber, though my eyes were tired and sore,
Dared not nap like those around me, though my eyes were red and sore;
But a watchful look I wore.
“Tired of talking, Whalley finished, and my list was thus diminished
By the Bill on ‘Open Spaces’—this it was his name that bore—
Next, I saw with heartfelt pleasure, came an agricultural measure;
For methought no member surely over this dry Bill will pore—
They will not discuss its details, they will never o’er it pore;
Merely pass it—nothing more.
“So I thought, until up-glancing, I beheld a form advancing
From the seats below the gangway, boldly out upon the floor,
‘Stay,’ mused I; ‘I know that figure. Yes, it is—it must be Biggar!’
Through the House there passed a snigger, but my heart was very sore;
For he caught my eye, confound him! and my heart was very sore;
Hope was left in it no more.
“Not the least obeisance made he, nor where he had risen stay’d he;
But he strode across the gangway, nearer to me than before.
All the time that he was walking, he was hoarsely at me talking,
Nothing stopping him nor baulking, not a moment he forebore,
Caring not for sneers nor laughter, not a moment he forebore,—
But talked on for evermore.
“Much it grieved me this ungainly man to hear discourse so plainly,
Though his phrases little meaning, little relevancy bore,
For I knew his stubborn nature, knew, too, in the Legislature,
That so obstinate a member it had never known before;
That a member so pig-headed never had been known before,
Never would be evermore.
‘‘Far too “narrer” is this measure,’ quoth he, slowly, at his leisure;
‘Yes, it’s very much too “narrer!”’ then he went its clauses o’er;
Turn’d it inside out, and twisted its provisions, as he listed;
While his friend Parnell assisted—helped this most portentous bore;
Backed him up, and often prompted this unmitigated bore;
Who kept speaking evermore!
“Presently my wrath grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
‘Sir!’ I said, ‘you’re not in order; keep in order, I implore!
This is but the second reading, yet you are in sooth proceeding
As though in Committee pleading; cease from this or leave the floor!
Mean you long to go on speaking, mean you long to keep the floor?’
Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Evermore!’
“Then methought his voice grew hoarser, and his manner rather coarser;
Till that he my eye had ever caught, I did at heart deplore;
Why, I thought, has Cavan sent thee? can no earthly power prevent thee?
None bring respite and nepenthe, from thy rudeness and thy roar?
Am I doomed to always listen to thy inharmonious roar?’
Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Evermore.’
“‘Biggar,’ said I, ‘Joseph Biggar, why thy most undoubted vigour,
Didst thou not devote to business on thy own Ulsterian shore?
Why not give to lard and bacon, all the energies mistaken,
Thou from night to night art wasting on this House of Commons floor?
Stick to lard! Drop legislating! This of thee I would implore!’
Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Nevermore.’
“‘Biggar,’ said I, ‘tell me truly, wilt thou always be unruly?
Is there nothing thy lost senses can to thee at last restore?
Wilt this chamber long be haunted by thy presence so undaunted?
Or would’st thou at home be wanted if pigs fetched much less per score—
If lard fell a lot per bladder? Tell me—tell me, I implore?”
Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Nevermore!’
“‘Joseph,’ said I, ‘have a care, sir, lest thou shouldst me too much dare, sir,
For I give thee warning, fair sir, that if thou art much a bore,
I will henceforth always try, sir, that thou mayst not catch my eye, sir,
When in future thou mayst rise, sir, and stand out upon this floor!—
Stand in all thy blatant boldness on this desecrated floor;
Thou shalt catch it nevermore!
“But J. Biggar never stirring, went on stating and averring,
Naught him staying or deterring, still his speech did he outpour,
And back on my cushion sinking, I was filled with dread at thinking
That this grim and greasy member might for ever harshly roar—
That this grim, ungainly, lardy man might never cease to bore,—
But talk on for evermore!”
Truth, March 8, 1877.
48
The Baby.
Once upon a midnight dreary, whilst I waited, faint and weary,
On the landing till the doctor the expected tidings bore;
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, dreaming of what then was happing—
Dreaming of what then was happing t’other side yon chamber door,
Stood the doctor there, and whispered, opening the chamber door,
“’Tis a boy!” and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember, by my chilblains, ’twas December,
And I stamped each smarting member, stamped it smartly on the floor.
Eagerly I wished for slumber, as my feet and hands grew number;
Oh, could I some bed encumber, oh, how quickly I would snore!
Oh, how I would wake the echoes with my deep sonorous snore!
But my vigil was not o’er.
For as I thus thought of snoring, came a sound of liquid pouring—
’Twas a sound that oft, when thirsty, I had heard with joy before;
And when it I heard repeating, thro’ the darkness sent I greeting,
Saying, “Who is that that’s drinking something in behind my door?”—
For the sound came from a chamber, mine erstwhile, now mine no more—
“Who are you and what d’you pour?”
But no answer came, so rising with a rashness most surprising,
“Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, when I heard some liquid lapping,
Lapping, lapping, softly lapping, in behind this chamber-door.
Who are you in there, I pray you?”—here I opened wide the door—
Smell of spirits, nothing more!
Deeply that strong odour sniffing stood I “butting” there and “if-ing;”
Guessing, wondering, surmising who it was that I’d heard pour.
Still the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token;
But a bottle brandy-soaken I remarked upon the floor.
This I noticed, black and empty, lying there upon the floor—
Merely that, and nothing more!
From the chamber I was turning, all my soul within me yearning
For a little cup of cognac: since my chilblains were so sore—
When I heard a sound of rustling, as of some stout woman bustling—
“Ah,” said I, “this chamber’s mystery I will linger and explore—
Stay will I another minute and its mystery explore—
Why I heard that brandy pour?”
Opened here a folding-door was; and in a few seconds more was
A full stout and snuffy matron coming towards me o’er the floor;
Not the least obeisance made she; not a minute stopped or stayed she,
But upon a chair down sitting, beckoned me to what she bore:
’Twas a tiny roll of flannel in her portly arms she bore—
Only that, and nothing more!
Then this flannel roll beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the strange and utter contrast that it to the matron bore,
Sought my thoughts another channel, and I spoke unto the flannel,
Saying, “What art thou and wherefore art thou brought here, I implore?—
Tell me why thou art thus carried, why so gently, I implore?”
But it sobbed, and nothing more!
Much I marvelled at its sobbing, and my heart was quickly throbbing
As unto the ponderous matron said I, ‘Turn that flannel o’er!’
For you cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet beheld a bundle that could sob, and nothing more—
Ever yet a roll of flannel saw that sobbed and nothing more!”
Quoth the matron, “Shut the door.”
Then the flannel pink unfolding, soon was I with awe beholding
Something like to which my eyes had never gazed upon before.
Nothing further then it uttered—but I mouthed awhile and stuttered
Till I positively muttered, “Tell me all, I would implore!”
Said the matron, “There is little to inform you on that score:
’Tis your son, and nothing more!”
“Ah,” said I, no longer dreaming, with a sudden knowledge gleaming,
“You’ve a monthly nurse’s seeming, and ’twas you that I heard pour;
Tell me, then, when I may slumber, when this room you’ll cease to cumber,
Since of chilblains such a number in the passage I deplore;
Tell me when I may turn in and cease their smarting to deplore.”
Quoth that woman, “Never more!”
“Woman!” said I, “nurse, how dare you? If you do not have a care, you
Soon will find that I can spare you, for I’ll show to you the door!”
But that woman, calmly sitting, and her brows engaged in knitting,
In a way most unbefitting took the bottle from the floor,
Took it up, although ’twas empty, took it up from off the floor;
Waved it and said, “Never more!”
“Nurse,” I shouted, “I won’t stand it; put it down, at once, unhand it!
As your master, I demand it, and this room to me restore;
Take yon saucepan from my table; clear my bed, for you are able,
Of your wardrobe, and the baby take where it was heretofore;
For I long to sink in slumber: nurse, I’m dying for a snore!”
Quoth that woman, “Never more!”
“Be that word our sign of parting, monthly nurse,” said I, upstarting,
“Get thee gone, thou Gamp outrageous, to where’er thou wast before;
Leave that bottle as a token of the rest that thou hast broken—
49
Now be off—have I not spoken? Get thee gone, Gamp, there’s the door—
Take thy wardrobe from my bed, and take thyself out through that door!”
Quoth that woman, “Never more!”
And that monthly nurse is sitting, drinking in a way unfitting,
In an easy-chair luxurious just behind my chamber-door;
There for weeks she has been sleeping, me from my own chamber keeping;
Degradations on me heaping, till my heart of hearts is sore;
Fearing that her shadow never will be lifted from my floor,
And that, smelling strong of spirits, she through yonder open door
Shall be lifted—Never more!
Finis (Beeton’s Christmas Annual, 1877.)
The Maiden.
Once upon a summer morning, whilst I watched the sun adorning
All the hilltops lying round me with an ever-golden hue,
Suddenly I saw a maiden with a basket heavy laden,
Yes, a basket heavy laden with some clothes which looked like new,
And I cried, “My pretty maiden, these look just as good as new;
Have they, pray, been washed by you?”
Ah! distinctly I remember how my soul burned like an ember,
As the maiden’s eyes grew brighter—eyes of such a lovely blue;
How her auburn tresses glistened in the sunlight while I listened,
Wondering how she had been christened; but her answering words were few,
And somehow they didn’t please me, these her answering words so few—
“Truly, sir, what’s that to you?”
Then I said, “O, lovely maiden, with this basket heavy laden,
Tell me truly, I implore thee, from what parent-stock you grew?
If your father is a humble, honest, labourer like the Bumble-
Bee that works, but does not grumble at the work he has to do?
Maiden did you ever grumble at the work you had to do?”
Quoth the maid, “What’s that to you?”
Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
For I felt a little angry, and thus said what wasn’t true:
“Hark you, maid, my friend, Joe Simmen, says that all you washerwomen
Are as sour as any lemon, cross as any ole clo’ Jew;
Tell me maiden, is it not so, that you’re like some ole clo’ Jew?”
Quoth the maid “What’s that to you?”
Deep into that countenance peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Lest the girl should prove a vixen, and begin to hit me too;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only words there spoken were the whispered words, “Pooh! pooh!”
These I whispered, for I feared her, whispered just the words, “Pooh! pooh!”
And I knew not what to do.
Round about myself then turning, all my soul within me burning,
For I did not dare to face her, as she was I knew not who;
I began at once to wonder how on earth I could thus blunder,
And why I thus should cower under these her answering words so few,
And I could not find a reason why her words should be so few;
Still I knew not what to do.
Then I glanced across my shoulder, as it were some sheltering boulder,
And I saw the maiden laughing, laughing till her face was blue.
Then I thought “’Tis now or never,” so I said (and thought it clever),
“Pretty maiden, did you ever have a nice young sweetheart, who
Was, as I am, tall and handsome? If so, prithee tell me who?”
Quoth the maid “What’s that to you?”
And the maiden, thus beguiling all my angry soul to smiling,
Made me say, “Ah! lovely maiden, fairly I’m in love with you.”
Then began my heart to flutter, and began my tongue to stutter,
And began my lips to mutter, while around me objects flew.
Thus I muttered, while the objects round about me swiftly flew,
“Maiden, I’m in love with you.”
But the maiden, sitting lonely on the velvet sod, spoke only
These four words when I made of her some interrogation new;
So upon the green grass sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what on earth I now should do,
And I asked the washer maiden, what on earth I now should do?
Quoth the maid “What pleases you.”
“Torment!” said I, “thing of evil! you, at least, might have been civil,
And not given such answers to the questions I have put to you.
When I told you that I loved you, surely then I think I moved you,
And I think it had behoved you to make answers straight and true,
’Stead of which you gave me answers which were anything but true.”
Quoth the maid, “What’s that to you.”
“Be these words our sign of parting, saucy maid!” I shrieked, upstarting.
“Get you back into the village, take these clothes along with you!
Leave no thread even as a token of these horrid words you’ve spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! Take these clothes which look like new,
And return to where you came from, with these clothes as clean as new!”
Quoth the maiden, “Not for you.”
50
So I left the washer maiden and her basket heavy laden,
And I hope that I may never, never more behold the two;
Yet my sleep is oft enchanted, and my dreams are often haunted
By her form when just not wanted, and the basket seems there too,
And she asks in tones of mockery, pointing at the basket, too,
“What is this, now, sir, to you?”
D. J. M.
Edinburgh Paper, November, 8, 1879.
The Promissory Note.
Zoïlus reads:
In the lonesome latter years,
(Fatal years!)
To the dropping of my tears
Danced the mad and mystic spheres
In a rounded, reeling rune,
’Neath the moon,
To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.
Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,
(Ulalume!)
In a dim Titanic tomb,
For my gaunt and gloomy soul
Ponders o’er the penal scroll,
O’er the parchment (not a rhyme),
Out of place,—out of time,—
I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,
(O, the fifty!)
And the days have passed, the three,
Over me!
And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!
’Twas the random runes I wrote
At the bottom of the note
(Wrote, and freely
Gave to Greeley),
In the middle of the night,
In the mellow, moonless night,
When the stars were out of sight,
When my pulses, like a knell,
(Israfel!)
Danced with dim and dying fays
O’er the ruins of my days,
O’er the dimeless, timeless days,
When the fifty, drawn at thirty,
Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty
Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!
Fiends controlled it,
(Let him hold it!)
Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen;
Now the days of grace are o’er,
(Ah, Lenore!)
I am but as other men:
What is time, time, time,
To my rare and runic rhyme,
To my random, reeling rhyme,
By the sands along the shore,
Where the tempest whispers, “Pay him!” and I answer
“Nevermore!”
Galahad: What do you mean by the reference to
Horace Greeley?
Zoïlus: I thought everybody had heard that Greeley’s
only autograph of Poe was a signature to a promissory note
for fifty dollars. He offers to sell it for half the money.
Now, I don’t mean to be wicked, and to do nothing with
the dead except bone ’em, but when such a cue pops into
one’s mind, what is one to do?
The Ancient: O, I think you’re still within decent
limits! There was a congenital twist about poor Poe. We
can’t entirely condone his faults, yet we stretch our charity
so as to cover as much as possible. His poetry has a hectic
flush, a strange, fascinating, narcotic quality, which belongs
to him alone. Baudelaire and Swinburne after him have
been trying to surpass him by increasing the dose; but his
Muse is the natural Pythia, inheriting her convulsions,
while they eat all sorts of insane roots to produce theirs.
Galahad (eagerly): Did you ever know him?
The Ancient: I met him two or three times, heard him
lecture once (his enunciation was exquisite), and saw him
now and then in Broadway,—enough to satisfy me that there
were two men in him: one, a refined gentleman, an aspiring
soul, an artist among those who had little sense of literary
art; the other—
Zoïlus: Go on!
The Ancient: “Built his nest with the birds of night.”
No more of that!
Diversions of the Echo Club. By Bayard Taylor (John
Camden Hotten, London.)
“The Ager.”
This clever parody, by Prof. J. P. Stelle, editor of the
Progressive Farmer, and of the agricultural department of the
Mobile Register, has been repeatedly published in United
States newspapers, though generally in a mutilated form.
The following is believed to be the correct version:—
Once upon an evening bleary,
While I sat me dreamy, dreary,
In the sunshine, thinking over
Things that passed in days of yore;
While I nodded, nearly sleeping,
Gently came a something creeping
Up my back, like water seeping—
Seeping upward from the floor.
“’Tis a cooling breeze,” I muttered,
From the regions ’neath the floor—
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah! distinctly I remember
It was in that wet September,
When the earth and every member
Of creation that it bore
Had for days and weeks been soaking
In the meanest, most provoking
Foggy rains that, without joking,
We had ever seen before;
So I knew it must be very
Cold and damp beneath the floor—
Very cold beneath the floor.
So I sat me nearly napping,
In the sunshine, stretching, gaping,
Craving water, but delighted
With the breeze from ’neath the floor,
Till I found me waxing colder,
And the stretching growing bolder,
And myself a feeling older—
Older than I’d felt before;
Feeling that my joints were stiffer
Than they were in days of yore—
Stiffer than they’d been before.
51
All along my back the creeping
Soon gave place to rushing, leaping,
As if countless frozen demons
Had concluded to explore
All the cavities—the “varmints”—
’Twixt me and my nether garments,
Up into my hair and downward
Through my boots into the floor;
Then I found myself a shaking,
Gently first, but more and more—
Every moment more and more.
’Twas the “ager,” and it shook me
Into many clothes, and took me
Shaking to the kitchen—every
Place where there was warmth in store;
Shaking till the dishes clattered,
Shaking till the tea was spattered,
Shaking, and with all my warming
Feeling colder than before;
Shaking till it had exhausted
All its powers to shake me more—
Till it could not shake me more.
Then it rested till the morrow,
Then resumed with all the horror
That it had the face to borrow,
Shaking, shaking as before;
And from that day in September—
Day that I shall long remember—
It has made diurnal visits,
Shaking, shaking, oh so sore!
Shaking off my boots, and shaking
Me to bed, if nothing more—
Fully this, if nothing more.
And to-day the swallows flitting
Round my cottage see me sitting
Moodily within the sunshine
Just inside my silent door,
Waiting for the ages, seeming
Like a man forever dreaming,
And the sunlight on me streaming
Throws no shadows on the floor;
For I am too thin and sallow
To make shadows on the floor;
’Nary shadow—any more!
The Chancellor of the Exchequer
and the Surplus.
Lately on a midnight dreary, whilst I studied, though so weary,
Several sheets of close-writ figures I had gone through times before;
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the Treasury door.
“Is that Kempe?” I slowly mutter’d. “If it is, pray leave the door—
I shall want you here no more!”
Oh! distinctly I remember, for it happen’d this December
And each separate, dying ember seem’d a figure on the floor.
Nervously I wish’d the morrow; for so far I’d failed to borrow—
From the Bank of England borrow—at the same rate as before—
At the same low rate of interest I had borrow’d at before—
They would lend at Two no more.
And I had a sort of notion that this fact was known to Goschen,
Whilst the dread of Childers fill’d me with a fear not felt before,
So that now to still the beating of my heart I’d been repeating:
“P’rhaps some luck may yet befall you ere you stand upon the floor—
Stand next April with your Budget at the table on the floor—
And a Surplus yet restore!”
Presently the rap was stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Kempe!” said I, “or Law, or Lingen, is that you outside my door?
If it be, pray cease your tapping; if you have no cause for rapping,
Cease, and let me strike my balance ere I sleep, I you implore.
Do come in if you are out there!” Here I open’d wide the door—
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Seeing ghosts of former Budgets—Gladstone’s Budgets—o’er me soar;
But the silence was unbroken, and of Kempe I saw no token;
He had gone with Law and Lingen shortly after half-past four.
So I “H-s-s-h’d”—perchance assuming there were cats about the floor—
Merely cats, and nothing more.
Back into my room returning, where two composites were burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.
“’Tis too soon for chimney-sweeper; can it be the office-keeper?”
This I said, and once more rising, tried the mystery to explore.
“I will go and try the window, for there’s no one at the door”—
This I said, and nothing more.
Open then I flung the shutter, when with quite a fussy flutter,
In there stalk’d a handsome Surplus of the Liberal years of yore;
Not the least obeisance made it, not a minute stopp’d or stay’d it,
But—nor tried I to dissuade it—hopp’d on something on the floor;
Hopp’d upon my rough-drawn Budget, which I’d thrown upon the floor—
Hopp’d, then sat; and nothing more!
Then this welcome guest beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the cheery and contented cast of countenance it wore;
“Welcome,” said I, “Surplus comely! though you have arrived so ‘rumly,’
For ’tis some years since a Budget drawn by me a Surplus bore;
Let this be a happy omen—that they’ll come as heretofore!”
Quoth the Surplus—“Nevermore!”
Much I marvell’d that so plainly it should answer, and so sanely;
Though in sooth I hoped its answer little relevancy bore.
For ’t had fill’d my heart with pleasure, and with ecstacy past measure
52
Once again to see a Surplus come within the Treasury door,
To observe a real Surplus on my Budget on the floor,
Like the one in ’Seventy-four.
But the Surplus, sitting lonely on my Budget draft, spake only
That one word already mention’d—I refer to “Nevermore.”
And not for its answer caring, and by no means yet despairing,
I took heart and said: “Six millions was there left in ’Seventy-four;
When shall I next get a Surplus large as that in ’Seventy-four?”
Quoth my guest: “Why, nevermore!”
But this time ’twas not contented with the word I so resented,
But went on and said: “Oh, Northcote, ruin is for you in store!
Thanks to your mysterious master, dearth will follow on disaster,
Ills will follow fast and faster, trade will wholly leave your shore;
And the people, so impoverish’d, will your taxes pay no more.
Debt will haunt you more and more!
“Now your revenue is sinking—it’s no use the matter blinking,
Every day, you know, Sir Stafford, your big deficit grows more,
And you have to borrow, borrow (three more millions, eh, to-morrow?)
You have now a floating debt that’s ten times what it was of yore;
Think upon the splendid Budget Gladstone left in ’Seventy-four,
And your muddle now deplore!”
As the Surplus thus declaiming, me to blushes deep was shaming,
Straight I wheel’d my cushion’d seat in front the Budget on the floor,
Sat on the morocco padding, and betook myself to adding
Figure unto figure, madding though the look the total bore;
Whilst that grim, ungainly, ghastly Surplus still upon the floor
Went on croaking: “Nevermore!”
“Surplus!” said I, “by thy figure, which methinks I see grow bigger,
Whether Gladstone sent, or whether Fate has toss’d thee here to bore,
Tell me, desperate and daunted, by a score of failures haunted,
Soon by Childers to be taunted, tell me, tell me, I implore,
Is there—can I—shall I—ever get things straight—say, I implore?”
Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!”
“Surplus!” said I, “much I question, if I don’t to indigestion
Owe the vision of thy presence; still I’d ask thee this once more:
In the name of Ewart Gladstone, whose finance I did adore,
Tell me, here with debt so laden, if, before I go to Aidenn,
I shall ever make a Budget with a Surplus, as of yore?
Shall I e’er announce a Surplus from my place upon the floor?”
Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!”
“Be that word our sign of parting, cruel thing!” I cried, upstarting;
“Get thee back to Mr. Gladstone, who created thee of yore;
Go, and leave behind no token of the words that thou hast spoken;
Leave my vigil here unbroken, quit my Budget on the floor!
Take thy figure off my Budget, lying there upon the floor.”
Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!”
“No, I will not think of flitting, but still sitting, ever sitting,
On thy wretched, feeble Budgets, on the table or the floor,
Will remind thee of the figure, sometimes less and sometimes bigger,
Of the noble Gladstone’s Surplus, always left in years of yore
Yes, I’ll always stay and haunt you—always stay and ever taunt you—
As you draw up hopeless Budgets, and then throw them on the floor;
And my figure you shall ever see upon your study floor—
I will leave you nevermore!”
And it doubtless had been sitting still, nor shown a sign of flitting—
Had I not with sudden impulse started, falling by the door,
And discover’d, slowly rising—what is not at all surprising—
That my composites were out, whilst daylight stream’d across the floor,
Then I knew I had been dreaming, but my brain continued teeming
With the vision, and the Surplus that had come from years of yore,
And my thoughts on what that Surplus said whilst there upon my floor
Will be fixèd evermore!
Truth. Christmas Number, 1879.
The Raven.
(A Version, respectfully dedicated to the Duke of Somerset.)
Late, upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, chill but cheery,
Over certain prosy volumes of Contemporary lore—
’Midst prophetic pages prowling, suddenly I heard a growling,
As of something faintly howling, howling at my chamber-door.
“’Tis some poor stray tyke,” I muttered, “howling at my chamber-door;
Only that, and nothing more.”
Eugh! distinctly I remember it was in the cold December,
And my fire to its last ember burned, while outer blasts did roar.
Fearfully I funked the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow
From my friends, or, to my sorrow, add to my coal-merchant’s score—
To that swollen, heavy-laden thing poor devils call a “score”—
To be settled—nevermore.
And the windy, wild, uncertain flapping of my window curtain
Filled me, thrilled me with fantastic fancies never known before;
So that, now, to check the cheating of my mind I stood repeating,
“’Tis that Jones’s dog entreating entrance at my chamber-door—
Bibulous Jones’s pug entreating entrance at my chamber-door,—
Only that, and nothing more.”
53
Presently the sound grew stronger. Hesitating then no longer,
“Tyke,” said I, “low mongrel, truly this intrusion is a bore;
Where the deuce have you been prowling, that so late you come a howling,
Keeping up this nasty growling, growling at my chamber-door?
I was hardly sure I heard you.” Here I open flung the door,—
Darkness there, and nothing more!
Back into my chamber turning, where my lamp was dimly burning,
Soon again I heard a growling, something louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely, that is something stirring at my lattice,
Let me see if ghost or cat ’tis, and this mystery explore.
Pooh! I have it, what a duffer, what a booby, to be sure!
’Tis the wind, and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the casement, when, to my extreme amazement,
In there stepped a rusty Raven of the “glorious days of yore.”
Not the least obeisance dropped he, not an instant stayed or stopped he,
But, like ghoul who hopped and flopped, he perched above my chamber door—
On a plaster bust of Dizzy standing o’er my chamber-door—
Perched and sat, and—nothing more!
Then this seedy bird beguiling my chilled features into smiling,
By the grave lugubrious grimness of the solemn phiz he wore,
“Thou art welcome to this haven,” said I, “foul, bedraggled, shaven,
Hopeless-looking ancient Raven, croaking as of days of yore.
Tell me what thy lordly name is, is or was, in days of yore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
Much I marvelled this most sickly fowl to hear respond so quickly,
Though the nomen was a rum one, it a certain aptness bore,
As to those dull dupes of folly and foreboding melancholy,
Hopeful seldom, never jolly, doting on those days of yore,—
Who esteem the present hopeless, utter failure or next door—
To be mended nevermore!
But the Raven, squatting lonely on the plaster bust spoke only
That one word, as though his soul in doldrums he would thus outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered, though his spirit seemed sore fluttered.
“Come!” I said, or rather muttered, “you’re dyspeptic—’tis a bore,
But to-morrow you’ll be better, sleep will your lost tone restore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
Struck to find the silence broken by reply so patly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “this one word, now, is his only stock and store,
Caught from pessimistic master, who in progress saw disaster,
Coming fast and coming faster, till his wails one burden bore,—
Till his sad vaticinations one unvarying burden bore,
This same Raven’s “Nevermore!”
But the Raven still beguiling my amused soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled my easy-chair in front of bird, and bust, and door;
Then, upon the cushion sinking, thought to thought by fancy linking,
I employed my brains in thinking what this black and feathered bore,
Like all gaunt funereal vaunters of those precious days of yore,
Meant by croaking “Nevermore!”
Then methought the air grew denser, darkened as by cynic censor,
Some Cassandra whose forecastings are of evil days in store.
“Croak no more!” I cried. “Content thee with the gifts the gods have sent thee;
Give us respite and nepenthe from sad dreams of days of yore!
Let us quaff hope’s sweet nepenthe, and forget those days of yore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil! ‘Things are going to the devil,’
Is the formula of fogies, I have heard that bosh before;
Times look dark, but hearts undaunted find the future still enchanted,
With fair visions such as haunted valiant souls in days of yore.
Can’t you, can’t you look less glum? Keep up your pecker, I implore.”
Quoth the Raven—“Nevermore!”
“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, I don’t wish to be uncivil,
But the heavens still bend above us, happy days are still in store;
All are not with megrims laden, still the future holds its Aidenn,
For brave youth and beauteous maiden; prophets have been wrong before,
Generally are, in fact; why can’t they learn, and cease to bore?”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
“Then, look here! we’d best be parting, croaking fowl!” I cried, upstarting,
“You had better find your way to some Fools’ Paradise’s shore!
Leave no feather as a token of the rubbish you have spoken,
Leave my lonely rest unbroken, quit that bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my sight, and take thy blackness from my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
And the Raven still is squatting, my æsthetic paper blotting,
On the plaster bust of Dizzy, just above my chamber-door,
With his wall-eyes dully gleaming ’neath the nightmare of his dreaming,
And the gaslight o’er him streaming, casts his shadow on the floor;
But my soul in that black shadow that lies heavy on the floor,
Shall be shrouded—Nevermore!
Punch, January 10, 1880.
The Gold Digger.
Once upon an evening dreary, a gold-digger, tired and weary,
Cogitated very sadly, brain and bone and heart were sore,
For no gold came by his toiling, unkind fate seemed ever foiling
54
All his toilsome, weary efforts, and the keeper of the store
Had pitilessly stopped his credit; quoth the keeper of the store,
“I can’t tucker you no more.”
Wild and gloomy thoughts were tumbling through his head and set him grumbling,
And his voice in accents mumbling ’gan the harsh fates to implore,
That they’d come to some decision, either make him some provision,
Or at once their utmost fury on his willing head outpour—
“Either make me some provision, or your deadliest vials pour”—
He kept crying o’er and o’er.
Swearing, snapping, musing, napping, presently there came a tapping,
Quite an unaccustomed tapping at this fate-tossed digger’s door,
And it roused him from his musing with expectancy confusing,
Made him listen to that tapping on the night’s Plutonian shore,
Wond’ring what could cause that tapping on the night’s Plutonian shore,
Wondering, guessing, more and more.
Softly then he seized a waddy, quietly he bore his body
To that space within his hut, immediately behind the door;
And with easiest, gentlest motion, like the wave of summer ocean,
He hove up the latch that barred all ingress to his shanty floor,
Hove it up, and grasped his waddy, scanned the night’s Plutonian shore,
Saw the light, and nothing more.
Then cried he, “What shicer is it pays me this mysterious visit?
Is’t a snake or is’t a wild dog? either sneak I do abhor,
Well! I don’t know about funking, but I’ll just lie down my bunk in,
And I’ll leave the door wide open, open to what may explore
The old hut, and while exploring, if the explorer don’t get sore,
Cooey on me, nevermore.”
From the darkness came a fluttering, and a sort of subdued muttering
That developed into stuttering, stuttering at the open door;
And a lovely Cochin China, impudent as any Dinah,
Strutted proudly o’er the threshold like as he’d been there before,
Just as though he had a right that came all other rights before,
A right that still demanded more.
But a different opinion reigned without that small dominion;
There a calm recumbent digger eyed the proud bird o’er and o’er,
And then stealthily arising, with a cunning most surprising,
Ere Chanticleer had perceived it, he had fastened to the door;
Had made the door so very fast that the chanticleer’s uproar
Might undo it, nevermore.
Then said he, “This bird celestial may I civilly request he’ll
Now disclose the cause of his nocturnal tapping at my door?
Say! hath my good angel sent thee? Flutter not, nay, nay, content thee,
Thou shalt have as warm a welcome as e’er cocky had before,
Have a regular hot old welcome, such as others had before;
I can offer nothing more.”
Ah! the bird was very wary, and of eloquence quite chary,
No clear answer did it make him as it dodged about the floor,
Never thanked him for his kindness, but with worse than colour blindness,
It refused to see the goodness of the digger o’er and o’er,
Really flew from his advances, as esteeming him a bore,
And desiring such no more.
Spare my muse a dire narration, take the simple intimation
That by fell decapitation, Cocky weltered in his gore.
His shrill clarion brought to silence by a digger’s ruthless violence,
Never more at dawn of morning, or at close of day might pour
Its clear notes upon the air; might no matin solo pour;
Silenced quite for evermore.
Quite soon a mouth-moistening aroma, such as a famous cook’s diploma
Might certify that famed cook’s skill could draw from viands in his store,
Filled the hut. The pot was bubbling, Cochin China’s toil and troubling
Were at an end, and he was yielding grateful broth from every pore,
Yielding broth fit for a warden, that should our digger’s strength restore,
And make him a good feed once more.
’Twas no ardour scientific of immense results prolific,
Nor a questioning of his fortunes by the ancient heathen lore,
Still our much depressed hero, whose luck surely was at zero,
Was examining quite closely Cocky’s crop upon the floor,
Was inspecting it minutely on his knees upon the floor,
Close and closer, more and more.
Then he rose in great elation, no swell owner of a station
Could wear a more triumphant air than now our miner wore,
For while he had been dissecting he’d been curiously prospecting,
And Cocky’s crop had yielded yellow grains of golden ore.
“No bad prospect,” quoth our miner, “a good show of golden ore,
And around there must be more.”
When the morrow’s sun had lighted up the heavens, our miner dighted
In his clay-stained looking raiment sought the ground the fowls pecked o’er,
And with them he went a picking, and by dint of closely sticking
To his feathered mates he picked up quite a lot of golden ore—
Picked up nuggets large as brickbats, glorious lumps of golden ore,
Made a pile, and nothing more.
Newcastle Paper, April, 1880.
Quart Pot Creek.
(Australasian.)
On an evening ramble lately, as I wandered on sedately,
Linking curious fancies, modern, mediæval, and antique,—
Suddenly the sun descended, and a radiance ruby-splendid,
55
With the gleam of water blended, thrilled my sensitive physique,—
Thrilled me, filled me with emotion to the tips of my physique,
Fired my eye, and flushed my cheek.
Heeding not where I was going, I had wandered, all unknowing,
Where a river gently flowing caught the radiant ruby-streak;
And this new-found stream beguiling my sedateness into smiling,
Set me classically styling it with Latin names and Greek.
Names Idalian and Castalian such as lovers of the Greek,
Roll like quids within their cheek.
