Chapter I: ACHIEVED my success, as a young diner-out,

Through my great conversational talents, no doubt;

For of humour and wit I was blest with a store,

And I kept the whole table, by Jove, in a roar

With my waggery, ah!

My waggery, oh!

How the company grinn'd at my waggery, oh!

You could never extort a remark out of _me_

Which was not overflowing with quaint repartee.

And, when people thought proper to cavil or carp

At a notion of _mine_--I was down on them sharp

With my waggery, ah!

My waggery, oh!

For I crush'd them at once with my waggery, oh!

Among persons of genius the tone that I took

Was a mixture of Jerrold and Theodore Hook.

And a great fund of anecdote, varied in style,

I employ'd among duffers to get up a smile

At my waggery, ah!

My waggery, oh!

There was often a yell at my waggery, oh!

But those days of delight are for ever gone by,

And I can't get a meal by my wit, if I try,

For care and old age, I am sorry to say,

Have destroy'd my high spirits, and bolted away

With my waggery, ah!

My waggery, oh!

I shall never see more of my waggery, oh!

ETIQUETTE.

MONTH ago I bought a book,

Brimful of good advice,

('Twas labell'd sixpence, but they took

A somewhat smaller price.)

The cover carried signs of age,

But ne'er can I forget *

The name upon the title-page--

'Twas "Hints on Etiquette."

You can't conceive the change of tone

That volume wrought in me;

Or what an alter'd man I've grown,

From what I used to be.

This mark'd improvement in my ways

Compels me to regret

I never heard in earlier days

Of "Hints on Etiquette."

'Tis true I cling to Bass's pale,

But I redeem the fault,

By asking for "a glass of ale,"

Not "half a pint of malt."

Of old the pewter pot conferr'd

A zest on "heavy wet."

But that was long before I heard

Of "Hints on Etiquette."

When dining out, in early life,

I often used to stoop

To taking peas up with my knife,

And asking twice for soup.

I'm fast improving, though I doubt

If I am perfect yet

In all the feeding-laws set out

In "Hints on Etiquette."

I don for evening parties now

The whitest of cravats;

The blackest suit; and, on my brow

The neatest of crush-hats.

And yet, I was the oddest kind

Of guy you ever met,

Before I chanced to give my mind

To "Hints on Etiquette."

A PLAIN ANSWER

(TO A CIVIL QUESTION.)

BRIGHT creature of impulse, you bid

me be gay.

I would gladly adopt the suggestion,

But candour compels me sincerely to say

That I don't like the tone of your ques-

tion.

In a voice that recalls the soft murmur

of bees,

And in syllables sweet as their honey,

You say "Mamma wishes to know, if you please,

When you mean to begin to be funny?"

To-night, giddy child, when I enter'd the room

My inducement, believe me, was only

A hope that the wine-cup and dance might illume

For one evening a life that is lonely.

In this region of pleasure my clouded career

May be thought for a time pretty sunny;

I 'll join in the valse or the banquet, my dear,

But I _cannot_ begin to be funny.

Go, tell your Mamma that the sun _may_ arise

On a day when my cares shall have left me;

When Time shall once more have brought back, as he

flies,

All the hopes of which Time has bereft me.

Yes, the day may arrive that shall see me content

With my share of health, talent, and money:

_Then_, fitly to hail that auspicious event,

I will try to begin to be funny!

IN A HUNDRED YEARS.

An extra smile or a burst of tears--

A fine to-day or a dull to-morrow--

A taste more joy or a drop more sorrow--

All the same in a hundred years.

A thousand hopes or a thousand fears--

A lifetime sad or a lifetime wasted--

A cup drain'd empty or left untasted--

All the same in a hundred years.

If things were thus, as one often hears,

I'd seize the pleasure, I'd leave the sorrow--

Enjoy to-day and defy to-morrow--

All the same in a hundred years.

EVENING.

E birds, beneath your little wings

Go hide your little heads;

For oh! the pleasantest of things

On earth are feather-beds.

Go, seek your pens, my little sheep,

(And slumber while ye may;)

My own will rob me of my sleep

Until the purple day.

Shine on above the chimney-pots,

O placid Evening Star:

While gazing at you _à la_ Watts,

"I wonder what you are."

You rose on Eden, happy place!

And still your smiles relieve

The woes and wants of Adam's race,

Delightful Star of Eve.

The nightingales are all about--

Their song is everywhere--

Their notes are lovely (though they 're out

So often in the air),

The zephyr, dancing through the tops

Of ash and poplar, weaves

Low melodies, and scarcely stops

To murmur, "By your leaves!"