On its marge was many a burrow, many a mound, and many a furrow,
Where the fossickers of fortune play at Nature’s hide-and-seek;
And instead of bridge to span it, there were stepping-stones of granite,—
And where’er the river ran, it seemed of hidden wealth to speak.
Presently my soul grew stronger, and I, too, was fain to speak:—
I assumed a pose plastique.
“Stream,” said I, “I’ll celebrate thee! Rhymes and Rhythms galore await thee!
In the weekly ‘poets corner’ I’ll a niche for thee bespeak:
But to aid my lucubration, thou must tell thine appellation,
Tell thy Naiad-designation—for the Journal of next week—
Give thy sweet Pactolian title to my poem of next week.
Whisper, whisper it—in Greek!”
But the river gave no token, and the name remained unspoken,
Though I kept apostrophising till my voice became a shriek;—
When there hove in sight the figure of a homeward-veering digger,
Looming big, and looming bigger, and ejecting clouds of reek—
In fuliginous advance emitting clouds of noisome reek
From a tube beneath his beak.
“Neighbour mine,” said I, “and miner,”—here I showed a silver shiner—
“For a moment, and for sixpence, take thy pipe from out thy cheek.
This the guerdon of thy fame is; very cheap, indeed, the same is;
Tell me only what the name is—(’tis the stream whereof I speak)—
Name the Naiad-name Pactolian! Digger, I adjure thee, speak!”
Quoth the digger, “Quart Pot Creek.”
Oh, Pol! Edepol! Mecastor! Oh, most luckless poetaster!
I went home a trifle faster, in a twitter of a pique;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living rhyming being
Ever yet was cursed with seeing, in his poem for the week,
Brook or river made immortal in his poem for the week,
With such a name as “Quart Pot Creek!”
* * * * *
But the river, never minding, still is winding, still is winding,
By the gardens where the Mongol tends the cabbage and the leek;
And the ruby radiance nightly touches it with farewell lightly,
But the name sticks to it tightly,—and this sensitive physique,
The already-mentioned (vide supra) sensitive physique,
Shudders still at “Quart Pot Creek!”
Miscellaneous Poems. By J. Brunton Stephens.
London (Macmillan and
Co.) 1880.
In 1881 a charming little volume of Essays,
entitled, “Waifs,” was published by Messrs.
Maclehose, of Glasgow. Mr. William Tait
Ross, the author of these papers is well
known in the northern capitals for his
writings, published under the nom de plume
of Herbert Martyne. One of the most humorous
chapters in “Waifs” is entitled A Séance with a
Sequel, which recounts the author’s experiences at
a spiritualistic meeting in Glasgow. He there
interviews the ghost of one of the geese who
saved Rome; the spirit of a duck who sailed in
Noah’s Ark; the spirit of the late lamented
Cock Robin; of the mouse turned over by
Robbie Burns’s plough; and of the donkey
celebrated by the Poet Coleridge.
There is a good deal of dry humour in their
replies, but the séance comes to an untimely
end, owing to a wild outburst of spiritual
enthusiasm on the part of the table used for
communicating with the spirits.
This excitable piece of furniture suddenly
made for the door, and was with difficulty
restrained by four strong men. One of the party
then getting alarmed, turned on the gas; in a
moment all the commotion ceased; and so the
séance ended.
“I will add,” says the author, “nothing by
way of comment, except this, that the answers
obtained from the various spirits seem to me to
be even more sensible and important than those
obtained at any séance recorded in the annals of
spirit rapping.”
The chapter concludes with the following
verses in imitation of “The Raven,” entitled—
A SEQUEL.
The Spirits.
Lately on a midnight dreary,
Sitting by the fire so cheery,
Listening to the storm that beat and blew
With blustering gust and roar;
While I sat serenely smoking,
Suddenly there came a knocking
As of some one rudely poking,
56
Poking at my chamber-door—
“’Tis some dirty ill-bred spirit
Knocking at my chamber-door—
Only that, and nothing more.”
But to face the audacious knocker,
I seized the shining poker,
While my heart went jumping, thumping,
As I never felt before;
For through the storm’s loud shrieking
I heard high voices speaking—
’Tis some thief’s ghost that is sneaking
On the outside of the door—
Some vile spirit entrance seeking
By the keyhole of the door—
This, perhaps, and nothing more.
Hesitating then no longer,
Presently my legs grew stronger,
And, brandishing the poker,
I strode towards the door;
When, without one word of fable,
The ponderous parlour-table
Marched as fast as it was able
Right across the parlour floor;
Danced across the room, and then assumed
Its post beside the door—
Which is true, and something more.
Outside louder grew the knockings,
Till I shook within my stockings,
And then there came a thundering bang,
Far louder than before;
While the ponderous parlour table
Danced as fast as it was able
Kicking up a noise like Babel,
Which I could not well explore;
Let my legs be firm a moment,
And this mystery explore—
’Tis a drunken man, no more.
For now I well remember,
In the dark days of December,
Full many a drouthy crony
Proceeds from door to door—
Pouring forth the flowing whiskey,
And, thereby getting frisky,
Plays many a curious plisky,
And raises many a splore—
It may be spirit rappers
On t’other side the door—
Only that, and nothing more.
So pulling up my breeches,
With many tugs and hitches,
I turned the key within the lock
And opened wide the door,
When arose a mighty bawling,
And a sudden stick came mauling,
That sent me quickly sprawling,
Sprawling on the parlour floor;
And I said that spirit rapping
I very much deplore—
I think I rather swore.
And, shouting for a bobby,
Till my voice rang through the lobby,
I made efforts to collect myself
Lying spilt upon the floor;
But it is a fact outrageous
That no guardian beak courageous,
With whiskers so umbrageous,
Hears, however loud you roar;
So, assisted by the poker,
I crawled towards the door—
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Still the table it kept prancing,
And a private hornpipe dancing,
As if its soul rejoiced to see
The sufferings that I bore.
Wrathful at the wooden joker,
I smashed it with the poker,
When the loud tumultuous knocker
Fled from my chamber door,
Shouting out, to spirit rappers,
“Never open wide your door any more.”
And I murmured, “Nevermore!”
The Drama Despondent!
(A Poe-etical Parody.)
As one evening in my study, seated by the firelight ruddy,
I was busily absorbing portions of dramatic lore,
Suddenly I heard a creaking, as of some one slyly sneaking
(Setting both the hinges squeaking), sneaking through my study door.
And I murmured, sotto voce, “Who’s that fiddling with the door?
Doubtless some unwelcome bore!”
“Come in!” I sternly muttered, while my breast with anger fluttered,
When there sidled in a Figure, such as ne’er was seen before;
Like some stagey apparition, in a woe-begone condition—
And it took up its position just inside my chamber-door.
“What might be your name?” I asked it. And it answered from the door—
“I’m the Drama!”—nothing more!
“Oh, indeed!” I said, politely. “Take a chair!” but that unsightly,
Not to say dejected Figure, an unwilling manner bore.
I remarked, “You seem in sorrow,—still bear up, perhaps to-morrow
(Though some trouble has beset you, which at present you deplore)
You may meet with better fortune, and be brilliant as of yore.”
Quoth the Drama, “Nevermore!”
“Why this tone of bitter anguish?” I inquired; “you seem to languish
’Neath some very dreadful burden; state the reason, I implore!
Tell me plainly, now, what is it, that has caused this sudden visit—
Why the unexpected entrance of your figure through my door?
Why that stagey exclamation that you uttered just before,—
That expression, ‘Nevermore?’”
Still it groaned, and I retreated, as that sentence it repeated.
“What! again?” I said. “Pray, drop it; though your grief is doubtless sore,
You can’t help trash being written for the theatres of Britain
57
And ‘swells’ won’t be always waiting for their ‘pets’ at each stage-door,
And ere long the undressed syrens, may be swept away galore.”
Quoth the Drama, “Nevermore!”
Then the poor old Drama, sneering, took the cue for disappearing,—
And it pulled its mantle round it, and stalked slowly to the door—
And its groan was something fearful, as it said in accents tearful,
As it sadly bent its optics on the carpet-covered floor—
“Look here, old poetic party, I shall bet you ten to four,—
’Twill be better, Nevermore!—
That is, hardly evermore!”
H. C. N.
The Entr’acte, February 11, 1882.
A Voice.
In the dusk, within my chamber, I sat and sadly pondered—
Pondered o’er life’s problems with my hand upon my brow.
“When,” I asked, “will adverse fortune cease to torment and oppress me?”
A voice from out the window, shrill and piercing, answered, “Now!”
Thrilled and startled by the answer, coming from an unknown being,
I said again: “If blessing is in store, oh tell me how
Release will come, and joy and peace? Say, when, when will it be?”
And through the open casement promptly came the answer “N-n-now!”
Half in fear and half in frenzy, for methought the being mocked me,
I said: “Unlock the mystery of my fate, or else I vow
To curse thee for thy falseness. Tell me when I shall have blessing.”
The weird, shrill voice responded still, as ever, only “N-n-ow-w!”
To my feet I sprang in anger, flinging wide the casement shutter:
“Djinn!” I shrieked, “or devil, or angelic being thou
Shalt say when peace wilt come and joy to calm my troubled spirit!”
The cat upon the moonlit shed below responded “N‑a‑ow‑w‑w!”
Free Press Flashes, 1883.
Dunraven.
(A November Night’s Vision, after reading Edgar Poe and
the Earl of Dunraven’s Address on “Fair Trade,” delivered
by him, as President of the National Fair Trade
League, at Sheffield, on November 12th, 1884.)
Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered weak and weary
Over many a dry and tedious tome of economic lore,
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a snapping
As of some small terrier yapping, yapping at my study-door,
’Tis old Ponto there, I muttered, yapping at my study-door,—
Only that, and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was early in November
When to town the wearied Member came, and thought the thing a bore.
Eagerly I hoped the morrow Salisbury some sense might borrow,
And I thought with ceaseless sorrow of the streamside and the moor,
Of the rare and radiant raptures of the streamside and the moor.
Heather’s sweep and trout-stream’s roar.
Open then I flung the doorway, when, with blast as chill as Norway,
In there stepped “Fair Trade” Dunraven, solemn as a monk of yore;
Not the least apology made he, though I thought his manners “shady,”
But, as stiff as Tate and Brady, stood within my study-door,
Underneath a bust of Cobden just above my study-door,—
Stood, and scowled, and nothing more.
Then this sombre guest, beguiling my tired spirit into smiling
By the doctrinaire decorum of the countenance he wore,
“Smugly trimmed and deftly shaven, though I trust I’m not a craven,
You have startled me, Dunraven,” said I, “yapping at my door.
Tell me what your little game is, late at night at this my door?”
Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!”
Much I chuckled (though urbanely) him to hear talk so insanely,
For his answer little wisdom, little relevancy bore;
And one cannot help agreeing no sane living human being
In “Fair Trade” salvation seeing, could come yapping at one’s door,
Snapping, late at night in winter, at a fellow’s study-door,
Just to bid him, “Tax once more!”
But Dunraven, standing lonely under Cobden’s bust, spake only
Those same words as though his creed in those few words he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; calm he looked, and quite unfluttered,
Then unto myself I muttered, “Other fads have flown before;
Very soon this fad will vanish, as Protection did before.”
Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!”
Startled at the silence broken by reply so patly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his only stock and store,—
Caught from some bad fiscal master, whom trade-loss or farm-disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his talk one burden bore,—
Till the dirges of his craft one economic burden bore,—
Of ‘Tax—tax Corn once more!’
“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, Trade is going to the devil,
Is the plea of you and Lowther, Chaplin, many another bore.
Sophists dull, yet all undaunted, do you think the thing that’s wanted
By our land, depression-haunted,—tell me truly, I implore,—
Is it, can it be Protection? Answer plainly, I implore!”
Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!”
58
“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, I don’t wish to be uncivil,
But, by heaven! this Fair Trade figment is becoming a big bore.
Think you Corn with taxes laden means an economic Aidenn
For that somewhat ancient maiden who ‘protected’ was of yore,
For that very ancient maiden, Agriculture?” With a roar
Yelled Dunraven “Tax once more!”
“Then it’s time that we were parting, Parroteer!” I cried, upstarting,
“Get thee back to silly Sheffield, twaddle on St. Stephen’s floor,
I require no further token of the rot your League hath spoken,
Fair Trade phalanx to be broken by experience sad and sore.
Take thy Beakey’s words to heart, who said Protection’s day was o’er!”
Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!”
And Dunraven, dolefuller waxing, still stands croaking of Corn-taxing,
Underneath the bust of Cobden, just above my study-door,
And his talk has all the seeming of a monomaniac’s dreaming—
Here I woke, and day was streaming through the lattice on the floor,
And I hope that no such vision e’er again my ears will bore
With the burden “Tax once more!”
Punch, November 22, 1884.
The Ravenous Bull and the Bicycle.
(With Apologies.)
My name is William Rory, and I’m going to tell a story,
Tell the story of an accident I’ve never told before.
How when coming home from Dover I felt myself in clover,
And I will say, moreover, that my feet were rather sore;
The landlord said, “You’ll rue it,”
But I said, “I mean to do it.” But I’ll do it nevermore.
And right well do I remember, ’twas early in September,
When that landlord said, “I’d rue it,” as he stood against the door,
When my feet were sore with walking for that day I had been stalking
Up and down the streets of Dover, where I’d never been before,
And I squinted at that landlord, and his warning did ignore.
But I’ll do it nevermore.
So says I, “You’re only joking, and at me it’s fun you’re poking.”
But the landlord looked quite solemn, and spat upon the floor.
And says he, “You must be silly to attempt a road so hilly.
And see the time for starting, why it’s just now striking four!
Pray, sir, now do not do it, but stay over, I implore.”
This he oft had said before.
But then he looked more willing, as I threw to him a shilling
To drink my health in whisky, as oft I’d done before.
And then I took my spanner, and all the bolts did hammer,
And tightened up the nuts, an operation I abhor,
Then I jumped into my saddle, shouting to him “au revoir.”
Only this, and nothing more.
And as I felt aweary, the road to me seemed dreary
Drearier than ever it had seemed to me before,
But I was weary’s master, and round the wheel went faster,
And like a wingèd demon, along the road I tore,
In an hour and three-quarters I had done of miles a score.
This I’d done, and nothing more.
And every minute faster, dreaming of no disaster,
Along the road, ’mid dust and stones, my bike her master bore.
While I my way was winging, I betook myself to singing,
When all my nerves were palsied by a distant sullen roar;
And that roaring stopped my singing, and thinks I it is a boar.
This I thought, and something more.
Just then a corner turning, my blood went through me burning,
For there in front, with fiery eyes, a bull straight for me tore.
A moment he stood eyeing, then bike and me sent flying,
The perspiration trickled down my skin from every pore,
And I rather think that in my flight I must have somehow swore.
Merely swore, and nothing more.
After such a fearful riot, I laid there on the quiet,
For he treated me so lively, and I wished the joke was o’er.
He had pitched me in a gutter, and my nerves were in a flutter,
And into a thousand pieces my new uniform he tore,
And says I he must be waiting for a taste of human gore.
This I said, and nothing more.
While in the gutter lying, I saw that bull go flying
Along the road, at such a speed he’d never gone before.
So I let him go and curs’d him, and prayed the fates might burst him,
For my bicycle he’d humbugged, and he’d made me “awful” sore,
And I felt he’d quite undone me, but he’d never do so more.
And I muttered nevermore.
I collected up the ruins of that nasty mad bull’s doin’s,
And straightway did I take them unto my cottage-door.
And my wife, when she espied me, said I wasn’t looking tidy.
And I told the awful story to the wife whom I adore,
And she said, “My dear, stop riding; do give up for evermore.”
And I have, for evermore.
A. J. Freeland.
Wheeling Annual, 1885.
A Cat-as-Trophy.
The other night as I lay musing, and my weary brain
confusing o’er the topics of the day, suddenly I heard the
rattling, as of serious hosts a-battling, as they mingled in the
fray. “What’s that?” I cried, upstarting, and into the
darkness darting, slap! I ran against the door. “Oh, ’tis
“naught,” young Hornet grumbled, as o’er a huge arm-chair,
I stumbled,” ’tis a flea, and nothing more.” “Then,” said
I, my anger rising, for I thought it so surprising that a flea
should thus offend, “do you think a small insect, sir, thus
would all the air infect, sir? No, ’tis not a flea, my friend.”
Now becoming sorely frightened, round my waist my
pants I tightened, and put on my coat and hat, and into the
darkness peering, I saw, with trembling and much fearing,
the glaring eyes of Thomas Cat, Esq.
59
With astonishment and wonder I gazed upon this son of
thunder, as he sat upon the floor, when resolution taking, a
rapid movement making, lo! I opened wide the door.
“Now clear out,” I hoarsely shouted, as o’er my head my
boot I flouted; take your presence from my floor!” Then,
with air and mien majestic, this creature, called domestic,
made his exit through the door. Made his exit without
growling, neither was his voice heard howling, not a single
word he said.—And with feelings much elated, to escape a
doom so fated, I went back to my bed.
The Hornsey Hornet, October, 1866.
The End of “The Raven.”
You’ll remember that a Raven in my study found a haven
On a plaster bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door;
And that with no sign of flitting, he persisted there in sitting
Till, I’m not above admitting, that I found that bird a bore.
Found him, as he sat and watched me, an indubitable bore,
With his dreary “Never more.”
But it was, in fact, my liver caused me so to shake and shiver,
And to think a common Raven supernatural influence bore;
I in truth had, after dining, been engaged some hours in “wining”—
To a grand old port inclining—which its date was ’44!
And it was this crusted vintage, of the season ’44,
Which had muddled me so sore.
But next morn my “Eno” taking, for my head was sadly aching,
I descended to my study, and a wicker cage I bore.
There the Raven sat undaunted, but I now was disenchanted,
And the sable fowl I taunted as I “H-s-s-h-d!” him from my door,
As I took up books and shied them till he flew from off my door,
Hoarsely croaking, “Never more!”
“Now, you stupid bird!” I muttered, as about the floor it fluttered.
“Now you’re sorry p’raps you came here from where’er you lived before?”
Scarcely had I time to ask it, when, upsetting first a casket,
My large-size waste-paper basket he attempted to explore,
Tore the papers with his beak, and tried its mysteries to explore,
Whilst I ope’d the cage’s door.
Ever in my actions quicker, I brought up the cage of wicker,
Placed it on the paper basket, and gave one loud “H-s-s-h!” once more.
When, with quite a storm of croaking, as though Dis himself invoking,
And apparently half choking, in it rushed old “Never more!”—
Right into the cage of wicker quickly popped old “Never more!”
And I smartly shut the door.
Then without the least compunction, booking to St. John’s Wood Junction,
To the “Zoo” my cage of wicker and its sable bird I bore.
Saw the excellent Curator, showed him the persistent prater—
Now in manner much sedater—and said, “Take him, I implore!
He’s a nuisance in my study, take him, Bartlett, I implore!”
And he answered, “Hand him o’er.”
“Be those words our sign of parting!” cried I, suddenly upstarting,
“Get you in amongst your kindred, where you doubtless were before.
You last night, I own, alarmed me (perhaps the cucumber had harmed me!),
And you for the moment charmed me with your ceaseless ‘Never more!’—
Gave me quite a turn by croaking out your hollow ‘Never more!’
But ‘Good-bye!’ all that is o’er!”
* * * * *
Last Bank Holiday, whilst walking at the Zoo, and idly talking,
Suddenly I heard low accents that recalled the days of yore;
And up to the cages nearing, and upon the perches peering—
There, with steak his beak besmearing, draggle-tailed, sat “Never more!”
Mutual was our recognition, and, in his debased condition, he too thought of heretofore;
For anon he hoarsely muttered, shook his draggled tail and
fluttered, drew a cork at me and swore—
Yes, distinctly drew three corks, and most indubitably swore!
Only that, and nothing more!
Funny Folks Annual, 1884.
Sequel to the “Raven.”
The author of the following was R. Allston Lavender, Jr., a
maniac in the lunatic asylum at Raleigh, N.C. He fancied
that it was dictated by the spirit of Edgar A. Poe:
Fires within my brain were burning,
Scorning life, despairing, yearning;
Hopeless, blinded in my anguish;
Through my body’s open door
Came a Raven, foul and sable,
Like those evil birds of fable,
Downward swooping where the drooping
Spectres haunt the Stygian’s shore.
Ghosts of agonies departed,
Festering wounds that long had smarted,
Broken vows, returnless mornings,
Griefs and miseries of yore,
By some art revived, undaunted,
I gazed steadfast; the enchanted,
Black, infernal Raven uttered
A wild dirge—not Evermore.
Gazing steady, gazing madly
On the bird, I spoke, and sadly
Broke down, too deep for scorning,
Sought for mercy to implore.
Turning to the bird, I blessed it—
In my bosom I caressed it;
Still it pierced my heart, and revelled
In the palpitating gore.
I grew mad; the crowning fancies,
Black weeds they—not blooming pansies—
Made me think the bird a spirit.
Bird, I cried, be bird no more;
Take a shape—be man, be devil,
Be a snake; rise in thy revel!
From thy banquet rise—be human!
I have seen thee oft before;
Thou art a bird, but something more.
60
Tapping, tapping, striking deeper,
Rousing pain, my body’s keeper,
Thou hast oft ere while sought entrance
At the heart’s great palace door;
Leave me, leave me, gloomy demon,
Fiend or spirit, most inhuman;
Strike me through, but first unveiling,
Let me scan thee o’er and o’er—
Thou art a bird, but something more.
Still with sable pinions flapping,
The great Raven tapping, tapping,
Struck into my breast his talons.
Vast his wings outspread, and o’er
All my nature cast a pallor,
But I strove with dying valor,
With the poinard of repulsion,
Striking through the form it wore—
Of a bird, and something more.
Oh! thou huge, infernal Raven,
Image that Hell’s King hath graven,
Image growing more gigantic,
Nursed beyond the Stygian shore,
Leave me, leave me, I beseech thee,
I would not of wrong, impeach thee;
I cried madly, then earth opened,
With a brazen earthquake roar.
Downward, downward, circling, speeding,
Cries of anguish still unheeding,
Striking through me with his talons,
Still the Raven shape he bore;
Unto Erebus we drifted,
His huge wings by thunder lifted,
Beat ’gainst drifts of white-flamed lightning,
Sprinkled red with human gore—
’Twas a bird, but demon more.
I’m no bird, “an angel brother,”
A bright spirit and none other,
I have waited, blissful tended
Thee for thirty years and more.
In thy wild, illusive madness;
In thy blight, disease and sadness,
I have sounded, tapping, tapping
At thy spirit’s Eden door,
Not a bird, but angel more.
In my Palmyrenian splendor,
In Zenobian regnance tender,
More than Roman thought Aurelian,
Were the kingly name I bore;
I have left my angel-palace,
Dropping in thy sorrow’s chalice
Consolation; oh! ’twas blessed,
Sweet thy pillow to bend o’er,
Not a bird, love’s angel more.
Shining down with light Elysian
Through the pearly gate of vision,
On thy tranced soul lighted fancy,
When across thy chamber-floor,
Fell the spirit moonlight laden,
Laden with soft dews from Aidenn,
Shaken downward, still Nepenthe
Drunk by dreaming bards of yore.
Eden is life’s mocking fever,
Where through citron groves for ever
Blow the spice winds, and the love-birds
Tell their raptures o’er and o’er,
From earth’s hell by Afrits haunted,
From its evil disenchanted,
I have borne thee, gaze upon me,
Didst thou see me ne’er before?
Then I wakened, if to waken
Be to dwell by grief, forsaken,
With the God who dwelt with angels
In the shining age of yore.
And I stood sublime, victorious,
While below lay earth with glorious
Realms of angels shining,
Crown-like on her temples evermore,
Not on earth, an Eden more.
Earth, I cried, thy clouds are shadows
From the Asphodelian meadows
Of the sky-world floating downward,
Early rains that from them pour;
Love’s own heaven thy mother bore thee,
And the Father God bends o’er thee,
’Tis His hand that crowns thy forehead,
Thou shalt live for evermore,
Not on earth, an Eden more.
As a gem has many gleamings,
And a day hath many beamings,
And a garden many roses
Thrilled with sweetness to the core;
So the soul hath many ages,
And the life’s book many pages,
But the heart’s great gospel opens
Where the Seraphims adore,
Not on earth, an Eden more.
I will write a book hereafter,
Cheerful as a baby’s laughter
When its mother’s breast o’er leans it,
On the sainted spirit shore;
Like Apollo, the far data,
I, the poet and the martyr,
Will chant
paeans of soul music
That shall live for evermore,
Not a friend, a brother more.
American Paper.
In many instances, authors have selected the
curious metre of “The Raven,” with its double
echoes, and sonorous refrain, for imitation in
poems of too serious a character to be styled
Parodies. One clever poem of this description
appeared a few years ago in “Lloyd’s Poetical
Magazine,” and has recently been republished
by its author, Mr. Ernest S. T. Harris-Bickford,
of Camborne. It is entitled, “A Vigil Vision,”
and is a very musical though rather sad poem,
in form and versification much resembling
“The Raven,” but having no refrain.
Any extracts would do it injustice, and it is
too long to quote in full; moreover, it scarcely
comes within the compass of this collection.
61
Before quitting “The Raven” and the parodies
it has given rise to, it must be mentioned that
Mr. J. H. Ingram has clearly pointed out that it
was not in itself a perfectly original poem.
Indeed Poe, himself, in his half-serious, half-jesting
“Philosophy of Composition” remarks,
“Of course, I pretend to no originality in either
the rhythm, or the metre of “The Raven;”
adding, however, that nothing approaching the
peculiar combination of the verses into stanzas
had ever been previously attempted.
The first printed version of “The Raven”
appeared in the Evening Mirror (New York) on
the 29th of January, 1845; in 1843 Poe had been
writing for the New Mirror, another New York
paper, which in the number for Saturday,
October 14th, 1843, contained a poem in twelve
stanzas, entitled Isadore. This poem was written
by Mr. Albert Pike, a well-known American
littérateur, and was prefaced by an editorial
note, stating that the poem was one of the
imagination only, as the Poet’s wife was then
alive and perfectly well.
Isadore.
“Thou art lost to me for ever, I have lost thee, Isadore,—
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more.
Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine,
Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine:
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!”
“My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlore;
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings a melancholy strain,
For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with rain.
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore.”
* * * * *
“Thou art gone from me for ever, I have lost thee, Isadore!
And desolate and lonely shall I be for evermore.
If it were not for our children’s sake, I would not wish to stay,
But would pray to God most earnestly to let me pass away,—
And be joined to thee in Heaven, Isadore.”
In “Isadore” the most distinctive—the only
salient—feature is the refrain with which each
stanza concludes; the metre and rhythm are
much less dexterously managed than in “The
Raven,” but it was evidently the author’s intention
to produce an effect similar to that which
Poe, with superior skill, did subsequently create.
Annabel Lee.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child, and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came,
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life, and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Edgar Allan Poe.
(First published after the author’s death.)
Samuel Brown.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a dwelling down in town,
That a fellow there lived whom you may know,
By the name of Samuel Brown;
And this fellow he lived with no other thought
Than to our house to come down.
62
I was a child, and he was a child,
In that dwelling down in town,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Samuel Brown,—
With a love that the ladies coveted,
Me and Samuel Brown.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
To that dwelling down in town,
A girl came out of her carriage, courting
My beautiful Samuel Brown;
So that her high-bred kinsmen came,
And bore away Samuel Brown,
And shut him up in a dwelling-house,
In a street quite up in the town.
The ladies not half so happy up there,
Went envying me and Brown;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this dwelling down in town),
That the girl came out of the carriage by night,
Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.
But our love is more artful by far than the love
Of those who are older than we,—
Of many far wiser than we,—
And neither the girls that are living above,
Nor the girls that are down in town,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.
For the morn never shines, without bringing me lines
From my beautiful Samuel Brown;
And the night’s never dark, but I sit in the park
With my beautiful Samuel Brown.
And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,
With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay,
To our dwelling down in town,
To our house in the street down town.
Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey
(Ticknor, Reed,
and Fields), Boston, United States, 1854.
The Cannibal Flea.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a District styled E.C.,
That a monster dwelt whom I came to know
By the name of Cannibal Flea;
And the brute was possessed with no other thought
Than to live,—and to live on me!
I was in bed, and he was in bed,
In the District named E.C.,
When first in his thirst, so accursed he burst
Upon me the Cannibal Flea!
With a bite that felt as if some one had driven
A bayonet into me!
And this is the reason why long ago,
In that District called E.C.,
I tumbled out of my bed, willing
To capture the Cannibal Flea,
Who all the night, until morning came,
Kept boring away at me!
It wore me down to a skeleton,
In the District hight, E.C.
From the hour that I sought my bed—eleven—
Till daylight he tortured me,—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In that District named E.C.),
I so often jumped out of my bed by night,
Willing the killing of Cannibal Flea.
But his hops they were longer by far than the hops
Of creatures much larger than he,—
Of parties more long-legged than he;
And neither the powder nor turpentine drops,
Nor the persons engaged by me,
Were so clever as ever to stop me the hop
Of the terrible Cannibal Flea.
For at night with a scream I am waked from my dream,
By the terrible Cannibal Flea,
And at morn I ne’er rise without the bites,—of such size!—
From the terrible Cannibal Flea;
So I’m forced to decide I’ll no longer reside
In the District—the District—where he doth abide,
The locality known as E.C.—
That is postally known as E.C.!
Tom Hood, the younger.
[3]The L. C. D. and the L. S. D.
It was many and many a year ago—
How many boots little to me—
That a railway was made, which you may know
By the name of the L. C. D.
Crowns have tottered, and armies have fought,
And Empires have ceased to be,
Since that line from city to sea was brought—
Absorbing much L. S. D.
A friend of my youth, long under the turf,
In a cinque port by the sea,
Once walking beside the rolling surf
On the sands thus spoke to me:
“A dear old Nunky, who sleeps in peace
In a sepulchre here by the sea,
Was graciously pleased on his decease,
To leave me some L. S. D.
“In Bank Consols, which are safe and sound,
But yield only percentage three,
While seven at least, all the season round
Might be shared from the L. C. D.”
I was a child, and he was a child,
And precious noodles we,
Who might as well in the ocean wild
Have scattered our L. S. D.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of many far wiser than we,
Who declared the first dividend meeting would prove
The last from the L. C. D.
But when through the hills and valleys of Kent
Our railway reached the sea,
We hoped at length our capital spent
Would return us some L. S. D.
63
But neither the increase of traffic and fares,
Nor the strangers from over the sea,
Did ever dissever a coin from our shares
In the profitless L. C. D.
Yet the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of a dividend yet to be,
After centuries past, to gladden at last
Our descendants with L. S. D.
Joseph Verey.
Hornet, February 5, 1873.
St. Rose of Lima, Peru (A.D. 1617.)
It was many and many a year ago,
In a World they call the New,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
As the blessed St. Rose of Peru;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than the penances she could do.
She was a child, yet never a child
Did holiness so pursue,
By morning and night, and by candle-light
In wisdom and grace she grew,
And ever would strive to all earthly faults
And pleasures to say adieu.
An angel in beauty, she thought it was right
To spoil it to mortals’ view,
She scratch’d it with briars, and burnt it in fires,
Until she was known by few;
(O maidens whose charms you but live to adorn
This never would do for you!)
But her fear of the world was more than her fear
Of loveliness losing its due—
Of tortures that thrill’d her through:
And neither the sackcloth she wore to her skin,
Nor her spiky belt thereto,
Could ever elicit the faintest complaint
From the blessed St. Rose of Peru.
When Love drew near with its honey’d words,
And tenderly tried to woo,
The name of wife and the joys of life
She rigidly would eschew.
She prick’d, for her sins, her head with pins,
And the blood in streamlets drew,
And tears they were spilt for her fancied guilt,
By the blessed St. Rose of Peru.
And oft she would fast, but to eat at last
The bitterest herbs she knew,
And all that was pleasant and good to the taste
In horror away she threw;
She stripp’d her garden of all sweet flowers,
And sow’d it with thorns and rue.
And angels would come and make her one
(In dreams) of their seraph crew,
And often the Fiend, in his beauty screen’d,
Her spirit would fain subdue,
But evil could only fail to prevail
With the blessed St. Rose of Peru.
And these are the reasons her fame would grow
In the World they call the New,
But youth wasn’t past ere the wintry blast
The flame of her life out-blew;
There issued a breath from the mouth of Death
Chilling and killing the Rose of Peru.
And many and many a year flew by
In that World they call the New,
While marvels divine were wrought at the shrine
Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru.
(I should beat my breast and be much distress’d
If you call’d this part untrue.)
But my teeth never ache but I think, as I wake,
Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru;
And my corns never shoot, but the woes I compute
Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru;
And so I decide my pangs to abide
Like her who suffer’d—and braved—and died
In the capital of Peru,
The region they call Peru.
Lays of the Saintly. By Walter Parke
(Vizetelly and
Co.), London, 1882.
Beautiful B.
It was many and many a year ago,
By a theatre known as P.
That a little boy stood, whom now we know
By the name of Wilson B.
Whose soul was filled with no other thought
Than to act the Prince of D.
He was a boy, and still like a boy,
In that theatre known as P.,
He plays in a play, that is not mere play,
And as Hamlet Prince of D.,
With many a clutch at his manly breast,
And a smile that is sweet to see.
For this is the reason some time ago,
At his theatre known as P.,
In “Lights of London” and “Romany Rye,”
And the “Silver King” did he
Lead up to the higher “Claudian” rôle
Of poetic tragedee,
Till he’d raised the taste of that theatre
To Hamlet, Prince of D.
For Irving, o’er sated with London’s praise
Went once more across the sea.
Yes! that was the reason, as all men know,
And not the mere L. S. D.
That the Lyceum company, touring, had left
The coast clear for Wilson B.
But his rôle was more youthful by far than the rôle
Of actors more thrilling than he
Of parties intenser than he;
And neither the posing, nor withering smile,
Of a smothered agonee,
Can ever confuse his rôle with the rôle
Of the actor now over the sea.
The play never plays, without crowding the ways
To that theatre we’ve named P.
And the lamps are not lit, ’ere the crowd at the pit
Are waiting for Wilson B.
And all the night long he is there with his stride
Of his youth, his beauty, in lime-light’s pride
In the theatre there you still may see
Beautiful B. as Prince of D.
J. W. G. W., November, 1884.
(Written expressly for this collection, during the run of
Hamlet at the Princess’s Theatre, London, with Mr. Wilson
Barrett as the Prince of Denmark. Mr. Henry Irving, who
had recently been performing the same part at the Lyceum,
being then on tour in the United States.)
64
Annabel Lee.
’Twas more than a million years ago,
Or so, it seems to me,
That I used to prance around and beau
The beautiful Annabel Lee.
There were other girls in the neighbourhood
But none was a patch to she.
And this was the reason that long ago,
My love fell out of a tree,
And busted herself on a cruel rock;
A solemn sight to see,
For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
We loved with a love that was lovely love,
I and my Annabel Lee,
And we went one day to gather the nuts
That men call hickoree—
And I stayed below in the rosy glow
While she shinned up the tree.
But no sooner up than down kerslup
Came the beautiful Annabel Lee.
And the pallid moon and the hectic noon
Bring gleams of dreams for me,
Of the desolate and the desperate fate
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
And I often think as I sink on the brink
Of slumber’s sea, of the warm pink link
That bound my soul to Annabel Lee;
And it wasn’t just best for her interest
To climb that hickory tree.
For had she stayed below with me,
We’d had no hickory nuts, may be,
But I would have had my Annabel Lee.
Mr. and Mrs. Spoopendyke. By Stanley Huntley,
of the “Brooklyn Eagle.”
Ulalume.
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crispèd 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.
Here once, through an alley Titanic
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul,—
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll,—
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole,—
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,—
Our memories were treacherous and sere;
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year!
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dark tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
* * * * *
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom—
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
By the door of a legended tomb,
And I said, “What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?”
She replied, “Ulalume—Ulalume—
’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”
* * * * *
Edgar A. Poe.
Paralune.
(A Poe-tic Fragment).
[A new moonshade, called a Paralune, has been introduced
to preserve Ladies’ complexions from the alleged injurious
effects of moonlight.]
Then I looked round for Sukey, and missed her;
But back she came bounding right soon;
And I said, “What’s the matter, sweet Sister?”
She pointed at once to the moon,
To the silvery sheeny full moon.
“Hang it, Sukey,” I cried, “you’re a twister!
What’s that? To explain were a boon.”
She replied, “Paralune! Paralune!
’Tis the moonshade, the new Paralune.”
Then she said, “She’s a danger is Dian,
A Satellite Ladies mistrust,
To the skin she is terribly tryin’,
And makes one’s complexion like dust.
Red, freckled, or dingy as dust—
Nay, tanned like the tawny-maned Lion.”
“What nonsense!” cried I, in disgust.
Sukey sobbed, “You’re unjust, you’re unjust!
And carry a moonshade I must!”
Then I melted, and tried to look pleasant,
And tempted her out ’neath the moon!
Explained the full disc and the crescent,
Each scoriac rock and lagoon;
And her moonshade she dropped very soon;
But next morning her nose was rubescent,
Her temper was much out of tune;
And she wailed, “Paralune! Paralune!
’Tis the fault of my lost Paralune!”
Punch, September 10, 1881.
65
The Willows.
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 made 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 sear,—
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 of 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 its warm, and I know I feel dry,—
I am confident that I feel dry;
We have come past the emeu and eagle,
And watched the gay monkey on high;
Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,—
To the swan and the monkey on high,—
To the eagle and monkey on high;
For this bar-keeper will not enveigle,—
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.”
Bret Harte.
——:o:——
What is in a Name.
(From “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 solid 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!”
Vere Vereker’s Vengeance, by Thomas Hood.
J. C. Hotten, London, 1865.
——:o:——
66
You’ll Resume!
Air (more or less) “Ulalume.”
Premier sings—
I had passed through a Session Satanic,
And Irish, with “Pussy,”
[4] sleek Peer.
Those were the days of explosion volcanic,
The nights of delirium drear,
Long speeches, and labours Titanic,
Pat outrage, Egyptian panic,
Rude ruction, Obstruction, and fear,
French shirking, and shyness Germanic—
A most unforgettable year!
The Session, in fact, was a twister,
Had filled us with doubt and with gloom;
But we’d got to the end of its vista,
[5]
For starry-eyed Hope there seemed room.
We could flee from Big Ben’s heavy boom.
Yet Forecast, Hope’s heavy-browed sister,
Kept whispering words of dark doom
In my ear, “You’ll resume! You’ll resume!
In two months from to-day, you’ll resume!”
“We are off!” Pussy cried. “This is pleasant!
How jolly! From Westminster far!”
“Ah, precisely,” said I, “for the present!”
Cried he, “What a croaker you are!
What a—well Grand old Croaker you are!
Let us think of the grouse and the pheasant,
And not of St. Stephen’s war,
Of popping at partridge and pheasant,
Not worry, and Warton, and war.”
Then I said, “My dear Pussy, be sober!
Remember we’re bound to be here
By the end of the month of October,
Of this unforgettable year—
By the twenty-fourth day of October.
This very identical year.
Ha! doesn’t that make you feel queer?”
“We shall yet have to work, Puss, like winking.
Tourists? Cloture-ists also I trust.
Obstruction to fight without shrinking
Will call us all back—come we must,
To St. Stephens’s shindy and dust.”
“Oh, hang it!” cried Puss, his face sinking;
“That bothering Cloture be—bust!”
Then I pacified Pussy, and chid him
For giving vulgarity room.
And he promised to do as I bid him,
But there passed o’er his features a gloom—
A settled and sable-hued gloom—
As black as the pall o’er a tomb.
And I said—of it hoping to rid him—
“Dear Puss, what’s the cause of this gloom?”
He replied, “You’ll resume! You’ll resume!
’Tis the thought of those words, You’ll resume!”
Punch, August 26, 1882.
——:o:——
Hope: An Allegory.
The metre of this Poem is adapted from Edgar A. Poe’s
“Ulalume.”
King Phœbus came forth in his splendour
Bedight in his garments of gold,
And round the young treelings so tender,
His raiments of rays did enfold—
Round Hebe, the young and the slender,
His mantle of magic he roll’d,
To keep her from blight and defend her
From sorrow, temptation, or cold.
And while he with Hebe was walking—
Whose face in the flow’rs was seen—
In the rosebud with red in between—
Violet-veined Venus came talking—
Oh! talking with Love came his queen,—
With Cupid she talking was seen;
With Cupid for hearts she was hawking—
Was hawking o’er Hebe’s own green,
To snare the warm heart of the Sun-king
From Hebe, its self-chosen queen.
And while the young pair were still parting,
To Phœbus came blue-eyed Love;
To the Sun-king came Venus’s dove,
And then, from the bushes, upstarting,
Soared into a cloudlet above.
Then came from his bow swiftly darting
An arrow—the arrow of Love.
With the pain King Phœbus was sobbing,
When Venus came by with her balms,
And eased the Sun-king of his throbbing,
As he lay in her beautiful arms;
The wound of its pain quickly robbing;
She sooth’d him with nepenthè calms;
She sooth’d the Sun-king in his sobbing,
By the sound of her Letheian psalms.
Then King Phœbus with poppies she crown’d,
While Somnus o’erwhelm’d him with sleep;
And with slumber his senses they drown’d,
And they soundly his senses did steep;
And Venus her arms then unwound,
While out of his heart Love did leap,
And they left him alone on the ground—
They left him alone in deep sleep.
* * * * *
Fair Hebe was haunted with sorrow
While, alas! on the sad to-morrow,
Phœbus trod through the dreamy hours—
Sought alone the blighted bowers.
Not a glimpse of hope could he borrow—
Ever lost to this world of ours!
While Venus ne’er stayed to console him
But fled in the night and the gloom;
E’en Love never stayed to condole him,
But fled when young Hope lost her bloom;
E’en Somnus no more can control him—
Death’s darkness before him doth loom,
And pale death must soon be his doom;
And they’ll bury him deep in Hope’s tomb.
And fair Hebe no more can return,
Until the death of life is done,
Until the race of life is run,
And the future vanquish’d, yet won,
And the goal eternal won—
Till she’s drunk of the Letheian river,
And Phœbus and Hope have for ever
Mingled their beings in one.
This imitation of Ulalume, written by Mr. John H. Ingram,
was published in 1863, when its author was in his teens.
The little volume which contained it, entitled “Poems by
Dalton Stone,” has been suppressed, and is now very scarce.
——:o:——
67
LENORE.
Ah! broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for ever!
Let the bell toll! a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now, or nevermore!
See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love Lenore!
Come, let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be sung;
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young,—
A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so young.
“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health ye blessed her, that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read—the requiem how be sung,
By you—by yours, the evil eye—by yours, the slanderous tongue,
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young.”
Peccavimus; but rave not thus; and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong:
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride;
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair, but not within her eyes,—
The life still there upon her hair, the death upon her eyes.
“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days.
Let no bell toll; lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnèd earth.
To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven;
From hell unto a high estate far up within the heaven,
From grief and groan, to a golden throne beside the King of heaven.”
Edgar Allan Poe.
This poem was published in 1844, and it has been suggested
that it was probably founded on the melancholy fate of Lady
Flora Hastings. This lady, who was attached to the Royal
Household, became the victim of rumours affecting her reputation,
and was very severely treated by the Queen and the
Duchess of Kent. Although the innocence of Lady Flora was
subsequently clearly established, she was unable to survive the
disgrace and injustice inflicted on her, and died in July, 1839.
But Lenore although published in 1844 was merely a revision
of a poem which had appeared in an early volume of Poe’s
writings, before the Lady Flora Hastings scandal.
——:o:——
THE SUPPER OF THE FOUR.
Remiges quinque a Nunehamo reversi in Ricardi hospitis
cœnaculum intrant, ex quibus quidam sic loquitur:
“Ah! ’pon my word, you fellows, I’m as tired as I was ever!
For supper shout, and let the scout know we’re come from the river;
And a cushion quick! a cushion, Dick, give now or nevermore,
For on this bare cane-bottom chair I will not sit: I’m sore.
Come let the mackerel soused be brought, the pigeon-pie, the tongue,
The cider-cup and straws, and let the radishes be young;
Oh! William, bring the radishes, and William, bring them young.”
Cui Speculator.
“Commons for five, sir, pigeon-pie, I’m ordered to provide,
And beer as usual, I suppose, and cider-cup beside.
The mackerel soused, sir, shall be brought, and ham, and lamb, and tongue,
And potted meats, and salad too, and radishes, sir, young;
I’ll get them if I can, and, sir, I’ll try to get them young.”
Horrenda post cœnam voce cantantes cœteros sic excipit
Ricardus hospes:
“Cœnavimus; but howl not thus: let our Noachian song
Float on the air so tunefully the dean may feel no wrong.”
Noachii Carminis epitome:
“St. James’s Park received the ark on its primeval tide,
[6]
All creatures wild thereto beguiled were stabled safe inside;
By ones, by pairs, they mount the stairs, they mount by threes and fours,
Fowls came from perches, beasts from lairs, and thronged about the doors,
By five, by six, by seven, by eight, by nine, by ten, by scores.”
Tum solito hilarior factus hospes olim tristissimus exclamat:
“Hurrah! to-night my heart is light! no blues I’ll conjure up,
But drown the demons out of sight in a draught of cider-cup;
We’ll drain it dry, then let us try to soothe our temperate mirth,
The comfort of post-prandial pipe, ere each one seek his berth,
May health to all our friends and bane to all our foes be given!”
Propinant omnes.
Now for the pipe and then to sleep, like to the sleepers seven,
From toil and boose to snore and snooze sound as the sleepers seven.
Odd Echoes from Oxford, by A. Merion, B.A.
London, J. C. Hotten, 1872.
68
FOR ANNIE.
Thank Heaven, the crisis,
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last;
And the fever called “living”
Is conquered at last.
Sadly I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length;
But no matter; I feel
I am better at length.
* * * * *
And, ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed—
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
* * * * *
Edgar A. Poe.
——:o:——
Tristan and Isolde.
(By one who does not appreciate Wagner.)
Thank heaven the music
Is silent at last,
And the howling trombones
Have ended their blast;
And the opera called ‘Tristan’
Is finished at last.
Sadly I know
Of its “wonderful strength”
As I dared not to move
Through its wearisome length;
But no matter I feel
It is quiet—at length.
For I could not be dozing,
Nor yet nod my head,
Lest any stall holder
Should fancy me dead;
To the beauty of Wagner
(Alas! I was dead.)
The moaning and groaning,
The shrieking and sobbing,
All quieted now
With that horrible throbbing
Of fiddles,—that horrible
Horrible throbbing.
The noise and the bluster,
The leitmotif’s pain;
The pitiless torture
Of melody vain;
The “melody endless,”
That torturing strain.
For oh! of all tortures,
That motif was worst,
That creepingly crawling
Motif at first;
That writhed like a serpent
And did all its worst
To crush all one’s senses
Of tune, from the first.
The music roared on
An inferno of sound,
That’s heard by a few
Very far underground,—
In a place that’s not quoted
Far under the ground.
And oh! let it never
Be foolishly said,
That Wagner’s not gloomy,
Altho’ he be dead,—
And nothing but good
Should be said of the dead;
Yet that were too awful
A lie, tho’ he’s dead.
Tho’ my heart is a stout one
And feels passing bold, a
World full of perils
I’d dare, but for gold, a
Fortune past counting
I’d shrink to behold, a—
Again that mad opera
Tristan and Isolde.
J. W. G. W., 1884.
(Written expressly for this collection).
Covent Garden.
By a Lover of Poe-try.
A Garden of gardens it teaches
The bard, ever blatant, to bless
The pumpkins, the plums, and the peaches,
The salads not easy to dress;—
Pears, pumpkins, and pulpiest peaches,
Camelia, cabbage, and cress,
The pumpkins, the pippins, the peaches
Cut cabbage, and crisply curled cress!
Oh, of luscious luxurious lunches,
The poet loves one lunch, and that’s
Of bananas in bountiful bunches,
And melons as big as your hats,
Black currants, bananas in bunches,
And cocoa nuts, mothers of mats—
For of science if you are a lover
You’ll know they’re the mothers of mats,
That the cocoa nut’s cortical cover
Machinery makes into mats,
Into fuscous and fibre-fringed mats.
Fun, July 20, 1867.
——:o:——
69
Hygiea.
(A sanitary Lyric, imitated from Edgar Poe’s “Ligiea,”
and dedicated by Mr. Punch to Dr. Richardson.)
Hygiea! Hygiea!
Most exigent one!
I have an idea
Thou pokest thy fun.
Oh! is it thy will
To make noodles of us,
By urging us still
So to worry and fuss
Concerning our bodies,
What’s eaten, what’s drunk,
Until we’re mere noddies
In chronic blue funk?
Hygiea, thou’rt clever;
But, ’twixt you and me,
To fidget for ever
Is fiddle-de-dee.
We mustn’t eat this,
And we mustn’t drink that,
Lest sound health we should miss,
Grow too thin or too fat,
Must go in for analysis
Of all “grub” about
Lest we court cramp, paralysis,
Fever, or gout;
Mustn’t travel by rail,
Must shun riding in cabs;
Must,—but time would quite fail
To tell half of thy “fads.”
If a mortal (I think)
Could such vigilance keep,
He would ne’er eat or drink,
He would ne’er toil or sleep.
Sanitas sanitatum
Is all very fine;
But my ultimatum
Is this—I must dine!
And if I stop grubbing
Till all’s fair and clear,
I shall do nought but “tubbing”
For many a year.
Esculapius’ daughter,
With thee I agree,
Pure air and cold water,
Are needful to me;
But perpetual worry
’Bout stomachs and nerves,
And this, that, and ’tother,
No good purpose serves.
“Nine Systems,” Hygiea,
Perhaps I possess,
Though I’d an idea
The number was less.
But to square work and feast
By the rules thou art giving,
Would take nine lives at least,
And not one much worth living.
Punch, October 23, 1880.
——:o:——
A NEW POEM SAID TO BE BY POE.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY GRAPHIC.
“So many spurious poems purporting to be by
Poe are now brought forward for public approbation
that I feel some hesitation in yielding to my
inclination to send you the following, which first
appeared in the Looking Glass some years ago, and
which I have very slight reason to believe was
written by Poe himself, as it is quite as characteristic
as anything of the sort I have seen in a number
of years.
Frantic Jerry Foodle.”
The Demon of the Doldrums.
One night I lay a-dreaming,
In the moonlight that was streaming
In a flood of liquid glory,
Pouring on my counterpane;
Up and down were goblins tumbling,
On the slanting beams, and crumbling
’Twixt their fingers all the moonlight
In a shower of golden rain.
And some a crimson liquor
Caught and poured it in a bicker
Crowned with crystal listel pistils
Of some rare and wondrous rose,
Whose penetrative fragrance,
In its sinuous mystic vagrance,
Filled my chamber with an odor
That none merely mortal knows.
Ah! that odor—who can tell it?
None but ghouls and angels smell it
Oinoglyphic, soporific,
Hedonific, and divine.
And it seemed as if a censer
Full of pastiles, but immenser
Than a tun of old Madeira
Had been emptied of its wine.
Then methought that with a wobblin’
Strode a lynx-eyed mouse-backed goblin
Down from off the ebon footboard
And along the silken quilt,
And within the moonlight glinting
Capered with a demon squinting,
And a winking and a drinking,
And a horrid, nasty lilt.
Ah! my lips were as dry as paper
When I saw the demon caper,
As with finger pointing ever
At the opalescent bowl
He kept laughing, he kept quaffing,
With his nose much more than half in
That liquor, which did flicker
Like a burning human soul.
Ah! I longed but once to taste it
(As I saw the demon waste it),
And my coppers, hot as stoppers
Of a bowl of molten lead,
Ached to quaff that golden liquor,
From the bicker quick and quicker,
And to roll it down my gullet,
As I tossed upon my bed.
70
Swift I stretched my hand to seize it,
When I heard a voice cry “Cheese it!”
And my head against the bed-post
Falling, crashing, came ca-bunk;
And the demons did evanish,
Like to spirits walking Spanish,
And I heard much lively chinning
’Bout a man who would get drunk.
Another Chapter
on
“The Raven.”
On page 217 of the second volume of the life
of Edgar Allan Poe, Mr. J. H. Ingram quotes the
following extract from one of his letters:—“Have
you seen ‘The Moral for Authors’ a new Satire
by J. E. Tuel? Who, in the name of Heaven, is
J. E. Tuel? The book is miserably stupid! He
has a long parody of the ‘Raven’—in fact, nearly
the whole thing seems to be aimed at me. If you
have not seen it and wish to see it I will send it.”
Poe was well within the mark when he stigmatised
“The Moral for Authors” as a miserably
stupid production. It was published in 1849 by
Stringer and Townsend of New York, and consisted
of forty-eight pages of rhyme almost entirely destitute
of reason. On one page, it is true, the author
vainly attempts a feeble parody of Lord Macaulay’s
style, and there is, of course, the parody of the
“Raven.” As Poe, himself, has alluded to this,
students of his life and works may probably wish to
refer to it, which they would have great difficulty
in doing as copies of the pamphlet are now exceedingly
scarce. I therefore reprint the parody in full,
from a copy kindly lent me by Mr. J. H. Ingram.
It is dated from the—
PLUTONIAN SHORE,
Raven Creek, In the Year of Poetry
Before the Dismal Ages, A.D. 18——
“Once upon a midnight dreary, as I ponder’d weak and weary
Over many a weary volume of recent published lore—
While I nodded o’er ‘
The Sleeper,
[7]’ suddenly I heard a creeper,
As of some one peering deeper-deeper in my chamber door;
’Tis some author new, I mutter’d, or some other midnight bore;
Only this and nothing more!”
“Oh! distinctly I that volume do remember in its solemn
And sleepy double column as it fell upon the floor—
Eagerly I wished to borrow from ‘Cooper’s Last’ of sorrow,
Or my own dark books of horror—horror for having more!
A sure cure for the blues, which were darkly creeping o’er
My ‘Dream,’ and nothing more.”
“And the bleak and dread re-over turning of each volume cover
Chill’d me—filled me with fantastic poems, never penned before,
So that, to still the rushing of my thoughts towards the head-in,
I said, “tis an author sure, entreating entrance through the key-hole door;
A waylaid child of Poetry on a midnight ‘bust,’ or more,
Or else some other bore.’”
“Presently my pen grew fiery,—hesitating an inquiry,
‘Sir,’ said I (or Madman!), ‘truly your late visit I deplore;
For the fact is, I’m inditing a piece of murky writing,
And so unseeming you came lighting, lighting on my chamber door,
Which was never done before’—here
he bolted in the door,
And sat down upon the floor.”
“Then this strange trick beguiling my phrenzy into smiling,
By the cool audacious impudence his brazen features wore—
Tho’ thy hat is old and napless, thou, I said, art sure not sapless,
Young and tender in thy hapless wand’rings from thy mother’s shore;
Tell me why thy business here is on this dark and dismal floor?”
Quoth the Author, ‘Read this o’er.’”
“Much I wonder’d this ambitious youth to see an act so vicious,
Tho’ its answer good deal meaning, I voted him a bore—
For we cannot help believing that no genius living grieving
Ever yet was blind in seeing a Manuscript read o’er
By the ‘Reader’ in a book-shop, or Book-boy in a store,
Yet he cried on, ‘Read it o’er!’”
“Startled at the stillness broken by reply so greenly spoken,
Said I, ‘Before like Poe you flutter you should like Bryant soar
Forc’d from some disaster—perhaps you think to master
Something in the Markette faster, faster than was ever sold before
Till the bird-en of your hopes is ‘Read it o’er—read it o’er.’
Quoth the Author, ‘Nothing more!’”
“But the Author still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I plac’d the faded Manuscript in front of Author, book and door,
Then into its beauties sinking, I betook myself to thinking
What this young aspiring Author with his Manuscript, and more;
What this bold, presumptuous Youth, with his head bor’d through a bore,
Meant in saying, ‘Read it o’er!’”
“Thus I sat, engaged in reading, but no syllable revealing,
To the Youth, whose fiery eyes roll’d a fiery phrenzy o’er,
And o’er its pages turning, with thoughts of mystic learning,
I began a critique burning on its Mathews style and more,
When coming to a chapter, which I heartily did deplore,
Cried the Author, ‘Read it o’er.’”
71
“Then methought the style grew duller, and the hero rather fuller
Of thoughts which even Blue-pard never gloated o’er.
‘Man!’ I cried, ‘thy brain has turn’d thee—by this chapter I have learn’d thee;
‘Re-write—re-write—and re-pen thee these pages blotted o’er—
‘Take-oh! take it, and re-pen-t thee—and correct these pages more:
Cried the author, ‘Read it o’er.’”
“‘Author!’ said I, ‘Imp of Evil—Author great, or Good or Devil,
Whether Putnam sent or Harper toss’d thee here ashore,
Dull and stupid, yet undaunted—on this sheet romantic wasted—
On this floor by volumes haunted—tell me plainly, I implore,
Is there—is there sense in this? tell me, tell me, I implore;
Quoth the author, ‘Read it o’er!’”
“‘Author!” said I, “thing of peril—of paper, ink and ferrel,
By that Public which looks over us—by that Fame we both adore,
Tell this head with furies laden if, within the distant trade-en
It shall find in man or maiden one to read its pages o’er,
And yet the chorus of your melody is ‘Read it o’er—read it o’er.’
Quoth the Author, ‘Nothing more!’”
“Be that word our sign of parting, Author, Fiend, ‘I shrieked upstarting,
Get thee back unto the Harpers on Cliff Street’s Plutonian shore,
Leave no blank page as a token of that word thy tongue has spoken,
Leave my murky thoughts unbroken—quit the threshold of my door,
Take thy Manuscript ‘out’ with thee and take thyself from out my door.’
Quoth the Author, ‘Read it o’er!’”
“And the Author never flitting still is sitting, still is sitting
On a bust of pallid Manuscripts just above my chamber door;
And his pen has all the seeming of an engine ever teeming,
And the smoke that’s from it streaming throws his shadow on the floor
And the only words this engine repeats is ‘Read it o’er, Read it o’er,’
And nothing more.”
——:o:——
THE GOBLIN GOOSE.
A Christmas Nightmare.
Once, it happened I’d been dining, on my couch I slept reclining,
And awoke with moonlight shining brightly on my bedroom floor;
It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as I remember,
But I had no dying ember, as Poe had; when near the door,
Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber door,
Stood a bird,—and nothing more.
And I said, for I’m no craven, “Are you Edgar’s famous raven,
Seeking as with him a haven—were you mixed up with Lenore?”
Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence strange he uttered—
“Hang Lenore,” he mildly muttered; “you have seen me once before,
Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely once before.
I’m the Goose,”—and nothing more.
Then he murmured, “Are you ready?” and with motion slow and steady,
Straight he leapt upon my bed. I simply gave a stifled roar;
And I cried, “As I’m a sinner, at a Goose Club I was winner,
’Tis a mem’ry of my dinner, which I ate at half-past four;
Goose well stuffed with sage and onions, which I ate at half-past four.”
Quoth he hoarsely, “Eat no more!”
Said I, “I’ve enjoyed your juices, breast and back; but tell me, Goose, is
This revenge, and what the use is of your being such a bore?
For goose-flesh I will no more ‘ax’ if you’ll not sit on my thorax.
Go, try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your throat is sore;
You speak gruffly though too plainly, and I’m sure your throat is sore.”
Quoth the nightmare, “Eat no more!”
“Goose!” I shrieked out, “Leave, oh, leave me! surely you don’t mean to grieve me?
You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance must be o’er;
Though to-night you’ve brought me sorrow, comfort surely comes to-morrow.
Some relief from thee I’d borrow at my doctor’s ample store,
There are pills of purest azure in that doctor’s ample store.”
Quoth the goblin, “Eat no more!”
And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a nightmare still is sitting
With me all the night, emitting words that thrill my bosom’s core;
Now, throughout the Christmas season, while I lie and gasp and wheeze, on
Me he sits, until my reason nothing surely can restore,
I am driven mad, and reason nothing surely can restore;
While that Goose says, “Eat no more.”
Punch, January 1, 1881.
——:o:——
The College Craven.
Once when in the evening walking, with my darling softly talking,
Wandering by the shining river, as we’d often done before;
While the clear full moon was beaming, on the flowing waters gleaming,
And the little waves were streaming, streaming, rippling towards the shore
Like small bars of silver dancing, gliding in towards the shore,
Noiseless save for splash of oar.
72
Oh, distinctly I remember ’twas in bright and clear September
Soon after I had returned to this ancient seat of lore,
Vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease to sorrow,
Fearing, dreading that the harrow would pass over me once more,
Little hoped I for Testamur, dreading to be ploughed once more,
Ploughed perhaps for evermore.
So I pondered deeply thinking, fancy into fancy linking,
Balmy air of cool night drinking soothingly through every pore.
Whilst I wandered with my dearest, and the moon was at her clearest,
Earth to heaven seemed the nearest it had ever been before;
Life was sweeter at that moment than it had ever been before,
Than it will be evermore.
Thus while we were gently strolling, pleasant thoughts our minds enrolling,
Suddenly I heard a footstep that I had not heard before,
And I felt my blood run colder, and in fact was no way bolder,
As I felt upon my shoulder the “bulldog’s” hand I so abhor,
Then he said with gleeful malice those old words I so abhor
“The proctor wants you,” nothing more.
“Bulldog,” cried I, “thing of evil, how I wish you at the devil,”
But the “bulldog,” most ferocious, never let me from his paw,
But before the proctor hurried, who my wits completely flurried,
Since they were already worried, “Your name and college I implore,
And your presence in the morning I must earnestly implore,”
Quoth the proctor, nothing more.
In the morning by fears riven, though against them I had striven,
That the penalty was heavy I in no way could ignore.
But my case being duly stated, I was most severely rated,
And within the college gated, gated till the term was o’er,
Ne’er to wander forth at even till the weary term was o’er,
Only this, and nothing more.
P. G. S.
Wadham College, Oxford,
——:o:——
The (C) raven Student.
Once upon a morning dreary, through my lodging window smeary,
Came the cold and blacks and street-cries making getting up a bore!
And I wished I still were napping: suddenly I heard a tapping,
As of some one pertly rapping, rapping at my chamber door!
“’Tis,” growled I, “that maid of all-work rapping at my chamber-door—
What on earth can it be for.”
But too well do I remember that hungriest, dreariest November;
Not a single blessèd ember cast its glow upon the floor,
Nor dared I hope that on the morrow I could venture more to borrow
On my books, which, to my sorrow, had been carried by the score
“To my uncle’s,” by the slattern whom the Missis called Lenore—
Why, I could not say, I’m sure.
And the shiv’ring, cold, uncertain rustling of each paper curtain
Told me of a bleaker draught than I had ever felt before;
So that, while to rise objecting, I turned again and lay reflecting,
Through the crazy rattling sashes as the rain now came by dashes,—
I began to think the knocking at the panel of my door
Was the wind, and nothing more.
Soon again it came, and stronger; hesitating then no longer,—
“Girl,” I cried, “had you but listened, you could well have heard me snore,
“For the fact is, I was napping when so rudely you came rapping;
And if you again come tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
I will give you such a slapping as you never had before!”
Shrieked the maiden:—“Never, sure!”
By the Author of “Flemish Interiors.”
——:o:——
“The Raven” has been repeatedly translated.
A Latin version, by Lewis Gidley, was published
in Exeter in 1863, and again in 1866 by Parker of
Oxford and London. There are several German
versions of it, also a French translation by William
Hughes. But perhaps the most famous of all is the
grand folio published in Paris in 1875, entitled “Le
Corbeau, traduction française de Stéphane Mallarmé,
avec Illustrations par Edouard Manet.” The
translation is literal, and naturally loses much of the
force and beauty of the original from the absence
of rhyme. It lacks also much of the weird suggestiveness
of “The Raven,” whilst the refrain
“Jamais-plus” is but a poor substitute for the
sonorous “Nevermore!” Manet, the late chief of
the Impressionist School of Painters, has here given
full vent to his powers, and his eccentricity. In
some of his illustrations the effects of light and
shade are marvellous, in others he has been less
successful, whilst in one or two instances the illustrations
appear absolutely meaningless.
Notes and Queries recently quoted an anecdote
of a Raven which must have been an ancestor of
Poe’s sinister bird. It is taken from a rare little
73
book, to which it gives the subject of 166 pages of
edifying preachment, and of course is firmly believed
in by the author. The following is the
title:—
“Vox Corvi; or the Voice of a Raven, that Thrice spoke
these words distinctly: Look into Colossians the 3rd and
15th. The Text it self looked into, and opened, in a Sermon,
Preached at Wigmore, in the County of Hereford, To which
is added, Serious Addresses to the People of this Kingdom;
shewing the use we ought to make of this Voice from
Heaven. By Alex. Ologie, Minister of Wigmore, &c.
Licensed according to order. Matth. 21, xviii. London,
1694.”
The details are thus circumstantially related:—
“On the 3d. of February, 1691, about Three in the
Afternoon, this Reverend Divine, a person of the venerable
Age of 80 years, and 40 of those a Laborious Teacher of
God’s Word, in the Parish of Wigmore, in the County of
Hereford, being in the Hall of his own house, being with
the Pious Matron, his Wife, some Neighbours and Relations,
together with two small Grand-Children of his, in all to the
number of Eight Persons; Thomas Kinnersley, one of the
said Grand-Children, of but Ten Years of Age, starting
up from the Fireside, went out of the Hall-Door, and sate
himself down upon a Block by a Wood-pile, before the Door,
employing himself in no other Childlike Exercise than cutting
of a Stick, when in less than half a quarter of an Hour, he
returned into the Hall in great amazement, his Countenance
pale, and affrighted, and said to his Grandfather and Grandmother,
Look in the Third of the Colossians, and
the Fifteenth, with infinite Passion and Earnestness,
repeating the words no less than three Times, which Deportment
and Speech much surprising the whole Company, they
asked him what he meant by those words, who answered
with great Ardency of Spirit, that a Raven had spoken
them Three times from the Peak of the Steeple, and that it
looked towards W. W.’s House, and shook its Head and
Wings thitherwards, directing its Looks and Motions still
towards that House. All which words he heard the Raven
distinctly utter three times, and then saw it mount and fly
out of sight. His Grandfather hereupon, taking the Bible,
and turning to the said Text, found these words. ‘And let
the Peace of God rule in your Hearts, to the which you are
also called in one Body; and be ye thankful.’ Upon reading
whereof, the Child was fully satisfied, and his countenance
perfectly composed agen [sic].”
POE-TICAL FORGERIES.
Whilst recently turning over some odd volumes
on a bookstall, in my never ending search for
Parodies, a loose newspaper cutting fell out of one
of them. It was headed “Edgar Allan Poe,” and
the obliging proprietor of the bookshop, where
this occurred, seeing the interest I took in the
subject, kindly gave me the slip, which I reprint
below. Although the letter is dated “August 31”
no year is given, nor was there anything on the
cutting to indicate from what paper it had been
taken. However, after considerable searching
amongst the newspaper files in the British Museum
I was enabled to trace it to The Morning Star
(London) of September 1, 1864.
Edgar Allan Poe.
Sir—I have noticed with interest and astonishment the
remarks made in different issues of your paper respecting
Edgar A. Poe’s “Raven,” and I think the following fantastic
poem (a copy of which I enclose), written by the poet
whilst experimenting towards the production of that wonderful
and beautiful piece of mechanism, may possibly interest
your numerous readers. “The Fire-Fiend” (the title of
the poem I enclose) Mr. Poe considered incomplete and
threw it aside in disgust. Some months afterwards, finding
it amongst his papers, he sent it in a letter to a friend,
labelled facetiously, “To be read by fire-light at midnight,
after thirty drops of laudanum.” I was intimately acquainted
with the mother-in-law of Poe, and have frequently conversed
with her respecting “The Raven,” and she assured
me that he had the idea in his mind for some years, and used
frequently to repeat verses of it to her and ask her opinion
of them, frequently making alterations and improvements,
according to the mood he chanced to be in at the time,
Mrs. Clemm, knowing the great study I had given to “The
Raven,” and the reputation I had gained by its recital
throughout America, took great interest in giving me all the
information in her power, and the life and writings of Edgar
A. Poe have been the topic of our conversation for hours.
Respectfully,
M. M.’Cready.”
London, August 31.
THE FIRE-FIEND.
A Nightmare.
In the deepest depth of midnight, while the sad solemn swell
Still was floating, faintly echoed from the Forest Chapel Bell—
Faintly, falteringly floating o’er the sable waves of air
That were through the Midnight rolling, chafed and billowy with the tolling—
In my chamber I lay dreaming by the fire-light’s fitful gleaming,
And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed on a heart fore-doomed to Care!
At the last long lingering echo of the midnight’s mystic chime—
Lifting through the sable billows to the Thither Shore of time—
Leaving on the starless silence not a token nor a trace—
In a quivering sigh departed; from my couch in fear I started:
Started to my feet in terror, for my Dream’s phantasmal error
Painted in the fitful fire a frightful, fiendish, flaming face!
On the red hearth’s reddest centre, from a blazing knot of oak,
Seemed to gibe and grin this Phantom when in terror I awoke,
And my slumberous eyelids straining as I staggered to the floor,
74
Still in that dread Vision seeming, turned my eyes toward the gleaming
Hearth, and—there! oh, God! I saw it! and from out its flaming Jaw it
Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, gurgling stream of gore!
Speechless; struck with stony silence; frozen to the floor I stood,
Till methought my brain was hissing with that hissing, bubbling, blood:—
Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from those lambent lips:—
Till the Demon seemed to name me; then a wondrous calm o’ercame me,
And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a death-damp stiff and gluey,
And I fell back on my pillow in apparent soul-eclipse!
Then, as in Death’s seeming shadow, in the icy Pall of Fear
I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous murmur to my ear:—
Came a murmur like the murmur of assassins in their sleep:—
Muttering, “Higher! Higher! Higher! I am Demon of the Fire!
I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire! and each blazing roof’s my pyre,
And my sweetest incense is the blood and tears my victims weep!”
“How I revel on the Prairie! How I roar among the Pines!
How I laugh when from the village o’er the snow the red flame shines,
And I hear the shrieks of terror, with a Life in every breath!
How I scream with lambent laughter as I hurl each crackling rafter
Down the fell abyss of Fire, until higher! higher! higher!
Leap the High Priests of my Altar in their merry Dance of Death!”
“I am monarch of the Fire! I am Vassal-King of Death!
World-encircling, with the shadow of its Doom upon my breath!
With the symbol of Hereafter flaming from my fatal face!
I command the Eternal Fire! Higher! higher! higher! higher!
Leap my ministering Demons, like Phantasmagoric lemans
Hugging Universal Nature in their hideous embrace!”
Then a sombre silence shut me in a solemn shrouded sleep,
And I slumbered like an infant in the “Cradle of the Deep,”
Till the Belfry in the Forest quivered with the matin stroke,
And the martins, from the edges of its lichen-lidden ledges,
Shimmered through the russet arches where the Light in torn files marches,
Like a routed army struggling through the serried ranks of oak.
Through my ivy fretted casement filtered in a tremulous note
From the tall and stately linden where a Robin swelled his throat:—
Querulous, quaker breasted Robin, calling quaintly for his mate!
Then I started up, unbidden, from my slumber nightmare ridden,
With the memory of that Dire Demon in my central Fire
On my eye’s interior mirror like the Shadow of a Fate!
Ah! the fiendish Fire had smouldered to a white and formless heap,
And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed upon my sleep;
But around its very centre, where the Demon Face had shone,
Forked shadows seemed to linger, pointing as with spectral finger
To a Bible, massive, golden, on a table carved and olden—
And I bowed, and said, “All Power is of God, of God alone!”
On showing this poem to Mr. J. H. Ingram he
at once pronounced it a forgery, and from his
remarkable collection of books relating to E. A.
Poe he produced a small volume of 104 pages
clad in green and gold, entitled The Fire-Fiend and
other Poems, by Charles D. Gardette. Published
in New York by Messrs. Bunce and Hartington in
1866. The book contains “The Fire-Fiend” and
“Golgotha,” both written in imitation of E. A. Poe,
and some poems entitled “War Echoes” and
“Vagaries” of no particular interest. The account
given of the origin of the hoax perpetrated on the
public by the author of “The Fire-Fiend” is contained
in the
PRE-NOTE.
“A few—and but a few—words of explanation
seem appropriate here, with reference to the poem
which gives title to this volume.
The “Fire-Fiend” was written some six years
ago, in consequence of a literary discussion wherein
it was asserted, that the marked originality of style,
both as to conception and expression, in the poems
of the late Edgar Allen (sic) Poe, rendered a
successful imitation difficult even to impossibility.
The author was challenged to produce a poem, in
the manner of “The Raven,” which should be
accepted by the general critic as a genuine composition
of Mr. Poe’s, and the “Fire-Fiend” was
the result.
This poem was printed as “from an unpublished
MS. of the late Edgar A. Poe,” and the hoax
proved sufficiently successful to deceive a number
of critics in this country, and also in England where
it was afterwards republished (by Mr. Macready,
the tragedian), in the London Star, as an undoubted
production of its soi-disant author.
The comments upon it by the various critics,
professional and others, who accepted it as Mr.
Poe’s, were too flattering to be quoted here, the
more especially since, had the poem appeared
simply as the composition of its real author, these
75
gentlemen would probably have been slow to discover
in it the same merits. The true history of
the poem, and its actual authorship, being thus
succinctly given, there seems nothing further to be
said, than to remain, very respectfully, the Reader’s
humble servant,
The Author.”
The poem which follows “The Fire-Fiend” is
nearly as clever an imitation of Poe’s verbal eccentricities,
but is perhaps a trifle too ghastly to be
pleasant reading:—
GOLGOTHA:
A Phantasm.
While the embers flare and flicker, gathering shadows thick and thicker—
While the slender shaded lamplight sheds a glimmer gray and dull—
On my mantle, smoke encrusted, o’er two war-knives hacked and rusted,
In my fascinated vision grins a dark and dented Skull!
Through the midnight Forest leaping—Death’s red harvest fresh from reaping—
Once this skull was steeped and drunken in a revelry of gore:
In his crimson orgie shrieking, mad with lust, and murder reeking—
Thus the Blood-Avenger found him—smote him!—and he raved no more!
In that forest, leaf-enfolded, many a nameless year he mouldered,
Withered, shrivelled, fell to utter dry and desolate decay;
Till of all his savage glory naught there was to tell the story
Save this dark uncouth and dented skull I found, and bore away!
With the coward thought to mock it, in each eyeball’s blackened socket
Once I set a globe of silver as a dread and dismal jest.
Oh! full often has the glitter of those pale orbs caused a bitter
Burst of sharp and sudden terror to a timid twilight guest!
But to-night their flashes daunt me, and their changing glances haunt me,
And their cold glare shivers through me like a scymitar of ice!
Well I know their threat is seeming—that no life is in their gleaming,
Yet my soul is strangely troubled by my own accurst device!
Ay! my soul is strangely troubled! and my heart-throbs fiercely doubled!
And I cannot wrench my gaze from off those silver demon balls!
To my brain their blaze seems burning—Ah! by Heaven! I saw them turning!
Yes! see—see them! there! they roll! O God! a red light from them falls!
* * * * *
How its white teeth glint and glisten! Listen! Am I mad! O, listen!
No! It speaks! I hear a whisper rattle through its hollow jaws!
“With this jest my front adorning, Pale-Face, you are blindly scorning—
Sadly, sorrowfully scorning all your Being’s Primal Laws!
“Count the dim descent of ages! Turn Life’s crisp and crumbling pages!
Is a single leaf forgotten in this Golgotha of Doom?
Fool! You bear a fragile carnal shroud around your ghastly charnel
But to add another atom to the Inevitable Doom!
“I have stripped my shroud before you: You, perchance, now wear it o’er you!
Every shred of Life is worn from the Dead Past o’er and o’er!
Through the years the Earth is heaving with this weird and wondrous weaving,
And your slender thread but waiteth till the Loom hath need for more!”
* * * * *
It hath ceased! There is no glimmer on the hearth! The lamp grows dimmer,
Dimmer, dimmer,—now it flickers, flashes, wildly flares— is fled!
Through the Darkness round me heaving, now I hear a sound of weaving,
As a mighty loom were working, viewless, with a viewless thread!
THE BELLS.
Hear, the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the Heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells—
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats,
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
76
Oh, from out the sounding cells
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells.
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire.
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavour
Now, now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the dangers ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone,
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls;
And their King it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells;
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells;
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells,—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells—
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
Edgar Allan Poe.
(First Published after the Author’s death.)
——:o:——
The Swells.
By Edgardo Pooh.
See the Gardens with the swells—
Noble swells!
What power of foolery their presence here foretels!
How they chatter, chatter, chatter,
To each other left and right,
What to them is any matter?
Since their tailor and their hatter,
Are their sole delight.
Running tick, tick, tick,
And hastening to Old Nick,
By expending time and money on dancing, dicing, belles,
Are the swells, swells, swells, swells,
Swells, swells, swells!
Are the foolish and profligate young swells.
See the dressy little swells—
Snobby swells!
What a world of happiness that Moses’ paletot tells!
Through the murky air of night,
How they shout out their delight,
From their Cashmere-shawled throats,
And out of tune,
What a drunken ditty floats
To the gas-lamps shining on policemen’s coats,
On their shoon!
Oh, from out the Bow-street cells,
What a gush of harmony uproariously wells!
How it smells!
How it knells—
For the morrow! how it tells
Of the folly that impels
To the laughing and the quaffing
Of the swells, swells, swells,
Of the swells, swells, swells, swells,
Swells, swells, swells,
Of the dining and the fine-ing of the swells!
77
See the literary swells—
Writing swells!
What a tale of envy now their turbulency tells,
How they quarrel, snarl, and fight
With each other as they write!
Much too dignified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
With their pen,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the buyer,
In a mad expostulation with the dazed and doubting buyer!
And they leap high, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavour
Now—now to sit or never—
On a throne above all other men.
See the venerable swells!
By-gone swells!
What a world of solemn thoughts their gaiety compels!
In their ancient fashioned coats,
In their stiff cravatted throats,
How we recognize the Regent and his corps!
There remains now not e’en one,
All, all the set are gone,
Ils sont morts!
Save the few men—ah! these few men!
Who are left among the new men
All alone!
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
Through their days, mere skin and bone,
Feel a pleasure now in spoiling
Each hearty, healthy tone—
Do these swells, swells, swells,
These swells, swells, swells, swells,
Swells, swells, swells,
These worn-out used up, godless, ancient swells!
Our Miscellany.—By E. H. Yates and R. B. Brough, 1857.
——:o:——
The Ball-Room Belles.
See, the ball-room full of belles,
Merry belles,
What an evening of flirtation their merriment foretells.
How they chatter, chatter, chatter,
Through the mazy Mabel valse.
Mothers glancing, but what matter!
Pleasant partners how they flatter,
Never dreaming girls are false
When they sigh, sigh, sigh,
And pretend that they would die—
But they dream of expectations of the golden studded swells
Hear the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
Hear the laughing and the chaffing of the belles.
See the richly-dowered belles,
Golden belles,
How they cotton to the stupid-headed swells.
With what grace and matchless art
They can play their pretty part
For the quartered coats of arms!
Champerones
How they advertise the charms
Of their darlings,—with ever ready alarms
Undertones!
Oh! and then these high-born swells,
What a want of education their conversation tells.
How it sells,
How it dwells
Upon bathos! how it tells
Of the lesson that impels
All the sighing and the lying
Of the belles, belles, belles,
Of the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
All the glancing and the dancing of the belles.
Hear the loudly-talking belles,
Prancing belles,
How we sorrowfully gaze upon their costume, since it tells
Of the latest Paris fashion!
And the dark eyes how they flash on
Every simple-looking girl!
They can only whirl, whirl
To the tune,
With a noisy explanation of their doings in the Row,
With a careless declaration that the ball is very slow.
Dancing round, round, round,
To the merry music’s sound,
Never pausing for a breath,
Tho’ their partners pale as death,
Look and gasp as if they’d fall into a swoon.
Oh, you belles, belles, belles,
What a tale your muslin tells;
And your hair.
How you sneer and pick to pieces
Major Maberly’s six nieces,
How you flirt upon the fifty-seventh stair;
Yet the people guess at last,
By your laughing,
And your chaffing,
Your vocabulary’s fast.
And the ear distinctly tells
You are slangy,
And slap-bangy,
From your joking with the swells,
And their easy conversation with the loudly-talking belles,
With the belles,
With the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
From the grinning and the dinning of the bells!
Fun, December 30, 1865.
——:o:——
Pills.
An Edgar Poe(m).
See the doctors with their pills—
Silver-coated pills!
What a world of misery their calomel instils!
How they twingle, twingle in the icy-colden night.
You have taken two that mingle,
And you wish you’d had a single;
While your cheeks are ashy white.
And every time, time, time
You groan in pantomime
A tan-tan-tantalising yearn for rum your bosom fills
To lull the paean of pills, pills, pills,
The mountain An Edgar Poemisery of pills!
78
Take one of Morrison’s pills,
Or Parr’s life pills—
Warranted, or the money returned, to cure all ills;
To bring repose at night,
And occasion you delight,
When they’re fairly down your throat,
From noon to noon.
And eloquence promote
For your turtle dove who listens while you doat
Neath the moon.
Oh, read the flaming bills
And the extract from a letter that voluminously fills
The hand-bills,
And the tills
Of the vendor of the pills,
Whose physic never kills,
Money ringing,
Money flinging
In the tills, tills, tills,
From the pills, pills, pills, pills,
And what chiming, and what rhyming on the pills!
Beware of strychnine pills—
Brazen pills.
What a work of horror their treachery fulfils!
The false friend with a smile
Stands beside you for a while;
And you’re pleased to hear him speak
While you shriek, shriek,
And moan, moan.
Your heart and brain consuming in the fire, fire;
Your pulse and temples throbbing in the fire;
Beating higher, higher,
While you gaze and still admire
The murd’rer beside you,
Who knows what must betide you,
As he watches for the swoon.
Oh, the pills, pills, pills,
What a pang of terror thrills,
And despair,
Every heart that beats with love;
When the evidences prove
That the murderer for days and nights was there;
Tending gently as a nurse,
Always whining,
While designing
How to make you worse and worse.
See! The glass he quickly fills
With some new fangle,
Life to strangle,
While your fine old port he slyly swills,
And knows the hour is fast approaching by the number of the pills,
Of the pills;
By the number and the poison of the pills.
And you roll, roll, roll,
Roll—
With the paean of the pills;
And he a draught distils
To qualify the pills,
And he’s thinking of the wills
That Doctor’s Commons fills (!)
Keeping time, time, time,
In the
subtlety of crime,
By the paean of the pills,
Of the pills:
Keeping time, time, time,
In the hardihood of crime,
By the throbbing from the pills,
From the pills, pills, pills,
By your sobbing from the pills,
Keeping time, time, time,
As he kneels, kneels, kneels.
In the blasphemy of crime,
By the pulse he feels, feels;
While the pills, pills, pills
Are perfecting all their ills.
Oh, the pills, pills, pills—
Pills, pills, pills!
So ends my rhyming and my chiming on the pills.
Damer Cape.
Vagrant Leaves,
No. 2.,
Nov. 1, 1866.
——:o:——
The Hells.
Hear the echoes from the Hells—
German Hells!
What a tale of selfishness their recollection tells!
How fickle fortune battles
With the ball that rolls and rattles
On its devilish career!
While the coins that oversprinkle,
All the numbers seem to twinkle,
With a simper or a sneer.
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of ruined rhyme.
To the hum of speculation that annually swells
From the Hells, Hells, Hells—
From the Hunters and the Punters of the Hells.
Hear the merry laughing Hells,
Baden Hells!
Ringing out their call to happiness like wedding bells;
Blinding eyes with lust of gain,
Dead’ning hearts to others’ pain,
With the molten gold and notes.
Calling out,
“We are misery’s antidotes!!
Come and clutch us!” o’er their poison-beauty gloats
Longing Doubt—
How the air resounding fills
With the cries from out that Hall of Cure for Ills!
How the swells
At the wells,
Dream of health or of wealth, how each tells
Of the craving that impels
To the winning and the sinning
Of the Hells, Hells, Hells,
To the losing and abusing of the Hells.
Hear the losers at the Hells—
Homburg Hells!
What an end of dread despondency their mien foretells!
When fortune turns her back,
And the promised Red looks Black,
And the Black grows Red with shame,
As it hears its worshipped name;
All is lost
In a timorous appealing to the mercy of Leblanc:
In a sad expostulation with the croupiers of Leblanc:
Playing higher, higher, higher,
With a maddening desire
And a desperate endeavour
Now—now to win or never,
79
Though it love and honour cost.
Oh the Hells, Hells, Hells!
What tale their echo tells
Of despair!
How they cling to Black and Red!
What a tremor they outspread
On the loving hearts that wait in hope at home.
Yet the year it fully knows
By the curses
Or the purses
How the fortune ebbs and flows!
How the scandal stinks and smells
By the sinking or the swelling in the budget of the Hells!
Hear the groaning in the Hells—
German Hells!
Ev’ry coin in hope thrown down,
Be it florin, thaler, crown,
Is a groan.
And the croupiers dressed in sable,
Sitting down before the table,
And who dealing, dealing, dealing,
In that well-known monotone
Coldly glory in the feeling
That their human heart is stone!
Green cloth their only scenery,
They go by some machinery
Without souls;
And their master takes the tolls,
While the ball it rolls and rolls,
Rolls
And rattles in the Hells.
But his heart no longer swells
At the Pæan of the Hells;
For he hears above the echo of the Hells
The knells, knells, knells,
Of the Hells.
In the fast approaching time,
When ruin, lust, and crime
Will be driven from the wells,
In the downfall of the Hells—
Of the Hells, Hells, Hells,
To the moaning and the groaning of the Hells!
The Tomahawk, October 19, 1867.
——:o:——
Christmas Fancies.
Here is Christmas with its bills—Little Bills!
’Mid a world of merriment intruding with their ills.
What a tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
At the area bell all day,
They’re enough the brow to wrinkle
Of a placid periwinkle,
With their constant “Please to pay.”
Coming time after time,
Without reason, without rhyme,
Holding long confabulations on the lowness of their tills;
With their bills, bills, bills, bills!
Bills, bills, bills,
Oh, the worry and the scurry of the bills!
And the Host of other ills—Christmas ills!
Eatables in baronies and drinkables in rills,
All the day and all the night
Spent in over-eating quite,
And in pouring down your throat
Inopportune—
Floods of liquor that would float—
If not a merchant vessel—a big boat,
Pretty soon!
Oh, the gorges and the swills,
With no thought about the morrow, and the call for Dr. Squills,
And your wills,
Codocils,
That you write with shaky quills,
For ’tis indigestion kills!
Oh, the languish and the anguish
Of your ills, ills, ills, ills,
Ills, ills, ills,
Oh, the bother and the pother of your ills!
Then to-morrow and its pills—bitter pills!
Fever-heats succeeding on the heels of horrid chills,
All the livelong restless night—
What a cheerful Christmas plight!
Too much agonized to speak,
You can only squeak—squeak
Like a coon,
In a clamorous appealing from your indigestion’s pangs—
In a mad expostulation with the gnawing of its fangs,
And a sense of utter loathing for the pills,
For the pills, pills, pills, pills,
Pills, pills, pills—
And the comrades of the pills,
The pills, bills, ills!
Oh, the very name of Christmas all my soul with terror fills.
Fun, December 28, 1867.
——:o:——
The Bells.
Oh, those bells—oh, those bells!
Oh, those bells, bells, bells!
Oh, the weary, weary, worry that their ringing always tells!
How they jangle and they jangle
Through the troubled day and night!
How they clash, and clang, and mangle,
As if calling out in spite—
You must run, run, run!
Your work’s never done,
From the rising to the setting of the sun, sun, sun.
Oh, those never-ceasing bells—
Chamber-bells—
What a climbing and a fetching their music ever tells!
Now it’s number seven hundred—
Now it’s number twenty-five—
Now it’s forty more in chorus
Calling—Waiter, look alive!
Ting-a-ling, ling, ling,
Don’t you hear me ring, ring?
You, had better come a-running, or I’ll break a string, string!
Oh, those silver-sounding bells—
Parlour-bells—
What a coming and a running their melody compels!
How they jingle, jingle, jingle,
Till the horrid jingling seems
To multiply and mingle
Into harsh and mocking screams,
Crying—Fly, fly, fly!
We are paying very high,
We’ll get our money’s value, or we’ll know the reason why.
80
Oh, those cruel, clanging bells—
Front-door bells—
Oh, what cozy dreams of comfort their sounding forth dispels!
How their clanging and their banging
Keeps one trotting to and fro,
Till you seem a sort of nightmare,
Kept forever on the go
By the clang, clang, clang,
And the bang, bang, bang!
Till the ringers of those door-bells you could hang, hang, hang!
Oh, that best and blessed bell—
Dinner bell—
With what harmony and melody its brazen accents swell!
How its full and unctuous greeting
Seems to reach your inner man,
And you answer as a waiter,
And a hungry waiter, can
To its ding, dong, dong!
Come along, long, long!
So the blessed bell for dinner ends my song, song, song!
Anonymous.
——:o:——
The Bills.
See the members with their bills.
Private bills,
What a world of promises their bringing-in fulfils;
How they jostle one another,
And compete for vacant nights,
How they pant, and gasp, and smother,
Pushed aside by party fights,
While their movers, standing by,
Emit a doleful cry,
Apprehensive of the destiny that ultimately kills
Their bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
The dismal fate in keeping for their bills.
See the silly annual bills,
Foolish bills,
With what-deluded hopefulness their introduction fills
All their friends throughout the land,
Who can never understand,
That the House will throw them out
One by one;
That though the movers shout
At a speaker who is dozing while they spout,
When they’ve done,
With patience sorely tried,
But with a gush of thankfulness the members will divide,
And decide,
To deride
The foolish annual bills;
And the lesson each instils
Is, that clearly these are merely
Futile bills, bills, bills.
Bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
Never to be anything but bills.
See the Ministerial bills,
Burly bills,
With what prolonged expectancy their introduction thrills!
Through the country far and wide,
Their friends exult with pride;
Too much horrified to speak,
Their opponents only shriek
In affright,
In a clamourous appealing to the wisdom of the House—
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic House.
They declare the bills a chouse,
And affirm they will, by nous,
Rouse the country now or never,
By a resolute endeavour,
To resist the pale-faced premier,
With his bills, bills, bills,
While each party-leader drills
For the fight
His forces great or small
To enfranchise or enthral
The country on the great division night;
And the public hardly knows,
Mid the wrangling
And the jangling,
How the danger ebbs and flows,
But each newspaper instils
Into readers,
By its leaders,
All its own views of the bills,—
Its own views of the pestilent or patriotic bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
The stupendous and tremendous public bills.
See the sickly autumn bills,
Dying bills,
What a flood of penitence each moralist distils
From their slow but sure decay,
As the session wears away,
From the melancholy lesson that they teach;
For every dying scheme
Is in its turn the theme
Of a speech,
And is tediously debated
Until hopelessly belated,
Overthrown,
And its mover prosing, prosing,
In a muffled monotone,
Feels a glory in disclosing
All its merits little known.
In the spring he moves the bills,
And clears his voice and swills
From a tumbler set beside him,
While his enemies deride him,
And his friends cry out, “Hear, hear,”
And he wins a feeble cheer,
Now and then
Only, when
With brows knit in a frown,
His arm sways up and down,
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the moving of the bills:
Of the bills,
To the solemn exposition of the bills,
Till at last the daylight lengthens,
And the summer sunshine strengthens,
And finally it grills
The members in their places,
So sadly, with long faces,
They consent to slay their bills,
81
To abandon all their bills;
All their bills, bills, bills,
To massacre their bills,
Though sorely ’gainst their wills.
And each bereaved one fills
The house with lamentations o’er his bills,
With sorrow at the slaughter of his bills:
Of his bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
With sorrow at the slaughter of his bills.
Fun, August 13, 1870.
——:o:——
The Flute.
Lo, the fluter, with his flute—
Grecian flute!
How long the world has waited
For its tantalising toot!
“Unheard melodies are sweetest,
Said the charming poet Keats;
But our pleasure is completest
When we hear them on the streets;
Or sounding loud and shrill
Through the homes of Murray-Hill—
On the heights of Murray-Hill
Loud and shrill,
Hear the flute, flute, flute, flute,
Flute, flute, flute.
That wicked Broadway Journal,
Whose Editor infernal,
Lets no trumpet but his own
Through the market place be blown—
Had the chief not been carousing,
Had the “Raven” not been drowsing,
The world had not been waiting,
Been waiting, all in vain,
For that melancholy strain
Of the flute flute—
In anxious expectation for the tintinnabulation
Of the flute.
American Paper.
——:o:——
The Chimes Done in Rhymes.
AFTER POE AND NEWMAN
Harken to the chimes
That in these Sunday times,
Ring out upon the air.
From the lofty spire,
Rising higher, higher,
In great waves of sound
Vibrating round and round,
Calling out to prayer,
And dropping iron blessings down,
In sweetest music on this wicked town.
We hear professor Pratt,
Keen and clear G flat,
And in each ring there seems to be,
A “horse” cry of agony—
The tortured tones
Of groans and moans—
A poor creature’s speechless agony,
They rise and swell,
Like cries from hell,
Calling the faithful forth to solemn prayer
Then came Schuyler—
Schuyler smiler, Schuyler smiler,
How it rings and sings and swings,
Vibrating on the ear,
As if the hollow smile were set to music here.
“Come ye Christians,” cryeth Schuyler,
The soft political beguiler,
“Come ye Christians, join with me
In praises of the powers that be,
For have we not a neat majority?”
Just such praise in troubled days
Of Our Savior; he would have cried,
“The law should take its course, let him be crucified.”
Schuyler smiler, Schuyler smiler,
From the spire, rising higher,
Rings and swings and sings
The bell,
That of a politician’s heaven seems to tell.
Of a deeper, coarser tone
Chimes the bass a lengthened groan,
For it tells alone,
Alone,
Of the punishment that’s sent
In the person of our President.
Dull and hollow, how it moans
In its heavy undertones!
As if it sought to tell—
That bell—
Of a burdened people doomed to toil
That rogues may fatten off a wasted soil;
Of want and degradation dire,
War, pestilence and fire;
Where rules no ballot but the bayonet,
And Liberty that was and is not yet;
Of Peace, sweet Peace and great content,
Ere the coarse soldier came to be our President
Of office sold for gifts;
Of a low greed that lifts
Mean men to power,
When cowards rule while good men cower.
How it rolls and roars,
And on us pours
Its flood of heavy sound
The vibrating air around,
As the iron tongue upon the iron rim
Clangs out its cry of sin:
Fasting and prayer for a people curs’d
Of all ills the evil far the worst—
A stupid tyranny that brings
No compensation on its blackened wings.
These are the Newman chimes,
And these our modern times.
Were Our Saviour, with weary feet,
Again to walk the dusty street,
And see that lofty steeple;
Hear its clangor calling in the people
See the saints with saintly faces;
In diamonds, silks, and costly laces
Thronging to their downy places—
Hear his apostle state
From marble stall to velvet-cushioned seats,
Not the words of peace, but those of deadly hate
While Mammon the scene completes—
Much would He marvel, and we fear,
Seizing the rod
Would drive old Newman out, and clear
Our goodly people from the house of God.
82
Ding, dong, bell,
Hear them swell—
Pratt, G flat, scat!
Schuyler smiler, Schuyler smiler;
While groans
And moans
In heavy undertones
The Presidential bell.
D. P.
The Capital, (U.S.A.) November 26, 1871.
——:o:——
The Bills.
By the late Edgar Allan Toe.
Hear the duns with lots of bills—
Unpaid bills!
What a world of merriment their misery distils!
How they rattle, rattle, rattle,
On your sported outer door!
While within you drink and prattle.
For an oak is half the battle
With a dun—unchristian bore,
Keeping knock, knock, knock,
Like a sort of ticking clock,
To the bitter tribulation of your gyp whose hand he fills
With his bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
With a lumping and a thumping lot of bills,
Hear the loud alarm of bills—
Tailors’ bills—
What a tale of trousers and of coats whose volume fills
Some dozen drawers. They might
Make one scream out with affright—
Too hard up to pay this week;
You can only speak, speak
Through the door,
In a pitiful appealing to the mercy of the dun,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and dirty dun.
Bills get higher, higher, higher,
And the parent’s wrath is dire;
His son’s resolute endeavour
Not now to pay nor ever,
Making him scold and swear and roar.
Oh the bills, bills, bills,
Hardest far of human ills
To remove!
How they cram and crowd each drawer,
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating gov!
Yet the ear it fully knows
When one’s thinking,
Or a drinking,
When a dun comes up or goes;
Yet the hand it fully fills
Up a beaker,
Getting weaker,
And the beggar drinks and swills.
But that drinking and that swilling gets one off some of the bills;
Of the bills—
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills—
In the paying or delaying of the bills.
The Light Green, Cambridge, 1872.
——:o:——
The Bells.
By an Overworked Waiter
Hear the strangers pull the bells—
Tinkling bells!
What voracious appetites their clattering foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
From morning until night,
And the dishes seem to twinkle,
As the gravies oversprinkle,
With a crystalline delight;
And they chime, chime, chime,
As a shout from time to time,
From “pottle-bodied” gourmands or animated swells,
Is mingled with the ever-ringing bells—
Bells, bells, bells—
The tintinnabulation of the bells.
Hear the early breakfast bells—
Tiresome bells!
Perhaps a Continental trip their harmony foretells,
With a guest awake all night,
And ringing, ere ’tis light,
For change of gold or note,
Hours too soon.
While the ship he wants to sail by does not float
Out of harbour until noon;
And in accents most unmusical he yells
For coffee to be taken,
With toast and eggs and bacon,
Up many flights of stairs, while he tells
Of twenty other wishes
Respecting drinks and dishes,
Which I strive to hear in vain,
For a train
A thousand country visitors propels
From Bath or Tunbridge Wells,
Who come ringing, ringing, ringing at the bells—
Bells, bells, bells—
And I march away to answer fifty bells.
Hear the hasty dinner-bells—
Frantic bells!
What a tale of hunger now their turbulency tells!
The fires are blazing bright,
The cooking is all right,
But I scarce can breathe or speak,
I’m so bothered all the week—
Don’t have a bit of rest—
Through the clamourous appealing of some gormandising guest,
And in mild expostulation to his deaf and frantic ire,
I say, “Yessir, yessir, yessir,”
To my hard-hearted oppressor,
’Mid the clatter
Of the platter,
And of dish and glass and spoon,
Or an organ,
With the owner like a Gorgon,
Grinding in the street some doleful tune;
Yet the ear it fully knows
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the dining ebbs and flows,
To the jangling of the bells—
Bells, bells, bells—
To the clamour and the clangour of the bells.
83
Later still the supper bells—
Busy bells!
What a world of cheerful thought their melody compels,
Of pleasant airs that float
From operatic throat,
Of farce and pantomime;
But the bells begin to chime,
And, alas! unlucky wight,
Not for me is such delight,
The pleasure-seekers claim me as their own;
Be it man or be it woman,
They are all alike inhuman—
They are ghouls
Wanting soles,
Sausages and rolls,
Flowing bowls,
Pie or tart,
Souper a-la-carte,
Lobster salad, oyster,
Peppered grill, or something moister;
And they chat and laugh and joke,
Heedless of the yoke
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
Which my presence through the weary night compels,
Till morning comes again with the bells—
The merciless and everlasting bells.
Funny Folks, April 3, 1875.
——:o:——
The Girls.
Hear the laughter of the girls—
Pretty girls.
What a fund of merriment each ruby lip unfurls!
How they chatter, chatter, chatter,
In the balmy air of night!
While the stars that over-spatter
All the heavens hear their clatter
In a soft and wild delight;
To the tintinnabulation that, increasing, ever purls
From the girls, girls, girls, girls.
Girls, girls, girls,
From the wild, capricious, saucy, jaunty girls.
See the flirting of the girls,
Radiant girls!
How the lover’s softened brain wildly whirls
Through the mazes of the ball,
Up and down the stately hall!
How he skips to and fro
And perspires!
Would that we could tell the idiot all we know
Of the fires
Into which the false ones hurl.
Each new whim—see the flame—how it swirls!
How it curls!
How it curls!
Better far that they were churls,
Than fall victims to the girls;
To the prattle and the rattle
Of the girls, girls, girls,
Of the girls, girls, girls, girls,
Girls, girls, girls—
To the sacking and heart racking of the girls!
Merry Folks.
——:o:——
The Bills.
After Poe, by a Mercantile Poet.
See the traders with their bills
Showy bills;
What a joyous feeling every speculator fills,
As his bills go crinkle, crinkle,
On the counters smooth and bright;
And the eyes of bankers twinkle
At their shareholders delight,
Who are dreaming all the time,
Of dividends sublime—
Of a very high percentage made from cashing doubtful bills,
Bills, bills, bills, bills,
Of gratifying profits from accommodation bills.
See the foreign merchants’ bills,
Flimsy bills!
For railways, ships and waterworks and tunnels through the hills,
Oh, we take them with delight,
And for “3 months, after sight”
Give them sovereigns and notes;
And very soon
The merry gambler floats
Far away from British shores, while he gloats
On the boon;
An operatic melody he trills,
And his mellow meerschaum fills,
And he swills
A bumper as he chuckles at the state of bankers’ tills;
When his bills
Falling due,
Not a Jew
Will give twopence for the batch of foreign bills.
Then the failure of the bills,
Brazen bills!
What a tale of terror now the crazy city fills!
Managers, directors, how it thrills!
When they see from morn till night,
Houses crashing left and right,
Fearing, ere a week,
A crowd may shriek, shriek,
With a clamorous appealing at the counters of the bank
Saying, gentlemen, we’ll thank
You very much without delay to empty all your tills;
Things are looking very black,
And we want our money back;
And the banker fully knows
By the banging
And the clanging
How the danger ebbs and flows.
But we trust these passing ills
Will clear the city air,
By inducing greater care
How good money is exchanged for worthless bills,
Bills, bills, bills, bills,
In discounting such accommodation bills.
Funny Folks, 14 August, 1875.
——:o:——
The Belles.
Oh, the dancing of the belles,
Silver belles!
What a world of merriment that glancing group foretells.
How they dance, dance, dance,
In the white and heated light,
84
Till the berries that o’ersprinkle
Every picture seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight.
Keeping time, time, time,
To the valse-exciting rhyme
Of Der Schönen Blauen Donau that so musically wells;
Oh, the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
Oh, the dancing and the glancing of the belles.
Oh, the court-invited belles,
Golden belles!
What a world of plush and paint their dazzling grandeur tells.
Through the balmy air of night,
Through a vision of delight,
From the jarring city notes
Out of tune,
What a splendid vision floats
To the eyes of Miss Fitz-Neotes
Of Aroon!
Oh the crushing and the rout,
And the gathers that come out!
How the agony voluminously wells,
How it swells!
How it dwells!
On the temper how it tells!
To what anger it impels.
Oh, the rushing and the crushing of the belles!
Of the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
Oh, the tearing and despairing of the belles!
Oh, the belles of the Mabille,
Brazen belles!
What a world of lying love their honied accent tells.
In the glare and in the light
How they dance out their delight,
Thinking of the future never,
Dancing on and dancing ever,
With a weary simulation of a love they cannot feel,
In the glare and in the glitter and the hell of the Mabille.
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavour
Now—now to win or never,
Golden youth!
Oh, the belles, belles, belles,
What a tale their laughing tells
Of despair.
How they dance, dance, dance,
With a weary smile and glance,
In the glare and in the glitter that are there!
Yet the eye it fully knows
By the sighing
Lips and dying
How the hoping ebbs and flows.
Yet the eye distinctly tells
How the hoping sinks and swells,
By the dancing, and the glancing, and the prancing of the belles,
Of the belles—
Of the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
By the sighing lips and dying of the belles.
Benjamin D——. His Little Dinner, 1876.
——:o:——
The Bills.
Hear the doctor with his bills,
Horrid bills!
What a world of medicine, of powders and of pills,
How you sicken, sicken, sicken,
When they burst upon your sight,
While your very pulse will quicken,
And your blood will seem to thicken,
And throb in fearful fright,
Keeping time, time, time,
In an allopathic rhyme,
To the merry little “guinea” that so very neatly fills
Up the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
That adds a portly total to the bills.
Hear the tailor with his bills,
Heavy bills!
What a vast extravagance their money column fills,
In the merry summer’s light,
How they pall upon the sight,
From the hard up debtors’ throats,
In dismal tune,
What a grumbling ditty floats,
To the sanguine “Master Stitchem” as he gloats,
Grasping loon.
Oh, from out his sounding tills
What a rush of chinking satirically trills,
How it trills,
How it spills.
Hopes of Future! How it fills
Up the cranium to “dils.”
Oh, the adding and the padding,
Of the bills, bills, bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
Till we’re bilious at the summary of bills.
Hear the butcher with his bills,
Meaty bills!
What a hearty appetite their money column fills,
On the thoughtful mind at night,
How they grin with blue delight,
We’re too much annoyed to speak,
But we shriek a dismal shriek,
And out of tune,
In a senseless, vain appealing to the mercy of the man,
In a vain expostulation with the deaf and grasping man.
Screaming man, man, man,
Make them smaller if you can,
And our sensible endeavour
Shall be never, never, never,
To pay the greasy, red-faced loon.
Oh, the bills, bills, bills,
What a cup their total fills,
Of despair!
How they come in more and more,
Till the eye is nearly sore
As it contemplates the culminating store.
Yet the mind it fully knows
By the ringing,
They are bringing,
A further lot which we must add to those,
Yet the bosom quickly fills,
By the ringing,
By the ringing,
With a dark foreboding fills,
For it knows of many long outstanding unreceipted bills,
Heavy bills!
Oh, the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
Oh, the torture we are put to by the bills!
85
Hear the matron with her bills!
Many bills,
What a pleasant breakfast time their large addition kills.
From our happy dreams by night,
How we start with ghastly fright,
And quick relapse with melancholy groan,
Again to hear their notes
From their grim fantastic throats
In threatening tone.
And the devils! Ah! the devils,
And minutely he that revels
All alone
In the padding, padding, padding,
In that dismal monotone,
Feels delight as thus he’s adding
Round the debtor’s neck a stone.
He is neither man nor woman,
But a junior clerk inhuman,
Worst of lads.
And his chief it is who pads,
And he adds, adds, adds,
Adds
More figures to the bills,
And his demon mind it fills
With delight to view the bills,
And he capers and he trills,
Keeping time, time, time,
In a Basinghall street rhyme,
To the rustle of the bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills,
To the total of the bills,
Keeping time, time, time,
As he trills, trills, trills,
In a Basinghall street rhyme,
To the padding of the bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills,
To the adding of the bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
Oh, the trying care, undying, of the bills!
The Corkscrew Papers.
London: W. H. Guest, 1876.
——:o:——
The Swells.
Listen to the lisping of the swells—
Awful swells
Ennui in intensity each drawling accent tells,
As they saunter in the “Row,”
With entourage comme il faut,
Far too blasé e’en to speak,
Save in childish pipings weak,
Out of tune,—
In a mild expostulation at the want of something new,
In a clamorous appealing at the dearth of aught to do,—
Looking cool, cool, cool,
At all “get-ups” not by Poole,
As club scandal they retail
Of the last connubial sale
Of the day!
How they leer,
And peer, and sneer,
At Saint John’s Wood broughams queer,
In a charmingly debilitated way!
Next, we have another kind of swells—
Seedy swells!
Impecuniosity within their aspect dwells,
And their boots, and hats, and clothes,
Sadly foreign are to those
Which our former friends disclose
Every day!
And they dismally recur unto the days ere tick expired,
When they dined and wined ad lib., and were both fêted and admired—
Ere the Hebrew would refuse
To transmute their I O U’s,
And they only knew the blues
As a bore;
When the features of their creeds
Were feeds, and weeds,
And steeds,
And the thought of being poor
In the future they ne’er saw,
But would greet it with a roar,
To be sure!
Last, we have the naughtiest of swells—
Howling swells!
Each, in larks nocturnal, both our other friends excels,
Thinking nought of getting “tight,”
Screeching out in wild delight
In the “startled eve of night”
Tavern melodies, despite
The warning of the much-disgusted “p’lice,”
Making rows, rows, rows,
Imitating small bow-wows,
While the cats on all the tiles,
Whom this mad defiance riles,
Add their quota to the torment of the Peace!
Yes, these swells, swells, swells,
Bibulation deep impels
To wake the peaceful midnight with their yells, yells, yells,
With their yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells,
Their sleep-destroying, horrifying yells!
Worthy a Crown?—1876.
——:o:——
The Bells.
Hear the tramcars with their bells,
Merry bells,
What a good threepennyworth their melody foretels,
As they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
Through the day and through the night,
All the cars that oversprinkle
The lines fly in a twinkle,
From the red, or blue and white;
And from eight p.m. they chime,
Through the Corporation slime
(The proper term is mud, but then you see it wouldn’t rhyme—
It’s sometimes very difficult to hit upon a rhyme.)
Until the licensed-victualler his customers expels,
And their bacchanalian yells,
Join in chorus with the bells;
With the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
The racing and the chasing of the bells.
86
Hear the yellow dinner bells,
In hotels—
How pleasant to the tympanum of all the hungry swells,
How it conjures to the eye
Happy dreams of pigeon pie,
And gorgeous table d’hotes,
Coming soon;
And swimming butter boats,
And turtle soup that glistens as it floats
In the spoon:
Now rising from the dish
Comes the odour of the fish,
How it smells, and it tells
Why the eye so brightly glistens, and the ear so fondly listens
For the bells,
For the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
The rousing to carousing by the bells.
Hear those clanging iron bells,
Railway bells.
What a page of accidents their dissonance foretels,
As we thunder o’er the river
How the nervous ladies shiver,
How they groan.
And the stoker, ah, the stoker,
He who wields the mighty poker,
All alone.
And who, like a thing of evil,
Sits undaunted on his throne,
As if he knew the devil
Would be careful of his own
(It has often been remarked that he is careful of his own.)
The engine is a pyre,
The poker is his lyre,
And he joins in ghastly cadence with the demons of the fire
(Perhaps you’re not aware that there are demons in the fire)
They rush across the fells
Through the forests and the dells,
And echo goblin choruses in answer to the bells,
Ringing knells for the swells,
With the bells,
With the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
The rasping, and the grasping of the bells.
Zoz, October 26, 1878.
——:o:——
The Bills.
E. A. POE-TICS FOR THE SEASON.
Hear the postmen with the bills—
Christmas bills!
What a world of merriment their frequency instils!
How they gather, gather, gather,
On the file to such a height,
That one wishes—don’t one, rather!—
Them considerably farther—
Altogether out of sight;
With their “Time, time, time,
With the proceeds of your rhyme—
Time to meet the invitation which so chronically fills
All the bills, bills, bills, bills,”
Prompts our glaring and our swearing at the bills.
Dash that fellow with the bills!
Olden bills!
What a world of happiness their cursed coming kills!
And from morning until night
How they check a man’s delight
With demands for gold and notes:
Payment for shoon,
Meat and drink and coal and coats;
While they nearly all desire their pounds and groats
Very soon!
Oh, the girls’ astounding frills!
Oh, the rare old sherry which papa at moments swills!
And the pills for the ills.
Thence resulting! it all fills
Up the avalanche which chills
Us, the starters and the martyrs
Of the bills, bills, bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills—
Of the pining and the whining of the bills!
Hear the checking of the bills,
Bothering bills!
What a lot of bitter spite their tedious tale distils!
In the silence of the night
How we plot to “fly a kite,”
To avoid the moody menace of their tone!
For their only antidote
To the check in every note
Is a loan.
And the people—hang the people!—
They would call from every steeple
How your payments you postpone.
And in calling, calling, calling
Oft enough to make them blown,
Proves they glory in appalling
Men whose debts are all they own
Be they man or be they woman,
They are certainly less human
Than like ghouls;
And their king is he who rolls
Most people into holes,
Bowls
Men over with his bills!
And his merry bosom fills
With delight at leaving bills;
And he dances and he trills,
Saying, “Time, time, time,
To pay up your pound and dime—
Pay the figure of the bills,
Of the bills.”
Saying, “Time, time, time!
Owing money is a crime;
It is robbing to have bills,
To have bills, bills, bills;
It is shocking to have bills!”
Saying, “Time, time, time!”
As he trills, trills, trills,
To the growing of the bills—
Of the bills, bills, bills,
To the growing of the bills—
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills—
To our groaning and our moaning o’er the bills.
Funny Folks, January 25, 1879.
——:o:——
87
The Hose.
Hear the ballad of the hose—
Stripèd hose.
What a blissful wealth of plumpness they tenderly enclose!
Naught you’ll find in ancient story
Like those shapely symmetries.
Solomon, in all his glory,
Was not arrayed in one of these
Dainty hose, hose, hose.
Nothing can compare with those
Striped with the crimson color of the fragrant-scented rose.
Oh! those hose, hose, hose, hose,
Hose, hose, hose—
Those softly rounded, garter-bounded hose.
There’s a charm about those hose—
Silken hose—
Which, from an æsthetic standpoint, admiration will impose!
And whene’er we chance to spy them,
Then they seem our sole “Utopias,”
And we feel we’d like to buy them—
Buy them filled, like Cornucopias—
Saucy hose, hose, hose.
And the beauty they disclose—
How the eye of the beholder in entranced rapture glows
On those hose, hose, hose, hose,
Hose, hose, hose—
Those grace-enveloped, full-developed hose.
You, by chance, may see those hose—
Well-filled hose—
Peeping from the mystic meshes of a labyrinth of clothes.
Damsels dark and damsels fair,
Each, mayhaps, displays a pair
Of deftly-woven, parti-colored stockings, which more winsomely allure
By the floral garniture
Of their clockings.
But the people-ah! the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
Far from those:
’Mid the clanging and the rumble
Of the bells—they never “tumble”
To the hose.
At that lofty elevation,
They maintain their equipose,
Suffering not the excitation
Consequent on seeing those
Shapely hose, hose, hose—
White as winter’s snows,
Save the stripes, so richly tinted with the blushes of the rose,
Are the hose, hose, hose, hose—
Those hose, hose—
Are the fascinating, aggravating hose.
Lutin.
Puck, (New York), May 21, 1879.
——:o:——
The Bills.
(An apology for which Punch is proud to owe to Edgar Poe.)
See the ever-swelling bills—
Heavy bills!
What a world of botherment Sir Stafford’s bosom fills!
How they tumble, tumble, tumble
In, to his extreme affright!
While the nation ’gins to grumble
At the wild financial jumble,
To the Liberals’ delight.
E’en the Times, Times, Times,
Hints at economic crimes
In the quick accumulation that the world with wonder fills,
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills,—
The growing and o’erflowing of the bills.
See the Military bills—
Bouncing bills!
How their growth the Chancellor’s optimism chills!
For each little local fight,
Afghan, Zulu, what a sight
Of cash, in gold or notes,
Must come soon!
What triumphant mockery floats
From the Radical, who capers while he gloats
O’er the tune,
The pretty tune to which
The Nation, racked though rich,
Will have to pay the piper from its coffers and its tills,
For the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills,
The ne’er ceasing increasing of the bills!
See the long Imperial bills—
Bloated bills!
How their swoln proportions hint of choking bolus pills
For John Bull, who, at the sight,
Stares and stammers with affright!
Too much horrified to reckon
All the burdens piled his neck on
By the lune,
The mad hallucination which his fancy did inspire,
The wild and weak ambition, which his foolish brain did fire,
To soar higher, higher, higher,
With a lunatic desire,
And an imbecile endeavour
Now, now to swell, or never,
To Imperial plenilune!
Oh the bills, bills, bills!
What a tale their tottle fills!
Hard to bear!
How they mount to more and more!
What a cold, cold douche they pour
On the folly of the frantic Jingo scare!
Yet our pockets fully know,
By the waxing
Of the taxing,
How they flow, and flow, and flow;
Yet the ear that daily fills
With the wrangling,
And the jangling
Of the rival Party quills,
Knows how the Country chills,
At the swelling beyond telling in the number of the bills—
Of the bills—
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills,
The mounting past all counting of the bills!
88
Bills.
(Scene.—Paterfamilias discovered in the act of looking
through his morning’s letters.)
Here’s the postman with his bills—
Christmas bills!
What a world of coming trouble their very sight instils!
How they worry, worry, worry,
In their envelopes of blue!
Whilst though I conceal my flurry,
I am really in a hurry,
To break open and review
The long lines, lines, lines,
Of fours and noughts, and nines,
And the terrifying total—which, as it is, my heart so thrills—
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills—
Oh, the flurry and the worry of the bills!
Here are two most lengthy bills—
Bonnet bills!
What a world of foolish details, to be sure, their columns fills!
Here are bonnets for all weathers,
Trimm’d with birds, and flowers, and feathers’
Tulle diaphanous that floats—
Each new device!
Gold-tipp’d grasses, silver oats,
Birds have yielded up their plumage, beasts their coats,—
At a price,
Which is down in Madame’s bills.
(Three guineas! only fancy for a wreath of daffodils!)
Why it chills,
And it thrills,
And a lesson new instils,
Does the wicked waste that fills,
And makes bigger every figure
Of those shameful bonnet bills!
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills—
These increasing and ne’er ceasing
Bonnet bills!
Here are more alarming bills—
Butcher’s bills!
What a tale their total tells of the worst of household ills!
How the figures seem to glare,
And to tell one everywhere
Of bones weighed out as meat,
Of triumphant plans to cheat
In their bills.
In their bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills—
Change the prices and devices of their bills.
Here are countless other bills—
Sundry bills!
Of which the reckoning up is like climbing up high hills!
Now I tremble with affright
On my lawyer’s to alight,
With its endless six and eightpences
All shown;
And the doctors, though one line,
To bad language doth incline,
Or a groan;
Whilst the tailor—oh, the tailor!
Was he ever found to fail, or
Ever known
Not to pile up useless details
In the manner to him prone;
“Fancy twill’d,” and “double mill’d,”
“Blue Elysian,” “braided,” “drill’d,”
Till each garment that he retails
Is described in terms high flown.
Then there are bills, of course,
Sent by tradesmen, who, perforce,—
(Without doubt);
Of American sirloins sold as Scotch beef superfine,
Of suet charged but never sent, of fat skewer’d on the chine;
Of rump steak at one-and-nine,
And of “rounds” so steep’d in brine,
That, spite resolute endeavour,
One could eat it never, never!
Nor anyhow the salt boil out.
Oh these bills, bills, bills,
Writ with skewers ’stead of quills—
They recall
Prices always going higher,
Though at Newgate ’twould transpire
Often meat had had a most decided fall.
Yes, there’s scarce a line that shows
Joints overweighted,
Price o’erstated,
As one by experience knows.
Yet the whole with hope one fills,
Co-operation
Through the nation
Soon will empty butchers’ tills;
Or at least bring down the prices they are charging in their bills—
With under-dash—
Must make up by Tuesday week
Such a sum; so from you seek
Cash!
To assist them with their bills,
And here, too, like bitter pills,
Come the long-forgotten bills—
Accounts one fancied settled,
Till by them, newly nettled,
All the air with cries one fills,
Making moan, moan, moan,
In a muffled monotone,
At the checking of the bills—
Of the bills!
Making moan, moan, moan,
In the same old monotone,
At the reckoning of the bills!
Of the bills, bills, bills,
At the checking, the reck’ning of the bills.
With a deep and final groan,
At the bother of the bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills,
At the pother of the bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
At the bother, and the pother of the bills.
Truth, January 8, 1880.
——:o:——
89
Hear a voice announcing Irving in The Bells—sledge’s bells!
What a scene of wild excitement the advertisement foretells!
See the rush upon the pay-hole—
People stand a night and day whole
To secure a little corner for The Bells!
To look ghastly pale and shudder, every man and every “brudder”
Feels that nothing can be equal to The Bells!
Bells! Bells! Bells! Bells!
Too horrified to cheer,
Folk will testify by fear
How appalled they are by Irving in The Bells;
While great beads of perspiration will appear,
For in conscience-stricken terrors he excels!
Gloomy Bells!
Pit and gallery will glory in the weird and frightful story,
Which may even thrill the bosom of the swells,
For every Yankee “dude”
Unquestionably should
Have nightmare after witnessing The Bells!
Will our cousins all go frantic from Pacific to Atlantic, or condemn as childish antic
Irving’s dancing, and his gasping, and his yells!
There’s a certain admiration which the strange impersonation
Still compels,
E’en from those who can’t see beauty in The Bells—
In the play that Mr. Lewis calls The Bells!
Wondrous Bells!
You first made Henry famous, so the stage historian tells,
Will the scene be now repeated which in London always greeted
His performance of Mathias in The Bells?
Or will every sneering Yankee,
In his nasal tones, say “Thankee,
I guess this is just another of your mighty British ‘sells?’”
Let the thought for ever perish, that the actor whom we cherish
Could fail to lick creation in The Bells!
But if there are detractors
Of this foremost of our actors,
Of the gentlemanly Irving—friend of Toole’s—
“They are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human,”
They are fools!
Judy, October 24, 1883.
——:o:——
The following verses, in imitation of Poe, are
quoted from a little work entitled “Original Readings
and Recitations,” by W. A. Eaton, published
by H. Vickers, Strand. Mr. Eaton is a well-known
Temperance Advocate, and the author of many
pathetic poems admirably adapted for public
Recitations:—
The Voice of the Bells.
I love the sound of bells
At evening, when the sun
To the tired labourer tells
His hard day’s work is done.
I love to hear,
So soft and clear,
Their notes go sailing o’er mount and mere.
Bells, softly chime
Your sweet, low rhyme,
Ring on, still ring.
While softly the shadows creep,
Over the folded sheep.
The day is done;
Down goes the sun,
And Silence opens the gates of Sleep.
I love the sound of bells
On a glorious summer morn,
When ev’ry note that swells
Tells of a joy new born.
The wedding note
Doth lightly float,
Gaily o’er hill and dale,
Merrily, cherrily,
Madly, gladly,
Telling of joys that will never fail.
Bells, bells, bells!
Hark how their music swells!
How it floats along,
Like a glorious song!
Bells, bells, bells, bells!
Oh, teach me the joy that your glad music tells.
I love to hear the bell
That is rung for a passing soul,
As, solemnly over the dell,
Its mournful boomings roll.
Toll, toll, toll,
For a passing soul;
While the mourners tramp
Through the graveyard damp.
Toll, toll, toll!
Boom, boom, boom!
Over an open tomb.
With a voice of terrible gloom,
(Toll, toll, toll,)
As long as the ages roll,
Thou wilt tell men of their doom.
But yet I love thee well,
Thou mournful, chiming bell;
For who shall say,
While thou dost toll,
What glorious chimes
And echoing rhymes
Will welcome to heaven the new born soul?
* * * * *
——:o:——
The Bills.
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE GENTLE READER.
Hark! the postman! he brings Bills!
Christmas Bills!!
What a world of torment now my bosom fills!
How they trouble, trouble, trouble,
All the merry Christmas time,
While a woe unfathomable
Seems to bubble, bubble, bubble
In my mind and mars the merry Christmas chime.
For they come, come, come,
In a multiplying sum,
Admitting no evasion of their ills;
Oh the Bills! Bills!! Bills!!! Bills!!!!
Bills!!!!! Bills!!!!!! Bills!!!!!!!
Oh, the torment and the torture of the Bills!
90
Hang those Bills!
Christmas Bills!!
For their presence all our Christmas joy dispels;
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
And every note that floats
From our dry and dusty throats
Is a groan;
And we wish we were the people
Who dwell up in a steeple—
Happy people!
All alone!
And who, toiling, toiling, toiling
For their creditors’ despoiling,
Find it easy all cash payments to postpone,
And find pleasure in the spoiling,
In the spoiling and the moiling,
In the spoiling of a bailiff with a stone.
They are scarcely man and woman,
They are almost superhuman—
They are kings,
And like kings can sit and sing,
While they fling, fling, fling,
Fling rocks upon their duns;
While each dun gets up and runs
For his pistols and his guns,
And he dances and he groans,
Keeping time, time, time,
In a strange spasmodic rhyme,
To the volley of big stones,
Of big stones;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a ghastly sort of rhyme,
To the volleying of the stones,
Of the stones, stones, stones,
To the volley of the jolly big stones.
Keeping time, time, time,
While he yells, yells, yells,
In a wild galvanic rhyme,
For the payment of his bills,
Of his Bills! Bills!! Bills!!! Bills!!!!
Bills!!!!! Bills!!!!!! Bills!!!!!!!
For the instant liquidation of his Bills!
Free Press Flashes, 1883.
——:o:——
O! The Hammers.
O! the hammers, hammers, hammers,
Clanging hammers;
How they beat, how they chime,
With a joyous music time,
Soul-inspiring, never tiring
To the ear;
O’er the waters of the Tyne
Rolls the melody divine
Loud and clear;
And the toilers, strong and grim,
Glory in the sounding hymn,
For they know that each blow
Keeps the homely hearth aglow;
So they hammer, hammer, hammer,
And the far-resounding clamour
Gives them cheer.
O! the hammers, hammers, hammers,
Throbbing hammers,
How they leap, how they skip,
O’er the bosom of the ship,
Ever beating and repeating
Labour’s lay;
Hark! they tell of human might,
With an echoing delight,
All the day;
O! the battle must be won,
And the toiling must be done,
For the strife of each life
Is for children and for wife;
So they hammer, hammer, hammer,
And the wild, sonorous clamour
Is their stay.
From “Poems and Songs,” by William Allan.—Simpkin
Marshall & Co., London, 1883.
——:o:——
Reminiscences of Summer.
See the frog, the slimy, green frog,
Dozing away on that old rotten log;
Seriously wondering
What caused the sundering
Of the tail that he wore when a wee pollywog.
See the boy, the freckled schoolboy,
Famed for cussedness, free from alloy;
Watching the frog
Perched on the log,
With feelings akin to tumultuous joy.
See the rock, the hard, flinty rock,
Which the freckled-faced boy at the frog doth sock;
Conscious he’s sinning,
Yet gleefully grinning
At the likely result of its terrific shock.
See the grass, the treacherous grass,
Slip from beneath his feet! Alas,
Into the mud
With a dull thud
He falls, and rises a slimy mass.
Now, see the frog, the hilarious frog,
Dancing a jig on his old rotten log;
Applying his toes
To his broad, blunt nose
As he laughs at the boy stuck fast in the bog.
* * * * *
Look at the switch, the hickory switch,
Waiting to make that schoolboy twitch;
When his mother knows
The state of his clothes
Won’t he raise his voice to its highest pitch.
Free Press Flashes, 1883.
——:o:——
That Amateur Flute.
Hear the fluter with his flute—
Silver flute!
Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot!
How it demi-semi quavers
On the maddened air of night!
And defieth all endeavours
To escape the sound or sight
Of the flute, flute, flute,
With its tootle, tootle, toot—
With reiterated tooteling of exasperating toots,
The long protracted tootelings of agonising toots,
Of the flute, flute, flute, flute,
Flute, flute, flute,
And the wheezings and the spittings of its toots.
91
Should he get that other flute—
Golden flute—
Oh, what a deeper anguish will its presence institoot!
How his eyes to heaven he’ll raise,
As he plays,
All the days!
How he’ll stop us on our ways
With its praise!
And the people—oh, the people,
That don’t live up in the steeple,
But inhabit Christian parlours
Where he visiteth and plays—
Where he plays, plays, plays—
In the cruellest of ways,
And thinks we ought to listen,
And expects us to be mute,
Who would rather have the earache
Than the music of his flute,
Of his flute, flute, flute,
And the tootings of his toot,
Of the toots wherewith he tooteleth its agonising toot,
Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot,
Phlute, phlewt, phlewght,
And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot.
American Paper.
——:o:——
The Office Boy’s Mother in America.
“Bells, bells, bells, bells, bells!”
How their clashing, and their clanging, all thought of peace dispels!
Oh, well might Edgar Allan Poe—or any other poet, born in American clime—
Adopt the bells, the ceaseless bells, as subject for his rhyme.
From early morn, till dewy eve, their clamour resounds loud and long,
The railway train as it puffs and clatters through the streets, proclaims its passage with “ding, dong! ding, dong!”
The matutinal milkman tinkle tinkles on his way,
And the vegetable vendor tintinabulates “ting-a-ring! ting-a-ring!”—enough to drive one mad, as a body may say.
The steamboat bell resounds, as if summoning the nation to its doom,
And from chapel, church, and schoolhouse—at all hours—echoes forth the solemn “boom, boom, boom!”
And at any time—day or night—just as it were—to fill up the blank,
The fire-engine rushes through the streets, with its quick, sharp, metallic, warning voice, “Clank—clank—clank—clank!”
It ain’t till you’ve lived in an American city that you learn how it was they came to dub
The oh-no-we-never-mention-him with the name of Bells-ebub!
* * * * *
Judy, January 14, 1885.
BISAKEL.
“Israfel,” By Poe, Recast for a new roll.
The angel Bisakel, whose wings are wheels, has the
fleetest pace of all God’s creatures.—Koran.
In heaven a spirit doth dwell
Whose great wing is a wheel.
None fly so wildly well
As the angel Bisakel,
And the giddy stars, so legends say,
Slowing their course, attend the play
Of his wondrous heel.
Maturing her age
In her highest noon,
The enamelled moon
Reddens with rage,
And to witness, with misgivin’,
(With the nautic Pleiads even,
More than seven.)
Pauses in heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other gossiping things)
That Bisakeli’s fire
Is owing to that tire
O’er which he sits and slings
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual wings.
But surely that angel trod
Treadles amazing flighty;
And, for a grown-up god,
Their bicycling Houris’ are
His rivals—Aphrodite
Transports faster than a star!
The ecstasies he took
With such company to deal—
His leg and style, his pure caoutchouc,
With the fervour of his wheel—
Well may the stars go reel!
We say thou art not wrong,
Bisakeli, who despisest
Feathers and psalming song;
Bloom thou the laurels among,
Best angel and the wisest,—
Merrily live, and long!
Ah, heaven is his’n, indeed—
This world is sweets and sours;
Our powers are puny powers,
And the slowest of his perfect speed
Is the swiftest of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Bisakel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not spin so wildly well
Our mortal wheelery,
While a better song than now might swell
From my lyre within the sky—
But—how is this “for high”?
Lyra Bicyclica, By J. G. Dalton, Boston, 1880.
——:o:——
THE STEED OF FIRE.
From Poe’s “Eldorado”—Fabled Golden
made true steel.
Soberly dight,
A modern knight,
Upon a hack of hire
Had journeyed long
Singing a song
In search of a steed of fire.
92
But he grew old,
This knight, tho’ bold,
With o’er his heart a dire
Dump as he found
Nothing around
That looked like a steed of fire
And as his strength
Waned, he at length
Met a bicycling flyer:
“Flyer,” said he,
“What! can it be—
Can this be the steed of fire?”
“Upon this mount
We surely count,
’Tis all you can desire;
Ride, boldly ride,”
Cycler replied,
“If you seek for a steed of fire!”
He dried his tears,—
And shed his years,
All on the windy wire,
And sweeps along
Singing much song
In praise of the steed of fire.
Lyra Bicyclica, By
J. G. Dalton, Boston,
Hodges &
Co., 1880.
——:o:——
THE RAVEN.
Scene—Study in Chief Secretary’s Lodge, Phœnix Park.
[9]G.O.T. loquitor—
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary
Over two delightful volumes rich in biographic lore.
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis the footman with the tumblers, tapping at my chamber door—
Only that and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak November;
Wrought each separate dying ember, Gladstone’s nose upon the floor,
Terror-struck I feared the morrow; vainly had I sought to borrow
From those books surcease of sorrow; agony perhaps in store!
If those students, sons of Gladstone, failed to top Sir Stafford’s score!
Name it not for evermore.
Open then I flung the portal, when, with impudence immortal,
In there stepped a stately Raven of old Buckshot’s
[10] days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But as cool as Joseph Brady, perched upon my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Bradlaugh just above my chamber door—
Perched and spat, and nothing more.
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil, prophet still, Parnell, or devil,
Whether Gladstone or young Herbert sent or brought thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this island disenchanted,
In this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore,
Shall I, shall I poll as many as did Roseberry before?”
Quoth the Raven, “Never more.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil, prophet still, Churchhill or devil,
By that bust that scowls beneath thee, by that God he don’t adore,
Tell this soul with terror haunted, tell this Secretary daunted,
Of the triumphs which we’ve vaunted, of the victory in store,
Shall the newsboys shout to-morrow how I’ve topped Sir Stafford’s score?”
Quoth the Raven, “Never more.”
Anonymous.
Received from Edinburgh, March 12, 1885.
——:o:——
The Raven.
The London correspondent of the Western Morning News,
says:—“Speaking of poetry re-calls a very curious circumstance
that has recently been talked about, and which is
probably new to most readers. Everyone has read
or heard that wonderful poem of Edgar Poe’s—‘The
Raven’—and probably most of those who have read it
know also of that very singular essay in which the poet
explains the manner in which the poem was composed.
He tells them how he came to make choice of the particular
metre, how the burden suggested itself to his mind, how
the last verse was written first and the others to lead
gradually up to it, with a variety of minute and particular
details, all tending to shew its originality. The whole of
this essay turns out to be as ingenious a fiction as any of
the ‘tales of mystery’ with which it is usually bound up.
Poe’s sole accomplishment was a minute and accurate
acquaintance with Oriental languages, and this he turned
to account by translating almost literally the poem of ‘The
Raven’ from the Persian. The translation is so minute
and accurate that even the cadences are preserved throughout,
while the curious repetition of rhymes by which it is
distinguished is equally characteristic of the work of the
Persian poet. As a singular specimen of a literary imposture
such a matter as this deserves notice. The discovery
is due to the well-known eastern traveller, Mr. Lang,
formerly of the Bombay service, and has since been
corroborated, I hear, by some of the most celebrated
Orientalists in England.”—The Daily Review, Edinburgh,
August 18, 1864.
93
SPIRITUAL POEMS.
A very curious feature of the modern American
press has been the rapid growth of so-called Spiritual
literature. Those who are incredulous in regard to
these Spiritual manifestations simply assert that a
poetical medium is one, who not having sufficient
genius and originality to make a name and a place in
literature for himself, falls back on the trick of
imitating the style of some deceased popular author,
and proclaims his (often stupid) Parody the veritable
production of the spirit of the author imitated. Perhaps
it is owing to the known partiality entertained
by Edgar A. Poe for alcohol during his lifetime, or
it may be due to the ease with which his style of
versification may be imitated, that his spirit has
been so often invoked, and his name so frequently
used by the Spiritualists.
Without attempting to discuss the mode in which
these poems have been given to the world, it will be
quite sufficient to quote a few, and these of the
very best, to show that Poe’s Spirit has not produced
anything at all equal in quality to the poems written
by Poe whilst he was still in the flesh. Power,
freshness, and originality they seem to lack entirely,
but the quantity is superabundant; the chief difficulty
in making a selection that shall be at once
illustrative and interesting, is to avoid making it too
voluminous. Few, indeed, of these poems possess
the attributes of Poe’s style,—his luxurious reiteration
of thought in similar lines,—his musical
alliteration—his exquisite sense of rhyme. Here
and there occurs a slight assumption of the mystical,
but it is mere obscurity without suggestiveness.
It is asserted that most of these Spiritual Poems
were taken down from the lips of persons whilst in
a state of trance.
One of the earliest Spirit Poems was said to be
dictated through the medium of Mrs. Lydia
Tenney, of George Town, Mass., U.S.A., and was
triumphantly claimed as a proof that Poe’s Spirit
had written a poem. Mr. William Sawyer utterly
demolished this poem in an article in the Brighton
Herald, and as it does not possess any resemblance
to Poe’s style, it would be out of place here.
The first Spirit poem to be quoted is a sequel to
“The Raven,” by a certain R. Allston Lavender,
who asserted that it was dictated to him by the
spirit of E. A. Poe. When last heard of Mr.
Lavender was an inmate of a lunatic asylum in the
United States.
Sequel to the Raven.
Fires within my brain were burning,
Scorning life, despairing, yearning,
Hopeless, blinded in my anguish;
Through my body’s open door
Came a Raven, foul and sable,
Like those evil birds of fable,
Downward swooping where the drooping
Spectres haunt the Stygian shore.
Ghosts of agonies departed,
Festering wounds that long had smarted,
Broken vows, returnless mornings,
Griefs and miseries of yore;
By some art revived, undaunted,
I gazed steadfast: the enchanted,
Black, infernal Raven uttered
A wild dirge—not evermore.
Gazing steady, gazing madly
On the bird, I spoke, and sadly
Broke down, too deep for scorning,
Sought for mercy to implore.
Turning to the bird, I blessed it—
In my bosom I caressed it;
Still it pierced my heart, and revelled
In the palpitating gore.
I grew mad; the crowning fancies,
Black weeds they—not blooming pansies—
Made me think the bird a spirit.
Bird, I cried, be bird no more;
Take a shape—be man, be devil,
Be a snake; rise in thy revel!
From thy banquet rise—be human!
I have seen thee oft before;
Thou art a bird, but something more.”
* * * * *
Oh! thou huge, infernal Raven,
Image that Hell’s King hath graven,
Image growing more gigantic,
Nursed beyond the Stygian shore,
Leave me, leave me, I beseech thee,
I would not of wrong impeach thee;
I cried madly, then earth opened
With a brazen earthquake roar.
Downward, downward, circling, speeding,
Cries of anguish still unheeding,
Striking through me with his talons,
Still the Raven shape he bore;
Unto Erebus we drifted,
His huge wings by thunder lifted,
Beat ’gainst drifts of white-flamed lightning,
Sprinkled red with human gore—
’Twas a bird, but demon more.
* * * * *
Then I wakened, if to waken
Be to dwell by grief forsaken
With the God who dwelt with angels
In the shining age of yore.
And I stood sublime, victorious,
While below lay earth with glorious
Realms of angels shining,
Crown-like on her temples evermore,
Not an Earth, an Eden more.
Earth, I cried, thy clouds are shadows
From the Asphodelian meadows
Of the sky-world floating downward,
Early rains that from them pour;
Love’s own heaven thy mother bore thee,
And the Father God bends o’er thee,
’Tis His hand that crowns thy forehead;
Thou shalt live forever more,
Not on Earth, in Eden more.
94
As a gem hath many gleamings,
And a day hath many beamings,
And a garden many roses
Thrilled with sweetness to the core;
So the soul hath many ages,
And the life’s book many pages,
But the heart’s great gospel opens
Where the Seraphims adore,
Not on Earth, an Eden more.
There are in all sixteen verses in this imitation.
The next example is one of the numerous poems
delivered by Miss Lizzie Doten (a spiritual trance
speaker) whilst supposed to be under the influence
of the spirit of Edgar A. Poe.
A Grand Poem.
From the throne of life eternal,
From the home of love supernal,
Where the angels make music o’er the starry floor,
Mortals, I have come to meet you,
And with words of peace to greet you,
And to tell you of the glory that is mine forevermore.
Once before, I found a mortal
Waiting at the heavenly portal—
Waiting out to catch some echo from that ever-opening door;
Then I seized this quickened being,
And through all his inward seeing,
Caused my burning inspiration in a fiery flood to pour.
Now I come more meekly human,
And the weak lips of a woman,
Touched with fire from off the altar, not with burning, as of yore,
But in holy love descending,
With her chastened being blending,
I will fill your soul with music from the bright celestial shore.
As one heart yearns for another,
As a child turns to its mother,
From the golden gates of glory, turn I to the earth once more;
Where I drained the cup of sadness,
Where my soul was stung to madness,
And life’s bitter, burning billows swept my burdened being o’er.
Here the harpies and the ravens,
Human vampires, sordid cravens,
Preyed upon my soul and substance, till I writhed in anger sore;
Life and I then seemed mismated,
For I felt accursed and fated,
Like a restless, wrathful spirit, wandering the Stygian shore.
Tortured by a nameless yearning,
Like a fire-frost, freezing, burning,
Did the purple, pulsing life-tide through its feeble channels pour;
Till the golden bowl, life’s token,
Into shining shards was broken,
And my chained and chafing spirit let from out its prison door.
But, whilst living, stirring, dying,
Never did my spirit cease crying:
“Ye who guide the fates and furies, give, oh! give me, I implore—
From the myriad host of nations,
From the countless constellations,
One pure spirit that can love me—one that I, too, can adore.”
Through this fervent aspiration
Found my fainting soul salvation;
Far from out its blackened fire quick did my spirit soar,
And my beautiful ideal,
Not too saintly to be real,
Burst more brightly on my vision than the fancy formed Lenore.
’Mid the surging sea she found me,
With the billows breaking round me,
And my saddened, sinking spirit in her arms of love upbore;
Like a lone one, weak and weary,
Wandering in the mid-night dreary,
On her sinless, saintly bosom, brought me to the heavenly shore.
Like the breath of blossoms blending,
Like the prayers of saints ascending,
Like the rainbow’s seven-hued glory, blend on souls forevermore;
Earthly lust and lore enslaved me,
But divinest love hath saved me,
And I know now, first and only, how to live and how to adore.
O, my mortal friends and brothers!
We are each and all another’s,
And the soul which gives most freely from its treasures hath the more.
Would you lose life, you must find it,
And in giving love you bind it,
Like an amulet of safety to your heart for evermore.
Baltimore, August, 1872.
In a volume entitled Poems of the Inner Life
written by the same lady, and published by Colby
and Rich, of Boston, U.S.A., there is a long imitation
of “Ulalume,” from which the following
verses may be quoted:—
The Kingdom.
’Twas the ominous month of October—
How the memories rise in my soul!
How they swell like a sea in my soul!—
When a spirit, sad, silent, and sober,
Whose glance was a word of control,
Drew me down to the dark Lake Avernus,
In the desolate Kingdom of Death—
To the mist-covered Lake of Avernus,
In the ghoul-haunted Kingdom of Death.
And there, as I shivered and waited,
I talked with the souls of the dead—
With those whom the living call dead;
The lawless, the lone, and the hated,
Who broke from their bondage and fled—
From madness and misery fled.
95
Each word was a burning eruption
That leapt from a crater of flame,
A red, lava-tide of corruption,
That out of life’s sediment came,
From the scoriac natures God gave them,
Compounded of glory and shame.
“Aboard!” cries our pilot and leader;
Then wildly we rush to embark,
We recklessly rush to embark;
And forth in our ghostly Ellida
[11]
We swept in the silence and dark—
Oh God! on that black Lake Avernus,
Where vampires drink even the breath
On that terrible Lake of Avernus,
Leading down to the whirlpool of Death!
It was there the Eumenides
[12] found us
In sight of no shelter or shore—
No beacon or light from the shore.
They lashed up the white waves around us,
We sank in the waters’ wild roar;
But not to the regions infernal,
Through billows of sulphurous flame,
But unto the City Eternal,
The Home of the Blessed, we came.
To the gate of the Beautiful City,
All fainting and weary we pressed,
Impatient and hopeful we pressed.
“O, Heart of the Holy, take pity,
And welcome us home to our rest!
Pursued by the Fates and the Furies,
In darkness and danger we fled—
From the pitiless Fates and Furies,
Through the desolate realms of the Dead.”
* * * * *
Like the song of a bird that yet lingers.
When the wide-wandering warbler has flown;
Like the wind harp by Eolus blown,
As if touched by the lightest of fingers,
The portal wide open was thrown;
And we saw not the holy Saint Peter,
Not even an angel of light,
But a vision far dearer and sweeter,
Not as brilliant nor blindingly bright,
But marvellous unto the sight!
In the midst of the mystical splendour,
Stood a beautiful, beautiful child—
A golden-haired, azure-eyed child,
With a look that was touching and tender,
She stretched out her white hand and smiled:
“Ay, welcome, thrice welcome, poor mortals,
O, why do ye linger and wait?
Come fearlessly in at these portals—
No warder keeps watch at the gate!”
* * * * *
Then out from the mystical splendour,
The swift-changing, crystalline light,
The rainbow-hued, scintillant light,
Gleamed faces more touching and tender
Than ever had greeted our sight—
Our sin-blinded, death-darkened sight;
And they sang: “Welcome home to the Kingdom,
Ye earth-born and serpent-beguiled;
The Lord is the light of this Kingdom,
And His temple the heart of a child—
Of a trustful and teachable child.
Ye are born to the life of the Kingdom—
Receive, and believe, as a child.”
Another long poem, entitled “Farewell to
Earth,” was delivered by Miss Lizzie Doten at
the conclusion of a Lecture at Clinton Hall, New
York; it purported to be E. A. Poe’s final “Farewell
to this World.” It was printed in Number 2
of Inspirational Poems, and published by F. N.
Broderick, 1, St. Thomas’s Square, Ryde, Isle of
Wight, for the small price of one penny; alas! it
was dear at that. But the culmination of absurdity
is to be found in a book entitled Improvisations from
the Spirit, published in London in 1857. This
ridiculous work was the production of Dr. J. J.
Garth Wilkinson, a rather well known character
in St. John’s Wood about thirty years ago. If we
are to credit this author, the 400 closely printed
pages of this curious jumble of clerical cant terms,
spiritualism, and Swedenborgianism, were written
under a kind of inspiration. Since August 1857
the inspired volume had rested undisturbed on
the library shelves of the British Museum, nor had
any sacrilegious paperknife disturbed its uncut
edges until the Editor of Parodies assailed them.
And there he found an “Imitation of E. A. Poe,” a
mad kind of poem, a dribbling in rhyme, of which,
one verse will surely be sufficient for even the
most spiritualistic reader:—
And that his feet were gaining
Strange features from below;
And that his toes were raining
Toe-nails upon his brow:
And that his heart and liver
Were shuffling in their seats;
And that he heard them quiver
And saw their anxious heats.
96
In the library of the British Museum there is a small octavo
pamphlet of 24 pages, entitled “Pot-Pourri.” It was apparently
printed for private circulation only. The author’s
name is not given, but it bears the imprint, “Entered,
according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by Abel
Reid, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.”
“S. W. Green, Printer and Electrotyper, 16 & 18,
Jacob St., New York.” The eleven poems it contains are
all parodies of Poe’s writings, as the titles sufficiently indicate.
Indeed many of the lines are taken bodily, and without the
slightest acknowledgement, from Poe himself, whilst the
stanzas, entitled, “Part of an Unfinished Ghoul-Poem,” in
“Poetic Fragments,” were written by Poe, and intended by
him to form the conclusion of “Ulalume.” He had, however,
suppressed these lines at the request of Mrs. Whitman, the
lady to whom he was engaged to be married, when his career
was cut short by his miserable excesses. The author of
“Pot-Pourri,” though evidently an admirer of the genius of
Poe, utters a protest against the excessive hero-worship of
some American critics; but it is a pity that he was not himself
more candid and ingenuous in his treatment of the dead
poet’s works. The following is an exact reprint of this scarce
pamphlet; to facilitate comparison with the originals, a few
stanzas from Poe’s poems are quoted at the foot of several of
the parodies.
POT-POURRI.
- The Ruined Palace.
- Dream-Mere.
- Israfiddlestrings.
- The Ghouls in the Belfry.
- Hullaloo.
- To Any.
- Hannibal Leigh.
- Raving.
- The Monster Maggot.
- Poetic Fragments.
- Under-Lines.
——:o:——
In a green depth, like a chalice,
By most sweet flowers tenanted,
Stood a fair and stately palace.
There a poet-soul—now dead—
Lived in days in vain lamented,—
Had lived to-day,
But was wayward—or demented,—
Weak, or worse,—who dares to say?
For his thought was streak’d with fancies,
To all simple truth untrue;
Bizarre, as the hues of pansies,—
The dark shades he knew;
And he wander’d from this Aidenn:
Wander’d, and was lost, alas!
Though his own beloved maiden
Track’d his footsteps through the grass.
He return’d not. Devastation
Housed in his disorder’d rooms;
On his couch lay Desolation;
Vampyres flitted through the glooms.
By the pure white Parian fountains
Lounged the ghouls, obscenely bare;
Never wind came from the mountains
To refresh the stagnant air.
O’er the garden walks neglected
Crawl’d the toad, the worm, the snail;
Droop’d the young buds unrespected:
Loving care could not avail.
For the poet-soul, the master,
Could alone that place
Make beautiful, and from disaster
Free—as Aidenn—by God’s grace.
When he the palace left, and garden,—
The moment that he would depart—
* * * * *
Speech is vain, and tears but harden
On the world’s ice heart.
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace,
Radiant palace, reared its head.
In the Monarch Thought’s dominion,
It stood there;
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners—yellow, glorious, golden—
On its roof did float and flow
(This, all this, was in the olden
Time, long ago);
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A wingèd odour went away.
* * * * *
E. A. Poe.
——:o:——
Dream-Mere.
On a root, knobbed, gnarl’d, and lonely.
Overstruck with toadstools only,
Sits an Eidolon named Night,—
On a toadstool half upright.
I have seen this sprite but newly,
And I look’d at him quite throughly,
In his ultimate dim Thulè
As he sate there half upright.
In a wild, weird clime, and singing sublime,
Out of Tune—out of Time.
97
Bottomless hollows and roaring floods,
And caves and chasms and haunted woods,
Forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Shoreless seas that still aspire,
Surging to hellish heavens of fire;
Boundless lakes all lone and dead,
Where sometimes Night lies outspread
In the waters still and chilly,
With his nose in a lolling lily.
By these shoreless lakes outspread,
These lone waters, lone and dead,
These lone waters, still and chilly
(Night’s nose in the lolling lily);
By these toppling crags,—no river
Murmurs near, no leaflets quiver—
All so dark and dead and chilly;
By these dank woods, by the swamp,
Where the toad and bull-frog romp;
By these dismal tarns, by the holes
Where dwell the Ghouls—
Poor damp souls!
By each corner most unjolly,
By each crevice melancholy,
By my own poetic folly—
Frenzy of poetic drift,
In an unexpected rift,
There, I swear, I met aghast
In a sheet the unmemoried Past,
In a shroud a Ghost, whose eye
Looking into vacancy
Made me shudder, start, and sigh,—
One forgotten, from thought outdriven,
I know not whether on Earth or in Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
This same desert drear of Night,
Where the Eidolon sits upright
On his toadstool, or outspread,
Lies lolling on his lily-bed.—
For the spirit that likes a shadow
’Tis, O, ’tis an Eldorado,—
Though the traveller, travelling through it,
Ever fails to interview it
(No one ever openly knew it),
For its mysteries all are closed
By the darkness superposed
Of the Eidolon, who, I ween,
Wills not the formless should be seen:
And thus the sad soul that here passes
Is like a blind ass without glasses.
On his root, knobb’d, gnarl’d, and lonely,
Overstruck with toadstools only,
Squats the Eidolon named Night,
Squats in sad poetic plight.
Is there more, and would you know it?
Fix the headgear of the Poet,
Wandering God knows where, but newly
From this ultimate dim Thulè.
*
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, namèd Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—
From a wild weird clime that lieth sublime
Out of Space—out of Time.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms and caves and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging into skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
Their still waters, still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
* * * * *
E. A. Poe.
——:o:——
Israfiddlestrings.
The Angel Israfel, whose heart strings are a fiddle.
In heaven a Spirit doth dwell
Whose heart strings are a fiddle,
(The reason he sings so well—
This fiddler Israfel),
And the giddy stars (will anyone tell
Why giddy?) to attend his spell
Cease their hymns in the middle.
On the height of her go
Totters the Moon, and blushes
As the song of that fiddle rushes
Across her bow.
The red Lightning stands to listen,
And the eyes of the Pleiads glisten
As each of the seven puts its fist in
Its eyes, for the mist in.
And they say—it’s a riddle—
That all these listening things,
That stop in the middle
For the heart strung fiddle
With which the Spirit sings,
Are held as on a griddle
By these unusual strings.
98
Wherefore thou art not wrong,
Israfel! in that thou boastest
Fiddlestrings uncommon strong;
To thee the fiddle strings belong
With which thou toastest
Other hearts as on a prong.
Yes! heaven is thine, but this
Is a world of sours and sweets,—
Where cold meats are cold meats,
And the eater’s most perfect bliss
Is the shadow of him who treats.
If I could griddle
As Israfiddle
Has griddled—he fiddle as I,—
He might not fiddle so wild a riddle
As this mad melody,
While the Pleiads all would leave off in the middle
Hearing my griddle-cry.
*
* Israfel.
“And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and
who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.”—Koran.
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell,
“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel;
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon
The enamoured Moon
Blushes with love;
While to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiades even,
Which were seven)
Pauses in heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli’s fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings,—
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
* * * * *
Yes, heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
E. A. Poe.
——:o:——
The Ghouls in the Belfry.[13]
Hear the story of the Ghouls!
Who will tell us of the Ghouls?
Who has been told?
Of the Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls,—
Who are neither man nor woman.
Who are neither beast nor human,
Who are neither fish nor cayman,—
Who will tell us, clerk or layman?
They are Ghouls;
Live in holes
Like moles
Under the boles, boles, boles
Of old trees, where the forest rolls
Of the mouldy days of old;
Or in tarns, tarns, tarns,
Dull and dismal as the yarns
Of morbific spools,—
Dank tarns and dismal pools,
There dwell the Ghouls,
With other tarn’d fowls,—
Not to say fools.
But the high tarn nation place is
The dank tarn of Auber
In the Ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
There they sit, with their faces
Bow’d down to their knees,
At the feet of dead trees.
With the dew dropping down from their hair,
They sit there from the end of October,
To the end of the winter next year,
These are woodlandish Ghouls,
Damp, desolate souls
Who have nothing to do
But be haunting the dank tarn of Auber
Through the mildewest part of the year,
That begins at the end of October,
In the woodlandish Ghouldom of Weir.
Yes! these are the woodlandish Ghouls—
Ghouls—Ghouls—Ghouls—
With no business kind of controls—
Mere shoals.
But busier—ah! much busier polls
Have the Churchyard Ghouls,
Prowling there for the bodies of poor dead souls;
And who after supper
Take an upper
Climb to their goal in the steeple!
Where they sit, where they brood, where they heap ill
On the people undergone;
Sitting cheeks by jowls.
99
Now and then they roll a stone,
Having set the bells a-tolling
In a muffled monotone,
On the people undergone.
And their King it is who tolls,
As he lolls, lolls, lolls
On his throne all carved with scrolls
In his palace in the steeple.
Where he lolls among his people!
Ah! his people who roll stones,
In muffled monotones,
On the hearts of the underfolk,
In the dead of night awoke
By the melancholy yells,
By the miserable howls,
To say nothing of the growls,
Of these Ghouls,
Of these tollers of the bells,
As they toll, toll, toll
Toll;
Toll;
Toll
A pæan from the bells:
And the merry bosom swells
Of the Ghoul-King as he tolls,
As he dances and he yells
To the throbbing of the bells
As they toll,
Toll,
Toll.
It is so the poet tells
Who has heard these Ghoulish bells;
And whose rheumy running rhyme,
Bowl’d in time, time, time,
With the throbbing and the sobbing
And the bobbing and hobnobbing
And sense-robbing of the bells,
Could alone expound their yells
For the clamor each expels,
From the loud full-hammer’d tone,
Sometime hoarsening to a groan,
Sometime worsening to a moan,
Till one bell tolls out alone
In a muffled monotone
Between murmuring and moan,—
Till the King lolled there, as shown,
On his scroll-becarven throne,
Grown weary of the yells
And the bowling of the bells
(Well! well! to be so bold)
As they moan and groan and yell
Pell-mell,
Would be fain to be unthroned,
For the pain too wholly own’d,
Untold but wholly known,
(Toll de roll!)
Of the moans, groans, yells,
As they shake the steeple stone,
And awake the undergone
(Rest his soul!)
With the tolling of their knells,
Roll’d like blood-drops from heart wells,
Misereres out of cells,
Or weird witch-moulded spells
Under fells!
The bells, bells, bells,
Whose tolling ever tells
Of Ghouls, of hells, of knells,
Told by bells, bells, bells
Bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
The unholy yelling, knelling, wholly sense dispelling,
Moaning, groaning, all-atoning,
Rolling, tolling of the bells,
Bells,
Bells.
——:o:——
The eves were as grey as grey embers,
The leaves dirty yellow and sere,—
They were yellow, but dusky and sere;
That eve was the worst of November’s,
And they are the worst of the year.
’Twas an eve that one surely remembers,
Being out in the dusk with my dear;
For the fire was gone out to weak embers;
So I went out too, with my dear.
Hear then! Through an alley Satanic—
Of hemlock, I roam’d with my love,—
Of hemlock with Sarah, my love.
O my passion was quite oceanic,
With waves like the wind in a grove,
When the wind maketh waves in a grove—
And the leaves with a sort of a panic
Seem taken; I thought of the stove,
And, shivering, as if with a panic
Was taken, at thought of the stove.
Our talk at the first had been jolly,
But our words soon were slow as our walk,—
Our young memories scarcely could walk;
Then we thought it was right melancholy
To be out in the dark without talk—
For we knew that we came out to talk
Still we felt in our hearts it was folly
The vast dream of silence to baulk,
Till, whispering at last, I said—Golly!
And Sarah back whisper’d me—Lawk!
100
And now as the night was senescent,
And some roosters were hinting of morn,—
Foolish roosters then hinting of morn!—
As the night grew more old and unpleasant,
We saw in the distance a horn,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
To the sides of the road was outborne;
’Twas Sal’s father’s horn lanthorn there present,
The crescent distinct from the horn.
And I said—He is better than Dian;
But I wish that his light had more size,—
And the light wasn’t much for its size;
He has guess’d—that’s a thing to rely on—
Has father, the way our walk lies,
And he has come out like Orion,
The fellow up there in the skies,—
Yes, Sally! those stars in the skies—
Come out like another Orion
To help me take care of my prize,
To take her safe home bye-and-bye on
The pathway that fatherward lies.
But Sarah, uplifting her finger,
Said—Surely that light I mistrust,—
That lanthorn I strangely mistrust;
O hasten! O let us not linger!
O fly! let us fly! for we must.
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Voice,—O, he’ll make such a dust!
In anguish she sobbed, letting sink her
Sweet voice, as if fearing a bust,—
O but father’ll kick up such a dust!
I replied—This is nothing but dreaming;
We need but keep out of the light,—
But he kept dodging us with the light;
And Sarah would soon have been screaming—
She shook like a leaf with affright,
Like a leaf, or a bird in a fright;
So I lifted her out of the gleaming,
Through a gap in the hedge, out of sight:
And her father went on, never dreaming
He left us behind in the night.
Then to pacify Sarah I kiss’d her,
And soon took her out of the gloom,—
It was getting quite cold in the gloom,
And she cried; but I said—Dear! desist, or
I never shall get you safe home.
Then we ran, and in good time got home.
Father said—How on earth have I miss’d her?
She said—I was never from home.
No, Pa! I was never from home.
I have been all the night in my room.
Now my head is as grey as an ember;
And my heart is all crisped and sere,—
Like a crisp leaf that’s wither’d and sere;
And yet I am fain to remember
Above all the nights in the year—
Ah, Sally! if you were but here—
That night of all nights in the year—
Ah, Sally! if you were but here—
That cold dreamy night of November,
That night of all nights in the year,
That long ago night of November,—
The night we were out in, my dear!
——:o:——
To Any.
Thank heaven! the crisis
Of hunger is past;
And you can’t guess how nice is
This little breakfast,
Now the thing call’d good living
Is come to at last.
I eat what I love
And recover my strength;
And my jaws only move
As I lie at full length.
I might sit—but I feel
I am better at length.
And I lie so composedly,
Feeding and fed,
A careless beholder
Might fancy me dead.
Not seeing my jaws work
Might fancy me dead.
The grunting and groaning,
The writhing and raving,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible craving
At stomach—that horrible
Stomachic craving.
The sickness, the faintness,
The emptiness—pain
Have ceased; and my stomach’s
A stomach again,
And feels like a stomach
Not living in vain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated,—the terrible
Torture of Thirst,
For a napthaline river
Or fusil lake burst:
I’d have drunk dirty water,
For quenching that thirst.
101
Of a puddle that flows
With a smell, and no sound
From a hole but a very few
Feet underground,
Though I holded my nose
As I stoop’d to the ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That this my mahogany
Is not well spread!
With such victual before me
I call it a spread;
And such drink—my cosmogony
Knows nought instead.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes:
The upsetting or ever
’Twas wetting one’s nose is
All over. Sweet spirit!
Thy scent in my nose is.
And now while so pleasantly
Curl’d up it fancies,
A fragranter odour
Than rue has, or pansies,—
Or even than rosemary
Mingled with pansies,—
The beautiful bourbon,
The Puritan fancies.
And so I lie happily
Drinking a many
And eating a few,
It will cost a big penny;
I don’t mind the cost;
For I have not a penny.
*
* * * * *
Thank heaven, the crisis,
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last;
And the fever called “living”
Is conquered at last.
* * * * *
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart—Ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness, the nausea,
The pitiless pain,
Have ceased, with the fever,
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called “living,”
That burned in my brain.
And, O! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the napthaline river
Of Passion accurst.
I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst.
* * * * *
E. A. Poe.
——:o:——
It was many and many a year ago—
It seems so long to me,
That there lived in a city which you may know
A man named Hannibal Leigh;
And this man he seem’d to have nothing to do
But to drink and get drunk with me.
I was a fool and he was a fool,
In this city by the sea
For we drank and got drunk till we made it a rule
That neither should drunker be;
And we drank till we might have lesson’d a school
Of fishes, such drinkers were we.
And this was the reason that long ago
In this city by the sea
A fusilier spirit of ill distilling
Destroy’d my Hannibal Leigh.
’Twas a spirit of ill when my pal was willing
To drink for ever with me;
And some were saying it was fulfilling
A kind o’ warning to me.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying him and me—
Yes! that was the reason, whatever was given
In that city by the sea,
Why the fusilier spirit came out a-killing
My still-swilling Hannibal Leigh.
But I drink all the longer and drink it more strong,
For the two, for I drink like three,—
For myself once and twice for Leigh;
And no fusil here nor in heaven along,
Nor spirit down under the sea,
Shall ever dissever our drinks to do wrong
To the spirit of Hannibal Leigh.
102
For whenever I drink I endeavour to think,
I am drinking with Hannibal Leigh;
And my hand never raise but to drink to the praise
Of my drink-Kaiser Hannibal Leigh;
And in all the night tide I hold on to the side
Of the counter, the counter where Hannibal died;
And I think that I Hannibal see
And I’m Hannibal, Hannibal’s me.
——:o:——
Once upon a midnight, weary,
As I maundered, gin-and-beery,
O’er an oft-repeated story,
Till my friends thought me a bore—
Sitting weeping, and half sleeping,
Something set my flesh a-creeping,
And I saw a Raven peeping
Through my room’s unopen’d door.
“See that Raven,” said I to them,
“Trying to get through the door,—
A Black Raven—nothing more?”
Now, I was not drunk, but weary,
For my head was out-of-geary
With close study of quaint volumes,
Curious in forgotten lore;
(Though they said delirium tremens)
I’d been reading bits of Hemans,
And some leaves of Jacob Behmen’s,
Two or three—perhaps a score;
And I said—“It is a Raven
Rampant just outside the door—
Striding through,” I said—and swore.
I insisted, and I twisted,
And resisted and persisted
Though they held me and, close-fisted,
Saw no Raven at the door:
I forgot all I had read of,
For that ill bird took my head off,
Like a coffin lid of lead off
The dead brain of one no more.
Would I trust their words instead of
What I saw right through the door?
Through the door,—I said—and swore.
Yes! it is a Raven surely,
Though he does look so demurely
Like a doctor come to assure me
I am drunk: Not so,—I swore.
Drunk? I drunk? I’ve not been drinking;
I’m but overcome with thinking;
There I saw that Raven winking
In the middle of the floor.
Doctor! there’s the Raven rampant
In the middle of the floor;
He has hopp’d straight through the door.
Look! his curst wings brush the dust off
That fallen, broken, batter’d bust of
Psyche,—where it lies in the shadow,
Shatter’d flung down on the floor.
See! he spurns the broken pieces.
Catch him, Doctor! When he ceases
He will rend me. Past release is—
Nothing! Nothing on the floor?
Yes! The Psyche lies in the shadow,
Lieth shatter’d on the floor—
To be lifted nevermore.
* * * * *
——:o:——
A Poet! With never a single theme
Of glory or delight;
He folds his wings for a gloomy dream
Of death, despair, bedight;
And, willing not that Beauty use
His wilderness of soul,
He chooseth, for his daintier muse
Raven or Ghoul.
And now a “Conqueror Worm” he sings,
A blood-red crawling shape,
Invisible woe from its condor wings
Out-flapping, all agape;
While angels bewing’d, bedight in veils,
Watch mumbling mimes, with tears,
In a play, where a maniac, Horror, wails
To the music of the spheres.
The play is the play of Human Woes,
Of Madness, Sin, and Death!
There is nothing else the Poet knows
God’s azure sky beneath,
But Madness, Horror, and Sin
Death and Sorrow, and Wrong:
Even so doth the singer begin,
So ends his song.
“It writhes”—the Worm—“with mortal pangs
“The mimes become its food;
“And the angels sob at vermin fangs
“In human gore imbued,”
This monster terrible, formless, huge,
Means—put in plainest terms:
Our Poet needs a vermifuge.
The child’s disease is worms.
103
POETIC FRAGMENTS.
Part of an Unfinished Ghoul—Poem—
Said we then—the two, then—Ah! can it
Have been that the woodlandish Ghouls—
The pitiful, the merciful Ghouls,
To bar up our way and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds—
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds—
Have drawn up the spectre of a planet,
From the limbo of lunary souls—
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the hell of the planetary souls?
——:o:——
“A Rosemary odour
“Commingled with pansies—
“With rue:”—
Your poet has fancies.
But methinks such an odour
Were odious to more than a few.
——:o:——
UNDER LINES.
On a Poet’s Tomb.
Tomb’d in dishonor! Not like thine own Ghoul
Have I thus dug thee out, Unhappy One!
For critical devouring; but some words
Writ heedlessly above thee call for words
Of answering rebuke. If Israfel
In heaven needs his own heart-strings for his lyre—
The only organ of harmonious worth—
Shall not earth’s poet? And if he be weak,
Rent by ill memories, harsh with sour desire,
Untunable, rejoicing not in good,
Can aught but discord issue? Speech absurd
Of “art for art’s sake!” when art is not art
Out of the circles of the universe,
Out of the song of the eternities,
Or unfit to attend the ear of God.
My mocking words aim at, not thee, but those
Who would strain praise for thee, disgracing Truth.
[Conclusion of Pot-Pourri.]
Many good and honest souls, neither prigs nor pedants,
are disposed to look with suspicion on the parody. They are
not incapable of appreciating its good points; they will even
allow it, when it is so, to be very good fun of its kind; but it
is the kind they cannot away with. Nor are they always of
that sort—a numerous and flourishing sort in our day—which,
being itself one monstrous parody, is naturally prone to look
with dislike on all who are blessed—or cursed, as some would
say—with a sense of the ridiculous. But they regard it as an
abuse of the gifts both of nature and of art; as apt to degrade
and vulgarize what should really elevate and refine; as itself
intrinsically an injustice; and, indeed, the more unjust as it is
the more skilful.
There is so much both of justice and reason in this dislike
that one cannot but respect it, though seeing how unreasonably
it may be pushed and how unjust it may become. It is
based, primarily, of course, upon sentiment—but it is a sentiment,
in its original shape, both honourable and true. The
word sentiment has come in these days to have a ridiculous
twang in our ears partly through the silly and perverted uses
to which the thing itself is too often applied, and partly
through a confusion between the two qualities, sentiment and
sentimentality, which may best be distinguished perhaps by defining
the latter as the abuse of the former. It is sentiment
which leads us to mark the houses where great men have been
born or lived; it is sentiment which leads us to gaze with
reverent admiration on that place of honour in the British
Museum wherein are enshrined the handwritings of so many
of our illustrious dead; all the care we take to preserve the
memorials of the past is inspired by sentiment. But it is a
sentiment which every right-thinking man would be far more
ashamed to miss than to share. It is a very different feeling,
for example, from that which induced a young lady on the
other side of the world to preserve under a glass case the
cherry-stones which she had snatched from the plate of a
Royal Duke; it is a very different feeling from that which induces
so many pious souls to play such fantastic tricks at the
knees of living men. This objection, then we are not disposed
in the first instance to quarrel with, especially as most
of the so-called parodies, burlesques, or “perversions” of to-day
are certainly bad enough to cover even a greater intolerance.
They are bad both in art and tactics. They deal too
often with subjects which should be kept free even from the
most good-natured ridicule, and they deal with them clumsily.
There is a sort of mind to whom every success, however lawfully
and honourably gained, is sufficient cause for mockery;
the higher a great figure towers above their heads the more
active are their monkeyish gambols at its feet. The living
and the dead are alike the objects of their impish regard, and
if they perhaps enjoy a livelier pleasure in the thought of the
irritation they can cause to the living, they seem to share a
peculiar satisfaction in showing themselves superior to any
feeling of reverence for the dead—to say nothing of the fact
that in the latter case the game is apt to be a little the safest.
The most part of mankind will sooner laugh at their more successful
fellows than try to imitate, or, at least, to respect
them; it is easy, then, to understand why the most witless
and illiberal parody will never want an audience.
Nevertheless, the parody in itself is not only capable of
increasing the gaiety of nations by perfectly harmless and
legitimate means, but can also, when properly handled and
directed, be made to play the part of a chastener and instructor.
It has been often said that to parody a writer is
really to pay a compliment to his popularity; and this is so
far true that no one would think it worth his while to parody
any work which was not tolerably well known, for half the
point of any imitation must always lie in the readiness with
which its resemblance to the original is recognized; if the
104
original be not known the imitation must necessarily fall flat.
No really good writer was ever injured by a parody; few, we
may suppose, have ever been annoyed by one. No one, for
example, was more quick to recognize the cleverness and
laugh at the fun of “A Tale of Drury Lane” in the Rejected
Addresses than Scott himself; Crabbe, though he thought
there was a little “undeserved ill-nature” in the prefatory
address owned that in the versification of “The Theatre”
he had been “done admirably.” On the other hand, we can
fancy that Messieurs Fitzgerald and Spencer saw very little
fun or wit, or anything but “undeserved ill-nature” in “The
Loyal Effusion” and “The Beautiful Incendiary.” The
paradoxical saying attributed to Shaftesbury, which so puzzled
and irritated Carlyle, that ridicule is the test of truth, finds
its true explanation in his real words, “A subject which will
not bear raillery is suspicious.” Nothing good was ever destroyed
by raillery; where it plays the part of iconoclast, the
images it breaks are the images of false gods. Nay, and even
to the true it may sometimes prove of service. It may gently
admonish, for instance, the best and most established writer,
when, from haste, from carelessness, from over-confidence, he
is in danger of forfeiting his reputation; it may gently lead
the tiro, while there is yet time, from the wrong into the
right path. Nor on writers only may it be exercised
with advantage. All men who have in any capacity become,
as it were, the property of the public may by its means
be warned that they are trespassing too far on their popularity,
that they are in danger of becoming not only ridiculous
themselves, but harmful to others; for every strong man
who presumes upon his strength is capable of becoming a
source of injury to his weaker brethren. We do not say that
its lessons are always, or even often, taken to heart; but
that does not detract from their possible virtue. If such a
plea were allowed, what, in the name of humanity, would become
of so many of us? What would become of our lawyers,
our statesmen, our philosophers, our doctors, our policemen,
our—appalling thought!—our critics, if the failure of their
endeavours to set and to keep their erring brethren in the
straight path were to be taken as a right reason for their abolition?
Their resistance to error may seem hopeless, may be
often ineffectual, but not for that should they abandon it;
rather should they cry, with the author of Obermann, “Let
us die resisting.”
But whatever may be the moral virtue of a parody,
there can be no question that to show any reason for its
existence at all it must be very good. There is nothing in
the world so pitiful as poor fun, and a bad parody is
perhaps the poorest kind of fun. In his review of the
famous Addresses, Jeffrey discussed the various sorts of
parody at some length, and with a good deal of acuteness,
distinguishing between the mere imitation of externals,
mere personal imitation, so to speak—and that higher and
rarer art which brings before us the intellectual characteristics
of the original. “A vulgar mimic,” he says, “repeats
a man’s cant phrases and known stories, with an
exact imitation of his voice, look, and gestures; but he is
an artist of a far higher description who can make stories
or reasonings in his manner, and represents the features
and movements of his mind as well as the accidents of his
body. It is a rare feat to be able to borrow the diction
and manner of a celebrated writer to express sentiments
like his own—to write as he would have written on the
subject proposed to his imitator—to think his thoughts,
in short, as well as to use his words—and to make the
revival of his style appear a natural consequence of the
strong conception of his peculiar ideas.” And he goes on,
“The exact imitation of a good thing, it must be admitted,
promises fair to be a pretty good thing in itself; but if the
resemblance be very striking, it commonly has the additional
advantage of letting us more completely into the
secret of the original author, and enabling us to understand
far more clearly in what the peculiarity of his manner
consists, than most of us would ever have done without
this assistance.” Jeffrey here carries the parody into
the regions of very high art indeed, if he does not, as we
are rather inclined to think he does, lay more upon its
shoulders than it can bear. In a note to the same review,
when reprinted in the collected edition of his essays, he
remarks of these Addresses that “some few of them descend
to the level of parodies, but by far the greater part are of
a much higher description;” from which it would seem
that he draws a distinction between a parody and something
“of a much higher description,” which we must confess
to being a little in the dark about, unless it be an imitation,
and that we should be disposed to rank very much
below a good parody. Many of our minor bards, for example,
have produced extraordinarily close imitations of
Mr. Swinburne’s style; but we should certainly rank
these far below a clever parody, such a one, for instance,
as that on Locksley Hall in the “Bon Gaultier Ballads,”[18]
or as Mr. Calverley’s inimitable “The Cock and the Bull,”
or “Lovers,” and “A Reflection.” No better imitations,
both of style and substance, have ever been written in
prose than Thackeray’s “Codlingsby” and “George de
Barnwell;” but they are most unquestionably parodies.
Indeed it is hard to see what virtue there can be in an
imitation which is not also a parody—that is, as we take
it, a consciously exaggerated imitation; an imitation
which is not that, surely, instead of, as Jeffrey says, descending
to the level of a parody, goes near to descend to
the much lower level of a plagiarism.
If we wished to distinguish between the parody designed
to ridicule and that designed only to amuse, we should be
inclined to say that, while the latter contents itself with
an imitation of the style, the former aims also at an imitation
of the thought and substance. In the parodies
we have noticed, for example, Thackeray unquestionably
intended to ridicule the authors of Eugene Aram and
Coningsby. Both their subjects and the manner of handling
those subjects seemed to him such as deserved ridicule
and he ridiculed them accordingly, as no one but
Thackeray could. On the other hand, we do not for a
moment suppose that the clever Oxford parodist who
sang the labours and ultimate triumph of “Adolphus
Smalls of Boniface” intended to ridicule Macaulay. He
took The Lays of Ancient Rome as his model, because they
were more familiar probably to his readers than any
other form of verse, and because their external characteristics
were most easy to reproduce. We read such
lines as—
Now thickly and more thickly
To the Five Orders gates,
In cap and gown throng through the town
White-chokered candidates.
Stunner of Christ Church, ne’er before
In academics seen;
And Nobby of the collars high,
Girt with the scarf none else may tie;
Loud-trowsered Boozer, stripes and all;
And whiskered Tomkins from the hall
Of seedy Magdalene;
or as—
They gave him his testamur,
Which was a passman’s right;
He was more than three examiners
Could plough from morn to night,—
we read such lines, and laugh at them without feeling that105
any injustice is done to Macaulay. Again, when we read
of another and less fortunate sufferer,—in the schools of
Cambridge this time—how
In the crown of his cap
Were the Furies and Fates,
And a delicate map
Of the Dorian States;
And they found on his palms, which were dirty,
What is frequent on palms—that is dates—
[19]
we entirely acquit the writer of any design to laugh at Mr.
Bret Harte. In both these cases the parodies are really no
more than proofs of the universal popularity of the writers
parodied. But when we read in Rejected Addresses the parodies
on Wordsworth and Coleridge, we feel that the writers
were intentionally casting ridicule on certain trivialities, certain
commonplaces both of diction and thought, to which
these great men did occasionally sink.
It seems to us, also, that Jeffrey has rated the virtue of
sound in a parody too low—which is, perhaps, only to say
that he rates the whole art of parody higher than we do.
Surely it is an essential of this sort of imitation that the
words should strike the ear with the very echo of the original.
For this reason the specimens we have quoted seem
to us so particularly good; and for the same reason, with
the exception of the “Lay of the Lovelorn,” the clever ballads
of Bon Gaultier do not seem to us to really come under
the definition of parodies at all. And it is this quality which
gives the point to Mr. Bromley Davenport’s “Lowesby
Hall.”[20] In such lines as these—though, indeed, the whole
parody is so good that selection is difficult—it is the sound
which does everything, but how inimitably it does it!—
Here at least I’ll stay no longer, let me seek for some abode,
Deep in some provincial country far from rail or turnpike road;
There to break all links of habit, and to find a secret charm
In the mysteries of manuring and the produce of a farm.
To deplore the fall of barley, to admire the rise of peas,
Over flagons of October, giant mounds of bread and cheese;
Never company to dinner, never visitors from town,
Just the Parson and the Doctor (Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown).
Droops the heavy conversation to an after-dinner snort,
And articulation dwindles with the second flask of port.
We are very far from saying that parody is a matter of
sound only; to borrow a well-known line,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
But certainly it strikes us as being a very important point,
and we doubt whether any really clever parody ever was
written, or ever will be, in which it does not play a conspicuous
part, if not the most conspicuous. And this,
perhaps, is the reason why those greatest works of poetry,
where the style strikes one as the natural and inevitable
vehicle of the thought, are really above the reach of parody;
why all attempts to parody them, however clever, lose their
cleverness in the larger consciousness of bad taste. But to
place all parodies under this ban is surely unreasonable. It
is unreasonable, as depriving the world of a great deal of
harmless amusement, and also, as we have said, of a method,
often more truly efficacious than more serious castigation, of
exposing incompetence and affectation.
The Saturday Review, February 14, 1885.
106
Miss Ann Taylor’s “My Mother.”
MY MOTHER.
Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush’d me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My Mother.
When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet hushaby,
And rock’d me that I should not cry?
My Mother.
Who sat and watched my infant head,
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My Mother.
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.
Who dress’d my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?
My Mother.
Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother.
Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God’s holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way?
My Mother.
And can I ever cease to be,
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was’t so very kind to me,
My Mother?
Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,
My Mother.
When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My Mother.
And when I see thee hang thy head,
’Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,
My Mother.
For God, who lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance in His eyes,
If I should ever dare despise
My Mother.
The Athenæum of May 12, 1866, contained a
note speaking favorably of the general tone of the
poem “My Mother,” but stating that it was spoilt
by the last verse, in which the only reason given
why a child should not despise its mother is the
fear of God’s vengeance. The writer proposed that
Mr. Tennyson should be asked to compose a final
verse more in accordance with the sentiments contained
in the preceding lines.
In the following number of The Athenæum (May
19, 1866), appeared a reply from the authoress
of “My Mother,” then a very old lady:—
College Hill, Nottingham,
May 15, 1866.
“Allow me to thank your Correspondent of last
Saturday for both his praise and blame; I am grateful for
one and confess to the other, in his notice of a little poem—‘My Mother,’
of which I was the author, it may be
something more than sixty years ago. I see now, so much
as he does, though not in all its implications, that, should
another edition pass through the press, I will take care
that the offending verse shall be omitted; or, as I may
hope (without troubling the Laureate), replaced. I have
regarded our good old theologian, Dr. Watts, as nearly
our only predecessor in verses for children; and his name—a
name I revere—I may perhaps plead in part, though
not so far as to accept now, what did not strike me as
objectionable then. There has been an illustrated edition
of our ‘Original Poems’ recently published by Mr. Virtue,
and I am sorry to see it retained there; but, as still the
living author, I have sufficient right to expunge it.
“Possibly you may have heard the names of Ann and
Jane Taylor, of whom I am the Ann; and remain,
yours, &c.,
Ann Gilbert.”
The Editor added: “She sends us the following
alteration of the verse:—
For could our Father in the skies,
Look down with pleased or loving eyes,
If ever I could dare despise,
My Mother?”
This suggested alteration, does not, however,
remove the objectionable word “despise,” which
is utterly absurd as applied to such a mother as
the poem describes.
It may be added that the original last verse is
still very generally printed with the poem.
The history of the poem was thus given in that
valuable storehouse of literary facts, “Notes and
Queries,” in August 30, 1884.
“In 1798, Ann Taylor, then residing with her family in
Colchester, aged about sixteen, made a purchase of A
Minor’s Pocket-Book, a periodical published by Harvey
and Darton, 55, Gracechurch Street, London. This contained
enigmas, and the solutions of previous ones, and
poetical pieces to which prizes were adjudged. Fired with
enthusiasm, she set to work, and unravelled enigma,
charade, and rebus, and forwarded the results under the
signature of ‘Juvenilia.’ They were successful, and
obtained the first prize—six pocket-books. She continued
107
her contributions for some years, at first anonymously,
assisted by her younger sister Jane, and subsequently she
became the editor during twelve or fourteen years, up to
the time of her marriage in 1813.
“On July 1, 1803, Darton and Harvey wrote requesting
some specimens of easy poetry for young children. The
letter proceeds: ‘If something in the way of moral songs
(though not songs) or short tales turned into verse, or—but
I need not dictate. What would be most likely to
please little minds must be well known to every one of
those who have written such pieces as we have already
seen from thy family,’ &c. Their father (Isaac Taylor,
afterwards of Ongar) did not quite approve of the proceeding,
remarking, ‘I do not want my girls to become
authors.’
“The commission was undertaken by the two sisters,
and, at the end of 1803, a small volume appeared, with
the title, Original Poems for Infant Minds, by several Young
Persons. The work did not consist exclusively of the
Taylor contributions. Ann remarks, ‘Having written to
order, we had no control over the getting out of the
volumes, and should have been better pleased if contributions
from other hands had been omitted.’ The sisters
received five pounds for the first volume, which succeeded
so well that a commission was given in November, 1804,
for a second volume, for which they were paid another five
pounds. It is in the first volume that ‘My Mother,’
entirely written by Ann, appears.
“Jane Taylor continued to devote herself to literature
until her decease, in April, 1824, at the age of forty-one.
Ann married the Rev. Joseph Gilbert, in December, 1813,
and withdrew from literary work for the rest of her life,
except very occasionally. This is much to be regretted,
as she possessed rare talents; many of the most popular
poems usually ascribed to Jane having been really written
by Ann. Mrs. Gilbert survived to a happy and honoured
old age, and died Dec. 20, 1866, within a month of the
completion of her eighty-fifth year.
“Only a fortnight before her death she wrote, ‘You
remember that in May last there was a discussion in the
Athenæum on my poem, ‘My Mother,’ which surprised
everybody as an announcement and advertisement of my
continued existence, so that the Post Office has gained all
but a revenue from letters addressed to me, which, kindly
complimentary as they are, I have, of course, had to
answer.’
“The above brief notices of an estimable member of a
talented family may not be without interest in connexion
with the poem to which allusion has been made.
“Sandyknowe, Wavertree. J. A. Picton.”
A further account of Miss Ann Taylor and her
family will be found in “The Family Pen,” by
Isaac Taylor, which contains memorials, biographical
and literary, of the Taylor family, of Ongar.
The work was published in two volumes in 1867.
The poem “My Mother,” has recently been
translated into German by Carmen Sylva, Queen
of Roumania. Before quoting any parodies of this
poem it may be as well to insert the well-known
lines “To Mary,” written by the poet Cowper
ten years before the publication of Miss Taylor’s
“My Mother.” The similarity of the two poems
can scarcely have been accidental, and authors of
parodies of the one, often approach near to an
imitation of the other.
To Mary. (Mrs. Unwin.)
Autumn 1793.
The twentieth year is well nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah, would that this might be our last!
My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow;
’Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary!
For though thou gladly would’st fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!
But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part,
And all thy threads, with magic art,
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language uttered in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme,
My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!
For, could I view nor them, nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine,
My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st,
That now at every step thou mov’st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st,
My Mary!
And still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
My Mary!
William Cowper.
——:o:——
The Victim of Circumstances.
By an Outcast.
Who tucked me up in bed at night,
And cried as she blew out the light:
“Now go to sleep, you little fright?”—
My Mother!
108
Who patted me upon the head,
And in the gruffest accents said:
“Get out, you oaf, and earn your bread?”—
My Father.
Who dropped on me a scalding tear,
Exclaiming, as she boxed my ear:
“The gallows is your doom, I fear?”—
My Sister.
Who gently asked me what I’d got,
And cried, while pocketing the lot:
“Be off, or else you’ll get it hot?”—
My Brother.
Who with my locks would gently play,
And wrote me when she ran away:
“With such a fool I cannot stay?”—
My Wife.
Who stuck to me through thick and thin,
Then drew a bill and let me in,
Exclaiming: “What an ass you’ve been?”—
My Friend.
Who filled with tears my sorrow’s cup,
By crying, as she went to sup:
“Here, p’leesman, lock this blackguard up?”—
My Aunt.
Who rescued me from out the dirt,
And said, in accents harsh and curt,
“No more nor sixpence on this shirt?”—
My Uncle.
Judy, November 26, 1879.
——:o:——
My Relations.
Who taught my baby-lips to coo,
And trained them first to utter “Boo!”
And spanked me pretty soundly, too?—
My Mother.
Who rapped me smartly on the head
Because I said his nose was red,
And sent me howling off to bed?—
My Father.
Who called me “Clever little lad,
The very picture of my dad.”
And gave me sixpence—which was bad?—
My Grandfather.
Who, when I asked her if her hair
Was all her own, said, “Little bear!”
And fixed me with a stony stare?—
My Aunt.
Who is, alas! the only friend
On whom I can at all depend,
And will remain so to the end?—
My Uncle.
Funny Folks, November 29, 1879.
——:o:——
Nursy Pursy.
[This poem, written by a child aged only five years and
three months, is printed more as a literary curiosity than for
any other reason. A kind of tender pathos may be observable
here and there, which in a child so young is, at least, surprising.]
Who wore a hideous high-crown’d cap,
Who called me tootsy-wootsy chap,
Yet used my little head to slap?
Dear Nursy-pursy.
Who said she’d watch, then meanly slept,
And pinch’d me spiteful when I wept.
And for my pap her stale crusts kept?
Dear Nursy-pursy.
Who gazed into my heavy eye,
And said, “A powder we must try;
This horrid child, he lives too high?”
Dear Nursy-pursy.
Who, when I yell’d, cried, “Hold your din!”
Or choked me with a drop of gin
(It wasn’t spasms, but a pin)?
Dear Nursy-pursy.
Who on my toddlums let me run
Much sooner than she should have done,
Which I’ve grown up a bandy one?
My Nursy-pursy.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
Competition in Long Clothes.
A Lay of North Woolwich.
(Apropos of the Baby Show).
Who felt the weight, and scanned the size
Of rival yearlings with surprise,
Yet doubted not to win the Prize?
My Mother!
The heat, the Baby-freighted train,
To change thy purpose all were vain;
Was’t love of me? or hope of gain,
My Mother?
Who let the public eye make free
With secrets of our nursery,
That int’rest only you and me?
My Mother!
Who babes with piglings would confound,
Show both for flesh, so firm and sound,
And weigh their merits by the pound?
My Mother!
Ambition noble! to prepare
Spring infants, fattened up with care,
First Quality, Ten Pounds the Pair,
My Mother!
If breeders prizes be allowed,
Maternity, to please the crowd,
Concurrently must be endowed,
My Mother!
Home joys, my mother, now are cheap:
I pass my time in healthy sleep,
Yet win a cup to pay my keep,
My Mother!
The Tomahawk, July 31, 1869.
——:o:——
My Mother-in-Law.
Who kissed me when I first was wed,
And said I was her “dear son Fred”—
But did not mean a word she said?
My Mother-in-law.
Who when our honeymoon was o’er
Came just to stop a week, no more!
And proved herself a horrid bore?
My Mother-in-law.
109
Who coming for a week to stay,
Remained serene day after day,
And showed no wish to go away?
My Mother-in-law.
Who sowed the seeds of married strife
Between the husband and the wife,
And so embittered all our life?
My Mother-in-law.
Who never let a quarrel flag,
Whose tongue was ne’er too tired to wag,
Who taught her daughter how to nag?
My Mother-in-law.
Whom would I fain, ah! fain beguile
To some far distant Sandwich Isle?
[21]
That infamous old crocodile,
My Mother-in-law.
——:o:——
A Lay of Real Life.
Who ruined me ere I was born,
Sold every acre, grass and corn,
And left the next heir all forlorn?
My Grandfather.
Who said my mother was “no nurse,”
And physicked me and made me worse,
Till infancy became a curse?
My Grandmother.
Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk?
My Aunt.
Who, “of all earthly things,” would boast
“He hated other’s brats the most,”
And therefore made me feel my post?
My Uncle.
Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter bang I bore?
My Cousin.
Who took me home when mother died,
Again with father to reside,
Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?
My Stepmother.
Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,
And, when I played, cried “What a noise!”—
Girls always hector over boys—
My Sister.
Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,
’Cause I was eight and he was nine?
My Brother.
Who stroked my head and said, “Good lad;”
And gave me sixpence—“all he had”—
But at the shop the coin was bad?
My Godfather.
Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But when misfortune came to pass,
Referred me to the pump?—Alas!
My Friend.
Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathised with grief.
Or shared, my joy, my sole relief?
Myself.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
Her Mother.
Who comes and causes little tiffs;
And gives the most suggestive sniffs,
Whene’er a man takes twenty whiffs?
My Mother-in-law!
Who, when a babe is born, appears,
And in my business interferes,
Until at last she domineers?
My Mother-in-law!
Who comes to stay a day or two,
And then stops all the winter through;
Pretending she’s obliging you?
My Mother-in-law!
Who makes out you ill-treat her child,
When preternaturally mild,
You are at last by her driven wild?
My Mother-in-law!
Who makes the servants notice give,
And when she at your house will live,
Makes you from home a fugitive?
My Mother-in-law!
Who at the meals turns up her nose,
Who loves your projects to oppose,
And very nasty hints out-throws?
My Mother-in-law!
Who, cuckoo like, invades the nest,
Till happiness is dispossest,
And then remains a tiresome guest?
My Mother-in-law!
From Finis.
——:o:——
Dick’s Letter to the Editor of the “Boy’s Own Paper.”
I think the public ought to know
The miseries I undergo
From one who only love should show;
My Brother!
Who thinks my head was made to hit?
My hat a subject for his wit,
Till laughing almost brings a fit!
My Brother!
Who makes me by the hour stand scout,
But kicks me if I catch him out,
Demanding what I am about?
My Brother!
Who goes financially to smash,
And borrows all my hoarded cash,
To purchase stamps, or some such trash?
My Brother!
Who makes me copy out his lines
When he’s been kicking up his shines,
And forces me to pay his fines?
My Brother!
Yes, spite of all the ties of birth,
To him my woes cause only mirth;—
You are the biggest fraud on earth,
My Brother!
——:o:——
110
Audi Alteram Partem.
Tom’s Letter to the Editor.
Dick’s my small brother; that’s enough
To show my lot is rather rough;
Of one thing I get quantum suff,
My Brother!
Who’s always writing home to sneak?
Who gives me endless kinds of cheek,
Yet wants me to correct his Greek?
My Brother!
Who never at a game will play
Unless you let him have his way,
And bat at least ten times a day?
My Brother!
Who cannot stand the mildest snub?
Who gets his double share of grub?
And if you touch him starts to blub?
My Brother!
’Tis sad to see one’s rackets “go”;
’Tis hard to slog and miss a slow;
You’re worst! for you’re a constant woe,
My Brother!
The Boy’s Own Paper,
Feb. 16, 1884.
——:o:——
Some “Confidences” to the Editor.
A “Sister” writes from Newcastle-upon-Tyne:—“Dear
Mr. Editor,—In the March part of ‘B. O. P.’ occur two
poems, ostensibly Dick’s and Tom’s Letter to yourself,
anent the miseries which Tom inflicts upon Dick, and vice
versa. Now, on perusal of the said poems, my small brother
Harry discovered that some features of (to him, at least)
absorbing interest had been omitted in their construction.
‘But that fellow hasn’t got red hair,’ he exclaimed, indignantly,
‘or else his brother would have bullied him about
that, too.’ ‘Then since you have,’ I mildly ventured, to
hint, ’suppose you write a description of your woes, and
we’ll send it to the Editor. While I will have my say about
‘brothers,’ for really I don’t see why girls shouldn’t have a
voice in the matter, seeing that they often have not only to
mend, at unreasonable times, the said brothers’ wearing apparel,
but also to bear at all seasons with their growlings.’
“So, Mr. Editor, Harry and I send you our humble offerings,
which you are at perfect liberty to make public, if you
see fit, or to banish to the realms of the W. P. B. if you don’t.
“Very truly yours,
“His Sister.”
Harry’s Complaint.
Who would not help me when I fell,
But bade me, roughly, “Stop that yell!”
Or, straightway, he “would go and tell?”
My Brother!
Who took my marbles all away—
Because, “you don’t know how to play”—
And wouldn’t heed my plaintive “Nay?”
My Brother!
Who wouldn’t let me use his ball,
Nor cricket ever learn at all,
Because I was “so very small?”
My Brother!
Who laughed because my hair was red,
And filled it full of crumbs of bread,
Then, jeering, cried, “The baby’s fed?”
My Brother!
Who always was so nice and meek,
And never(!) could a harsh word speak
(And yet he was the biggest sneak)?
My Brother!
Whom all the ladies thought “so good”
And only wished their brothers would
Follow his footsteps, if they should!
My Brother!
——:o:——
A “Sister’s” Complaint.
Who, subsequently, older grown,
Becomes a bore, as will be shown,
Prating of “time,” and “tune,” and “tone!”
My Brother!
Who plays the fiddle in a key
Midway between keys “A” and “B,”
And scorns all mild advice from me?
My Brother!
Who holds it as a solemn charge
To wear the “Masher” collar large,
Nor knows the draper’s overcharge?
My Brother!
Who walks with stately port upright?
Who wears his “pantaloons” too tight,
Which adds absurdly to his height?
My Brother!
Who always will a silk hat wear
Upon his highly-scented hair,
And in his hand a cane-stick bear?
My Brother!
Who think there ought to be no boys,
Who nothing make save “rents” and noise,
And rudely spoil our household joys?
Their Sisters!
The Boy’s Own Paper, May 10, 1884.
——:o:——
Who! Ah, Who?
Who culled me from a foreign source,
And trotted me as his own horse,
In brain—spun harness; Why, of course,
My Author!
Who set me up in type so rare
(I heard him at his “devils” swear!)
And for my future didn’t care?
My Printer.
Who sent me like a sandwich forth,
And tastily my inward worth
Displayed upon the sweetest cloth?
My Binder.
Who-eyed me with a guardian’s eye,
And thought my price, a sov., not high,
Cast me forth with, “hey! buy, buy!”
My Publisher.
Who found a strong “coincidence,”
Informed the public how and whence
My author gleaned at small expense?
My Critic.
The Figaro, February 18, 1874.
——:o:——
111
Mr. Wilson Barrett (
producing MS.). As my
collaborateur and friend is late,
I think I will begin, at any rate.
Our scene, then, Prince——
[Enter Mr. Henry Irving, hurriedly.]
Mr. H. Irving. But what is this I see?
This is not what we settled, Wilson B.?
I was to read, you know——
Mr. W. B. Yes, you are right,
But in your absence, well, I thought I might
At all events commence.
Mr. H. I. (bitterly). Ha, ha! again,
That eagerness advantage to obtain.
Pardon me, Prince, if I, to check emotion,
Carol a strain I made up on the ocean:—
Who first in melodrama played,
And then, when he a name had made,
Like me, Shakespearean parts essayed?
My Barrett!
Who copied me in sundry ways,
And jealous of my early bays,
Got Wills to write him blank-verse plays?
My Barrett!
Who, when I Romeo’s part had done,
Vowed he would play a younger one,
And so came out with Chatterton?
My Barrett!
Whose breast with such ambition burned,
That he the whole of “Hamlet” learned,
And played it when my back was turned?
My Barrett!
And who, if I do not take care,
Will my dramatic sceptre share;
Nay, perhaps to rival me will dare?
My Barrett!
Truth, Christmas Number, 1884.
——:o:——
My Banker.
Who puts my money in his till,
And when in difficulties will
Employ it to take up a Bill?
My Banker.
Who cuts a very pretty dash
By spending other people’s cash,
And ends with a tremendous smash?
My Banker.
Who has a pleasant country seat,
With park and grounds and all complete,
And is a thorough going cheat?
My Banker.
Who goes to Church and says his prayers,
And gives himself religious airs,
And pawns my bonds and sells my shares?
My Banker.
Who, when convinced his house must go,
Hints to a friend to let him know,
’Tis well to keep his balance low?
My Banker.
Who lives in most recherché style,
And wears the very blandest smile,
Though he’s insolvent all the while?
My Banker.
Who may a lesson yet be taught,
And find himself some morning brought
Before the Central Criminal Court?
My Banker.
Punch, June 30, 1855.
——:o:——
My Broker.
Who leads me on to fields Elysian,
Where golden prospects, greet my vision,
And charges but a small commission?
My Broker.
Who, while I trudge through muddy ways,
Rides (for that small commission pays)
Behind a handsome pair of bays?
My Broker.
Who, sitting at Pactolus’ fount,
Buys, sells, or holds for “next account,”
Charging, of course, a small amount?
My Broker.
Whose tone is soft, whose manner bland;
Who, lightly holding by my hand,
Talks figures I don’t understand?
My Broker.
When panics come, who seems to wear
A calm, serene, superior air,
As if it wasn’t his affair?
My Broker.
Whose villa’s somewhere in the West;
Whose wife’s in silk and sealskin drest;
Whose wines and weeds are of the best?
My Broker’s.
Whose waist expands; who still can sport
A face of roundest, ruddiest sort,
Through drinking forty-seven port?
My Broker.
Whom did I look on as my friend,
Till he those “Turks” would recommend,
Yet knew the inevitable end?
My Broker.
Punch, October 23, 1875.
Audi Alteram Partem.
Dear Mr. Punch,—Although a Broker myself, I heartily
enjoyed your lines this week, which are true of here and there
a case in our calling, though about as applicable to the great
body of Brokers as those I enclose are to the generality of
Clients. The portrait I have sketched is, however, drawn
from nature, and by no means libels a constantly increasing
class, whose little game is “Heads, I win: tails, you lose.”
Your highly-tickled reader,
Fair Play.
Throgmorton Street, Oct. 29.
My Client.
Who hangs about the Courts all day,
And deals in a most reckless way,
With every Broker who will stay?
My Client!
112
Who talks a guttural foreign lingo,
And, whilst he wins, still lets the thing go,
Until a panic comes? By jingo!
My Client!
Who dabbles in a hundred “specs,”
His Broker’s hazards little recks,
And chuckles as he takes large cheques?
My Client!
Who, when his ventures, “bear”-hugged, quake,
Commissions, quick, a double stake,
Vowing the thing all right to make?
My Client!
Who, when the threatened crash has come,
And he owes me a stiffish sum,
Fails to turn up—and leaves me glum?
My Client!
Who, for his “little games” out-lawed,
His pockets filled with fruits of fraud,
Coolly retires, and lives abroad?
My Client!
——:o:——
Alter et Idem.
(
From Broker No. 2).
Who swaggered down from West End Club,
As fierce as any half-pay “Sub,”
Prepared all City Men to snub?
My Client!
Who, when I gave him sound advice,
And landed him on “something nice,”
Declared I’d robbed him in the price?
My Client!
Who (though when things were going well,
He took his profits like a Swell)
Firmly, for loss, declined to “shell?”
My Client!
Who, on that panic settling-day,
Just calmly kept himself away,
And left me all his debts to pay?
My Client!
Whom did I find “Gone out of Town,”
Whose assets not worth half-a-crown,
And who’d done twenty Brokers “brown?”
My Client!
Punch, November 6, 1875.
——:o:——
My Bismarck!
Who, safe immured as in an ark,
Keeps all his counsels close and dark,
And acts the part of Nick’s chief clerk?
My Bismarck!
Who to poor Johnny wouldn’t hark,
But seized and ransack’d poor Denmark,
Like, what he is, a greedy shark?
My Bismarck!
Who looks on Europe as a park,
Where men, like dogs, may bite and bark,
While he looks on all grim and stark?
My Bismarck!
Who yet will overshoot the mark,
And wreck proud Prussia’s lofty barque,
And get his hide tann’d? What a lark!
Why Bismarck!
——:o:——
Who’s Who in 1851.
Who, when I feel a little ill,
Sends me a daily draft and pill,
Followed by a tremendous bill?
My Doctor!
Who preaches self-denying views,
Charges a heavy rent for pews,
And calls on me for Easter dues?
My Parson!
Who, when a law-suit I have won,
For a large sum begins to dun,
To which the extra costs have run?
My Lawyer!
Who, for my trousers, which, with straps,
Have cost him half-a-sovereign, p’raps,
Down in the bill two guineas claps?
My Tailor!
Who, when I wish of beef a stone,
Composed of wholesome meat alone,
Sends me at least three pounds of bone?
My Butcher!
Who, when I send a joint to bake,
Away from it contrives to take
Enough a hearty meal to make?
My Baker!
Who lends my Times to read in town,
And when I at the lateness frown,
Tells me the engine’s broken down?
My Newsman!
Who coolly pawns my “other” shirt,
And tells me, with assurance pert,
She’s only dropped it in the dirt?
My Laundress!
Who peeps in every private note,
Wears my best neckcloth round his throat,
And at the “Swarry” sports my coat?
My Footman!
Who brings my shaving water late,
And with a basket full of plate
One morning doth evaporate,
My Valet!
Who flirts with soldiers dressed so fine,
And leaves that sweetest pet of mine,
To tumble in the Serpentine,
My Nursemaid!
Who comes to make a formal call,
Merely to criticise us all,
When severed by the party wall?
My Neighbour!
Who’s who, or where shall he be sought,
Who may not now and then be caught
At something wrong in act or thought,
Why! No one!
Punch, January 11, 1851.
——:o:——
113
My Boot-Hooks.
The Lay of a Lunatic.
[This poem is selected from a variety of contributions
intended for The Hanwell Annual. It shows a true spirit
of poetry, although the subject is not perhaps clearly
followed out. The last stanza, in particular, is a fine
instance of poetical license.]
Who, when the sea did toss and roar,
And I thought soon to be no more,
Came and knock’d loudly at my door?
My Boot‑hooks.
* * * * *
Who pulled the nose of Rome’s first Pope,
For looking after Johnny Cope,
Who was so poorly off for soap?
My Boot‑hooks.
Who at Vingt-un hid all the aces,
Then threw the counters in our faces,
The night preceding Epsom races?
My Boot‑hooks.
Who, whilst I was residing at Constantinople,
Took advantage of my absence to open my bureau,
And thus betrayed the confidence I placed in them?
My Boot‑hooks.
The Man in the Moon,
Vol. 4.
——:o:——
My Bicycle.
By Jagy Torlton.
He cadgily ranted and sang.—Old Song.
What spins around “like all git out,”
And swiftly carries me about,
So light, so still, so bright and stout?
My Bicycle.
Regard me now where I sit high on
Nag forty pound of mostly iron;
And don’t you wish that you might try on
My Bicycle?
Monstrum imforme, ingens! some
Cry, seeing first this courser come,
Our “fine knee-action” strikes them dumb,
My Bicycle!
Call him a monster from the east,
And both a lean and fatuous beast,
You comprehend not in the least
My Bicycle.
Revolve it in your mind, and my way
Will show to be a more than guy way—
High way of riding on the highway—
My Bicycle.
Those now who stand and stare and say,
O, “parce nobis, s’il vous plait,”
Will beg to tread, another day,
My Bicycle.
What tho’ Hans Breitmann did, almost,
And Schnitzerlein gave up the ghost?
’Twas all because they couldn’t boast
My Bicycle.
And saying mine, I do not mean
There are not many others seen
Who ride like me on my machine,
My Bicycle.
I’m not stuck up, tho’ seated high;
To ride, at once, and run and fly—
My pride is so to travel by
My Bicycle.
Who will my head with learning stow,
I work the light, ped-antic toe,
’Tis cyclopedic lore to know
My Bicycle.
And when the saddled arc I span,
What care I for the fall of man
Let him remount! I always can
My Bicycle.
All the mutations I discern
Of men and States not me concern,
While I avoid to overturn
My Bicycle.
See Russia rotten, Turkey eat—
And John Bull in a stewing heat;
We have a better kind of meet,
My Bicycle!
Then hurry spokes and spokesman too,
We only have an hour or so,
And almost twenty miles to go.
My Bicycle.
Lyra Bicyclica, By
J. G. Dalton,
(E. C. Hodges &
Co.)
Boston, 1885.
——:o:——
My Chignon.
What was it all my fears did quell,
When down six flights of stairs I fell,
Preserved my cranium so well?
My Chignon!
What is it, when some young knight pries
Out of his blue orbs corner-wise,
That tilts my hat down o’er my eyes?
My Chignon!
What is it so exceeding kind,
When I walk through the rain and wind,
On some stray twig will stay behind
To form a nest for feathered kind?
My Chignon!
Girl of the Period Miscellany, August, 1869.
——:o:——
My Dentist.
In childhood who my first array
Of teeth pluck’d tenderly away,
For teeth, like dogs, have each their day?
My Dentist.
Who, when my first had run their race,
And others had usurp’d their place,
When overcrowded gave them space?
My Dentist.
Whether the cavities were slight,
Or vast and deep, who stopp’d them tight,
Then made their polish’d surface white?
My Dentist.
When void of bone a gap was seen,
Who fix’d, the vacancy to screen,
An artificial one between?
My Dentist.
114
Who, when ambitious to be first
My horse fell headlong in the burst,
Replaced the ivories dispersed?
My Dentist.
Who “Baily” left on parlour chair
With leaf turn’d down to show me where
Jack Russell’s life was pictured there?
My Dentist.
Or reading in that doleful cell
Whyte-Melville’s verse, who knew full well
Its charm would every pang dispel?
My Dentist.
Who lull’d with laughing gas my fear
When conscious that a tug was near
For man’s endurance too severe?
My Dentist.
And lastly, when infirm I grew,
Who skilfully each relic drew,
And framed for me a mouth-piece new?
My Dentist.
From “
Songs and Verses on Sporting Subjects,”
by R. E.
Egerton-Warburton
(Pickering &
Co., Piccadilly, 1879.)
——:o:——
Rondeau.
To-day, it is my natal day,
And threescore years have passed away,
While Time has turned to silver gray
My hairs.
Pursuing pleasure, love, and fun,
A longish course I’ve had to run,
And thanks to Fortune I have won
My hares.
But now, exhausted in the race,
No longer I can go the pace,
And others must take up the chase,
My heirs.
Tom Hood.
——:o:——
The following Parody is taken from a small and
very scarce volume, entitled, “My Hookah; or, The
Stranger in Calcutta.” Being a collection of Poems
by an Officer. Calcutta: Printed at the Press of
Greenway and Co., 1812.
The volume contains a Preface, 73 pages of
Poetry, of a mildly humourous type, and a List of
Subscribers, headed by the name of The Right
Honourable Lord Minto, Governor General, etc.,
etc., etc. In a foot note to My Hookah, the
Author (whose name is not given), remarks,
“Cowper’s beautiful lines to ‘Mary’ have given
rise to innumerable Parodies—we have had ‘My
Father,’—‘My Mother,’ and even ‘My Granny;’
why then should not ‘My Hookah’ be added to
the number?”
My Hookah.
What is it, that affords such joys
On Indian shores, and never cloys,
But makes that pretty, bubbling noise?
My Hookah.
What is it, that a Party if in
At breakfast, dinner, or at Tiffin,
Surprises and delights the Griffin?
My Hookah.
What is it to Cadets gives pleasure?
What is it occupies their leisure?
What do they deem the greatest treasure?
My Hookah.
Say—what makes Decency wear sable?
What makes each would-be nabob able
To cock his legs upon the table?
My Hookah.
What is it (trust me, I’m not joking,
Tis truth—altho’, I own, provoking)
That sets e’en Indian belles a smoking?
My Hookah.
What is it—whensoe’er we search
In ev’ry place;—except the Church,
That leaves sweet converse in the lurch?
My Hookah.
But hold my Muse—for shame, for shame—
One question ere you smoking blame—
What is it gives your book a name?
My Hookah.
My fault I own—my censure ends;
Nay more—I’ll try to make amends,
Who is the safest of all friends?
My Hookah.
Say who? or what retains the power,
When fickle Fortune ’gins to lour,
To solace many a lonely hour?
My Hookah.
When death-like dews and fogs prevailing
In Pinnace or in Budg’-row sailing,
What is it that prevents our ailing?
My Hookah.
When we’re our skins with claret soaking,
And heedless wits their friends are joking,
Which friend will stand the greatest smoking?
My Hookah.
By what—(nay, answer at your ease,)
While pocketing our six rupees—
By what d’ye mean the town to please?
My Hookah.
——:o:——
My Jenny.
A Lay of Lumley.
“Jenny sçait quoi.”—French idiom.
“Jenny knows what’s what.”—English translation.
Oh! when by all my troop forsaken,
And Beale had all my singers taken,
Who just appeared to save my bacon?
My Jenny!
Who was it I at last cajoled,
To break her word for British gold,
[23]By which the Poet Bunn was sold,
My Jenny!
115
Who is this Swedish nightingale,
Of whom each told a different tale,
“She’d rival Grisi;” “No, she’d fail,”
My Jenny!
Alboni, Castellan, or Grisi
Are tolerable, and may please ye,
But where’s the girl who’ll beat them easy,
My Jenny!
Who made so brilliant a début,
And such an awful audience drew,
That all soprani pallid grew,
My Jenny!
Who is’t I hope will still remain,
Because I can foresee, with pain
All’s up when she’s gone back again,
My Jenny!
The Man in the Moon.
Vol. I.
——:o:——
My Landlady.
By a Lodger.
Who greets me with a greasy smile,
Though she is cheating me the while—
And says, “I’m out of coals and ile?”
My Landlady.
Who says she’s seen much better days,
And will her “poor departed” praise,
And with her chat my meal delays?
My Landlady.
Who lets her son my collars wear,
And with me my clean linen share?
Who with my clothes-brush does her hair?
My Landlady.
Who on my viands waxes fat!
Who keeps a most voracious cat!
Who often listens on my mat?
My Landlady.
Who won’t bring up cold joints to me,
Who drinks my spirits—prigs my tea—
Who for my sideboard keeps a key?
My Landlady.
Who “cooks” the little bills I pay,
And cheats me—yes! in every way;
Who is it I shall leave to-day?
My Landlady.
The Figaro Album, 1873.
——:o:——
My Lodger.
By a Landlady.
Who chips my marble mantelpiece,
Drops on my “Brussels” spots of grease,
Deprives my tabby of his peace,
And more than once has kissed my niece?
My Lodger.
And who my balcony did fill
With an election posting-bill,
And spouted to a mob, until
The uproar really made me ill?
My Lodger.
Who plays the horn at ghostly hours,
And brings the ceiling down in showers,
By beating time, and thoroughly sours
The people in the house next ours?
My Lodger.
And who, when Sunday morning comes,
Some operatic chorus hums
With wild young men he calls his “chums,”
While one a harp, or banjo thrums?
My Lodger.
Who doth the acrobats engage,
The “happy family” in the cage;
Delights in Punch and Judy’s rage
With ragged boys of every age?
My Lodger.
Who wakes my neighbour in a fright,
Invites that pious man to fight,
Hiccups—“I’ll see—mishtake—all right,”
And who’ll have warning, too, this night?
My Lodger.
Judy, February 10, 1869.
——:o:——
The Undergrad’s Soliloquy.
What darkens all my bright career,
And takes away my breath with fear,
As I behold it looming near?
My Little-go.
I used to feel so free and jolly,—
Indulged in fun, perhaps in folly,—
What makes me now so melan-choly?
My Little-go.
What makes me blush, and look so shy,
When up the Turl, or down the High,
I catch the stern Exam’ner’s eye?
My Little-go.
O would I were a little lamb
A-skipping with my gentle fam—
Ily, nor troubled by Exam.
My Little-go.
What makes my sister Mary Jane
Keep writing in that mournful strain,—
“Dear John, don’t overtax your brain?”
My Little-go.
Oh! will this frightful harass last?
No! I can see I’m thinning fast,
And soon my body will be past
All Little‑goes.
These mental faculties of mine
Their powers and energies resign—
I die a martyr at the shrine
Of Little-go.
And when beneath some yew-tree’s gloom,
My bones shall into dust consume,
This epitaph shall grace my tomb,—
O Little-go!
“No ceaseless coughings racked his side,
No agues shook him; in his pride
(Weep, gentle reader, weep!) he died
Of Little‑go.”
C. E. W. B. Worc. Coll. Oxford.
College Rhymes. T. & G. Shrimpton, Oxford, 1865.
——:o:——
116
My Member.
Dedicated to the Marquis of Londonderry.
Who, now that naughty Castlereagh
With Sharman Crawford’s gone astray,
For Downshire ought to win the day?
My Member.
Who, since the seat I’ve dearly bought,
Must in for it at once be brought
(At least, so I have always thought)?
My Member.
Who, if he calls his soul his own,
And don’t his views to mine postpone,
Shall overboard at once be thrown?
My Member.
Who, when I say that wrong is right,
That truth is falsehood, black is white,
Must take the self-same point of sight?
My Member.
Who, at my will, is deaf, dumb, blind,
And, howsoever disinclined,
Must, if he will speak, speak my mind?
My Member.
Who with my letters ne’er must fence,
But praise the style and guess the sense,
Despite the number, mood, and tense?
My Member.
Who, in the park or in the street,
Shall have a nod whene’er we meet,
And at my balls shall shake his feet?
My Member.
Who, ’neath such favours shower’d en masse,
From mere humanity shall pass,
And be my man, my ox, my ass?
My Member.
Punch, June 5, 1852.
[The Viscount Castlereagh, eldest son of the Marquis
of Londonderry, sat as the member for County Down from
1826 to 1852, and the seat had always, until then, been
regarded as family property.]
——:o:——
To My Murray.
Autumn, 1857.
The Wind and tide have brought us fast,
The Custom House is well nigh past,
Alas; that this should be the last;
My Murray.
The spirits in my flask grew low,
Mine sinking too, I rushed below,
And in despair, cried, “Steward, oh!”
My Murray.
But once on shore, my troubles end,
Sights, sounds, no longer me offend,
I clap thee on the back, my friend!
My Murray.
My classics, once a shining store,
For thee put by this month or more,
Now rust disused and shine no more,
My Murray.
So well thou’st played the hand-book’s part,
For inns a hint, for routes a chart,
That every line I’ve got by heart
My Murray.
And though thou gladly would’st fulfil,
The same kind office for me still,
My purse now seconds not my will,
My Murray.
Thy shabby sides once crimson bright
Are quite as lovely in my sight,
As mountains bathed in roseate light,
My Murray.
For should I view them without thee,
What sights worth seeing could I see,
The Rhine would run in vain for me,
My Murray.
Companion of my glad ascent,
Mount Blanc I did with thy consent,
And saw wide-spread the Continent,
My Murray.
Once, I could scarce walk up the Strand,
What Jungfrau now could us withstand,
When we are walking hand-in-hand,
My Murray.
But ah! too well some folk I know,
Who friends on dusty shelves do throw,—
With us it never shall be so,
My Murray.
Punch, December 5, 1857.
——:o:——
My Nose.
What leads me on where’er I go,
In sun and shade, in joy and woe,
Thro’ fog and tempest, rain and snow?
My Nose.
In youth’s most ardent reckless day,
And when arose disputes at play,
What would be foremost in the fray?
My Nose.
And should my tongue rude blows provoke,
What would protrude and brave each stroke,
Till coral streams its pains bespoke?
My Nose.
And falling in an airy bound,
In chase of some new charm or sound,
To save me—what came first to ground?
My Nose.
When some dark pass I would explore,
With neither shut nor open door,
What oft for me hard usage bore?
My Nose.
And when in want I yearn’d to eat,
And hunger might my judgment cheat,
What prompted me to food most sweet?
My Nose.
’Mid violet banks and woodbine bowers,
And beds where bloom’d the fairest flowers,
What fed me with their fragrant powers?
My Nose.
Each eye may need in age a guide,
And when young helpmates I provide,
Thy back thou’lt lend for them to stride,
My Nose.
And can I or in care or glee,
Refuse my aid and love to thee,
Who thus has felt and bled for me,
My Nose?
117
No; when cold winter’s winds blow high,
And bite thee hard and thou shalt cry,
Thy tears with sympathy I’ll dry,
My Nose.
And if for snuff thy love shall come,
Thy slaves, my finger and my thumb,
Shall faithful be, and bear thee some,
My Nose.
Still as I follow thee along,
Oh, mayst thou never lead me wrong!
But thou must hush our sleeping song,
My Nose!
Attempts in Verse, by John Jones, an old Servant.
(Edited by Robert Southey, poet laureate, 1831.)
——:o:——
My Punch.
Upon the express train of the Michigan Railway.
February, 1864. Midnight. Mercury at Zero.
What, in this far benighted West,
Brings comfort to my lonely breast,
And gives my life its sweetest zest?
My Punch.
The ragged boy who brought the news,
Offered me much from which to choose.
Times, Tribune, Herald, I refuse,
My Punch.
Within the carriage sickly white
Were men from Chicamanga’s fight.
My eyes were moistened by the sight,
My Punch.
“Discharged from hospital,” they sigh,
“Where yet a thousand sufferers lie,
And coming home at last” to die,
My Punch.
For those sad faces homeward turned,
Their short-lived pensions fully earned,
How many mother’s hearts had yearned,
My Punch.
’Twas scarce a twelvemonth since, I know,
When eager crowds beheld them go,
Their youthful faces all a-glow,
My Punch.
And now all twisted by the cramps,
Which wrung them ’mid the noxious damps
Of fenny bivouacks and camps,
My Punch.
Bright were those eyes, now bleared and dim,
Lithe was each crutch-supported limb,
Merry were once those spectres grim,
My Punch.
What contrast between now and then!
Their mothers scarce would know again
Those mournful, feeble, dying men,
My Punch.
One speechless on his pallet lay,
They take him forth, “His home” they say
A wretched hamlet by the way,
My Punch.
My wandering fancy sadly bore
My vision to the half-ope’d door,
The tearful clasp—I saw no more,
My Punch.
Oh, fearful reign of greed and hate!
Oh, Nation haughty and elate,
Writing in blood its dreadful fate!
My Punch.
It haunts me, this repulsive theme,
With gory phantasies which seem
The nightmares of a troubled dream,
My Punch.
For through the surface gloze so thin
One sees the Carnival of Sin,
The devil’s dice they play. Who win?
My Punch.
The train is stopped by drifting snows,
An inn is reached, but no repose
Exhausted hungry nature knows,
My Punch.
Here I am forced to sit up late,
Amid the chewing crowds I hate,
Who patiently expectorate
My Punch.
The whistle sounds ere I depart,
I clasp thee to my aching heart,
Balm for the exile’s keenest smart,
My Punch.
——:o:——
My Stockings.
A nobler theme let others choose;
Fit subject for my humble muse
Are ye, whom night and day I use,
My Stockings.
Soon as Aurora points the skies,
(Ere from my sluggard couch I rise,)
For you I raise my earliest cries,
My Stockings.
The live-long day, around my thigh
Ye cling: and seldom turn away;
With me ye trudge through wet and dry,
My Stockings.
At night, one serves to stop a gap
I’th’ wall—I sink in Somnus’ lap,
And t’other serves me for a cap,
My Stockings!
Let none their various deeds decry:
For ever as the week goes by,
They’re washed, and then I hang to dry,
My Stockings!
About 1800. Anonymous.
——:o:——
The Man of Fashion.
Who made this moving piece of clay,
So bright, and beautiful and gay
As though life were one holiday?
My Tailor.
Whose magic shears, and cloth, and tape,
Gave to my ugly neck a nape,
And brought my bow-legs into shape?
My Tailor.
Who all deformity effaced,
And beautified, and stuffed and laced,
And stamp’d Adonis on my waist?
My Tailor.
118
Who made the coat, the pantaloon,
That in the gay and bright saloon,
Won me a spouse and honey-moon?
My Tailor.
Reverse the picture; who was it,
That taught me wisdom was unfit
A beau, a gentleman, and wit?
My Tailor.
Whose magic shears, and cloth, and tape,
Made me in bearing, form, and shape,
The very mockery of an ape?
My Tailor.
Who bound me to a worthless wife,
Whose vanity, and spleen, and strife
Will be the nightmare of my life?
My Tailor.
Who passes me with threatening looks?
Who’s got me deepest in his books?
Who’ll nab me yet? Why, Mr. Snooks—
My Tailor.
The Maids, Wives, & Widows Penny Magazine,
May 25, 1833.
——:o:——
My Ticker.
Old friend that once with me did dwell
Vouchsafing all the hours to tell,
Where art thou gone? I know too well,
My Ticker!
Thou art not gone to artists’ care
To try the good of change of air
Or undergo a slight repair,
My Ticker.
No! thou art gone—no fault of thine—
Unto a relative of mine,
Entitled “Uncle,” I opine,
My Ticker.
And there must thou remain awhile,
Spite of thyself, in durance vile,
Accompanied by my best tile,
My Ticker.
And much I fear thou must remain
Until a shower, not of rain,
Impels thee down the spout again,
My Ticker.
Punch, 1842.
——:o:——
My Uncle.
(By Louis Napoleon Bounaparte.)
Who raised our race up from the dregs,
And set us youngsters on our legs,
Putting us up so many pegs?
My Uncle!
Who scratch’d up Europe like a hen,
To fling out grains for us young men?
Who shut the mouth and stopped the pen?
My Uncle!
Who broke through rights and smash’d through laws,
To find neat crowns for our papas,
And shot young D’Enghien in our cause?
My Uncle!
Who left us something still to do—
A name to keep French passions true
To us—the name of Waterloo?
My Uncle!
Who gave me all my little name,
My little hopes, my little fame,
My little everything, but blame?
My Uncle!
Punch, January 3, 1852.
——:o:——
My Uncle.
Who, by a transmutation bold,
Turns clothes or watches, new and old,
Or any other goods, to gold?
My Uncle!
Who, by a duplication rare,
Makes Hunger’s chattels (scant and bare)
Produce first cash, and then good fare?
My Uncle!
Who, when my credit got quite low,
Handed me cash on Jane’s trousseau,
And lent a suite of paste for show?
My Uncle!
Who caused her silks our mouths to fill,
And made my full-dress shirt with frill
Discharge a fortnight’s butcher’s bill?
My Uncle!
When creditors—a ruthless crew—
Had “small accounts just coming due,”
Who stopped their clamorous tongues? Why you,
My Uncle!
And when attorneys round me pressed
With writs of judgment and arrest,
Who set for weeks their quills at rest?
My Uncle!
Who lent us hundreds three and four,
And kindly kept our plate secure,
When we commenced our foreign tour?
My Uncle!
Punch, March, 1845.
My Uncle.
Who dwells at yonder three gold balls
Where Poverty so often calls
To place her relics in his walls?
My Uncle.
Who cheers the heart with “money lent,”
When friends are cold, and all is spent,
Receiving only cent. per cent?
My Uncle.
Who cares not what distress may bring,
If stolen from beggar or from king,
And, like the sea, takes everything?
My Uncle.
Who, wiser than each sage of yore,
Who Alchemy would fain explore,
Can make whate’er he touches ore?
My Uncle.
Who, when the wretch is sunk in grief
And none besides will yield relief,
Will aid the honest or the thief?
My Uncle.
Who, when detection threatens law,
His secret stores will open draw,
That future rogues may stand in awe?
My Uncle.
Bought wisdom is the best, ’tis clear,
And since ’tis better as more dear,
We, for high usance, should revere,
My Uncle.
119
And though to make the heedless wise,
He cheats in all he sells or buys,
To work a moral purpose tries
My Uncle.
Who, when our friends are quite withdrawn,
And hypocrites no longer fawn
Takes all but honour into pawn
My Uncle.
John Taylor.
——:o:——
The Pawnbroker before Congress.
(Of Social Science,
Represented by Mr. Attenborough.)
Who is the Poor Man’s constant friend,
Aid ever ready to extend,
And sums at moderate usance lend?
My Uncle.
Who’s the philanthropist, maligned
By thoughtless, ignorant, unkind
Perverters of the people’s mind?
My Uncle.
Who stolen goods will ne’er receive,
In fact, is shunned by them that thieve
For pledges they’re afraid to leave?
My Uncle.
Who, when a Nephew, or a Niece,
Would pawn a doubtful gem, or piece
Of plate, apprises the Police?
My Uncle.
Who keeps the shop whose “Two-to-one,”
Denotes that you shall not be done,
For all that has been said in fun?
My Uncle.
Who is particular about
All articles put “up the spout,”
Again, (almost all,) taken out?
My Uncle.
The false suspicion, therefore, drop,
That Nunky keeps a Fence’s shop,
Who’d lose by prey which thieves might pop,
My Uncle.
Punch, October 21, 1871.
——:o:——
My Valentine.
In furs and velvets orthodox,
With laughing eyes and sunny locks,
And, oh! the very shortest frocks,
My Valentine.
With lips like full ripe cherries bright,
With eyes ablaze with inward light,
With dainty frills all gleaming white,
Sweet Valentine.
Her voice but like the rippling stream,
Her face but like an artist’s dream,
Her form but fit for poet’s theme,
My Valentine.
In silk her shapely limbs encased,
With tiny bottines deftly laced,
On modelled feet so fitly placed,
Dear Valentine.
Her merry tricks, her roguish ways,
Her playful pranks, her earnest gaze,
Her gleeful laugh, her well-turned phrase,
My Valentine.
Who is there bold enough to dare
With her sweet beauty to compare,
Or even claim her throne to share?
Loved Valentine.
The chief she is of all coquettes,
The prettiest of pretty pets;
What thoughts her memory begets!
My Valentine.
Could I but hope her heart to fix!—
Ah me! old Time plays cruel tricks,
For I, alas! am fifty-six;—She’s only nine,
My Valentine.
Judy, February 2, 1880.
——:o:——
The Jesuit to his Grandmother.
Who, when I was a puny child
And drew my interference mild,
Shrieked at me, and grew very wild?
My Whalley!
Who, when the country let me play,
Grabbed at my toys day after day,
And scared my very foes away?
My Whalley!
Who thus, when things seemed growing slack,
With injudicious, wild attack,
Brought all my finest business back?
My Whalley!
Who, when the House discussed my claim,
Yelled at me—called me every name,
Till I got votes—for very shame?
My Whalley!
Who, when he rose his change to ring,
“Like Paganini, on one string,”
Was very strongly urged to sing?
My Whalley!
Who, when his name became a jest,
By friends well cursed—by foes well blest—
Himself to other arts addressed?
My Whalley!
Who all his nasty powers tasked,
And spread—Lord Campbell’s Act unasked—
His famed “Confessional Unmasked”?
My Whalley!
Who foremost in the Turnbull chase,
When bigots drove him from his place,
In savage war-paint led the race?
My Whalley!
Turnbull no more, who still must rave,
And, none to answer, call him knave—
Insult the dead man in his grave?
My Whalley!
Who, by such wiles—friends not too true,
And enemies by no means few—
Rallied them all around me?—Who?
My Whalley!
Who thus, should the whole Order fail,
And Grand Inquisitors turn tail,
In any mess will stand my bail?
My Whalley!
120
And who, unto the very end,
My honour—life—will e’er defend?—
My grandmother!—my truest friend!—
My Whalley!
The Tomahawk, August 31, 1867.
[The late Mr. G. H. Whalley sat for many years as
M.P. for Peterborough, and was noted for the bitterness
of his attacks on the Roman Catholics. On rising to address
the House of Commons he was frequently greeted
with cries of “Sing, Whalley, sing!”]
——:o:——
My Whiskers.
What causes all the folks to stare,
As I strut by en militaire,
And makes my face all over hair?
My Whiskers.
Why do the children laugh with glee?
’Tis no uncommon sight to see.
Ah! no; they only envy me
My Whiskers.
What wounds with twenty thousand darts
When practising the game of hearts,
And such sweet vanity imparts?
My Whiskers.
How I can quiz a naked chin,
And mimic every vulgar grin;
But I’ll be bound they’ll laugh who win,
My Whiskers.
Should ever cruel fate decree,
That we, alas! should sever’d be,
I’ll lay me down and die with thee—
My Whiskers.
The Penny Belle Assemblée, October 26, 1833.
——:o:——
“My Yot.”
(A confidential Carol, by a Cockney Owner, who inwardly feels
that he is not exactly “in it” after all.)
What makes me deem I’m of Viking blood
(Though a wee bit queer when the pace grows hot),
A briny slip of the British brood?
My Yot!
What makes me rig me in curious guise,
Like a kind of a sort of—I dont know what,
And talk sea-slang, to the world’s surprise?
My Yot!
What makes me settle my innermost soul
On winning a purposeless silver pot
And walk with a (very much) nautical roll?
My Yot!
What makes me learned in cutters and yawls,
And time-allowance—which others must tot—
And awfully nervous in sudden squalls?
My Yot!
What makes me sprawl on the deck all day,
And at night play “nap” till I lose a lot,
And grub in a catch-who-can sort of a way?
My Yot!
What makes me qualmish, timorous, pale,
(Though rather than own it I’d just be shot)
When the Fay in the wave-crests dips her sails?
My Yot!
What makes me “patter” to skipper and crew
In a kibosh style that a child might spot,
And tug hard ropes till my knuckles go blue?
My Yot!
What makes me snooze in a narrow close bunk,
Till the cramp my limbs doth twist and knot,
And brave discomfort, and face blue-funk?
My Yot!
What makes me gammon my chummiest friends
To “try the fun”—which I know’s all rot—
And earn the dead-cut in which all this ends?
My Yot!
What makes me, in short, an egregious ass,
A bore, a butt, who, not caring a jot
For the sea, as a sea-king am seeking to pass?
My Yot!
Punch, August 28, 1880.
Your Friend.
By the Countess of Blessington.
Who borrows all your ready cash,
And with it cuts a mighty dash,
Proving the lender weak and rash?
Your Friend!
Who finds out every secret fault,
Misjudges every word and thought,
And makes you pass for worse than naught?
Your Friend!
Who wins your money at deep play,
Then tells you that the world doth say,
“’Twere wise from clubs you kept away?”
Your Friend!
Who sells you, for the longest price,
Horses, a dealer in a trice
Would find unsound, and full of vice?
Your Friend!
Who eats your dinners, then looks shrewd,
Wishes you had a cook like
Ude,
[24]
For then, much oft’ner would intrude—
Your Friend.
Who tells you that you’ve shocking wine,
And owns that, though his port’s not fine,
Crockford’s the only place to dine?
Your Friend!
Who wheedles you with words most fond,
To sign for him a heavy bond?
“Or else, by Jove, must quick abscond?”
Your Friend!
Who makes you all the interest pay
With principal, some future day,
And laughs at what you then may say?
Your Friend!
121
Who makes deep love unto your wife,
Knowing you prize her more than life,
And breeds between you hate and strife?
Your Friend!
Who, when you’ve got into a brawl,
Insists that out your man you call,
Then gets you shot, which ends it all?
Your Friend?
From The Keepsake.
Another Friend.
When Satan for his sins was driven
Forth from the eternal joys of heaven,
We read that unto him was given
A Stick.
In infancy, what was my pride?
What was’t for which I often cried?
What did I saddle, mount, and ride?
My