Night steeps the passions of the day

In quiet, peace, and love.

Pale Dian, in her tranquil way,

Kicks up a shine above.

Oh, I could bless the hour that brings

All deep and dear delight,

Unless I had a lot of things

To polish off to-night.

MY POLITICS.

WHEN I look at our present condition,

And gather the state of the realm

From the names that adorn Opposition

And those of our men at the helm;

I acknowledge that, after perusing

My _Telegraph, Standard, and Star,_

'Tis a task not a little confusing

To find what my politics are.

By an ultra-Conservative journal

I 'm told that we 're all to give thanks

For a Ministry quite as paternal

As any from Liberal ranks.

By the next, in as urgent a manner,

I'm warn'd against going so far

As to mount the Conservative banner,

Whatever my politics are.

It is easy to draw my deduction--

The papers explain at a glance,

That the Tories are all for obstruction--

The Liberals all for advance.

But, in spite of the Press and its drilling,

If I live to the age of old Parr,

I shall never be able or willing

To say what my politics are.

THE MISERIES OF GENIUS.

IS thine to share, O lady fair,

The throng's ignoble strife--

The rout, the bail, the banquet-

hall,

And Fashion's empty life.

Be thine the wiles and hollow

smiles

That Wealth to Beauty pays,

But envy not the poet's lot

In our prosaic days.

O lady bright, the sleepless night--

The vigil of despair,

And, worse than all, the critic's gall

Are not for thee to bear.

The town's élite is at thy feet,

And Folly lisps thy praise;

Oh, envy not the poet's lot

In our prosaic days.

Mine eyes are blue--Byronic hue!--

I turn my collar down;

Methinks I wear the longest hair

Of any bard in town.

Yet, bitter fact, my looks attract

The public's mocking gaze:

Oh, envy not the poet's lot

In our prosaic days.

I cannot find one lofty mind,

One publisher of sense;

And so my rhymes are oftentimes

Brought out at my expense.

I could not sell--I know it well--

Ten copies of my lays;

Oh, envy not the poet's lot

In our prosaic days.

Ah, lady mine, dost seek to twine

A coronal of song?

Trust him who knows what heavy woes

To poesy belong.

Forget the fame that gilds the name

Of one who wins the bays;

And envy not the poet's lot

In our prosaic days.

A DAY FOR WISHING.

CANNOT mind my wheel to-

day--

The weather is as hot as

blazes:

I wish that I could get away

To anywhere you like, and play

Among the buttercups and

daisies.

I wish I had a silly book

(Most easily fulfill'd of wishes)

To read beside a crystal brook--

Or else a rod, a line, a hook,

And lots of gentles for the fishes.

I wish that I were lying, prone

And idle, where the trees are shady--

Contemplative and quite alone,

Or talking in an undertone

To some beloved and lovely lady.

But, though I feel to-day a call

For reading silly books, or fishing,

Or idling where the trees are tall,

Or making love--yet, most of all,

I wish I knew the good of wishing.

THE DILIGENCE DRIVER.

PABLO PUIG is a family man,

A Catholic staunch and a Catalan.

Her Majesty's mails he hath to drive.

His oaths are many, his horses five.

_Alerte, caballitos!_

Master is he of a clumsy craft,

Cranky forward and cranky aft;

A thing of a weird and ogglesome kind,

Cab in the front and 'bus behind.

_Alerte, caballitos!_

Yet Pablo Puig in his inmost soul

Is fond of his calling, upon the whole;

Many might think it _infra dig._,

But there's little of pride in Pablo Puig.

_Alerte, caballitos!_

His visage is dark, his garb grotesque,

And he wears a touch of the picturesque,

A certain chic which possibly springs

From his horror of soap and of such-like things.

_Alerte, caballitos!_

To him there is little or no romance

In the mountain border of Spain and France;

But how he would wonder and stare, poor man,

At a moment's view of a Pickford's van.

_Alerte, caballitos!_

THE BALLAD OF THE BARYTONE,

SIMPLE barytone am I--

A thing of light and joy;

Of Rank and Fame let worldlings dream.

They have no charms for me.

Far, far above them I esteem

My own--my upper G.

Oh music! sure thou dost belong

To soft Italia's clime,

Where Life and Love and sunny Song

Seem ever in their prime.

And peacefully my days go by

As when I was a boy,

The feebler ballads of the North

Are much too cold for me;

'Tis not for these I summon forth

My own--my upper G.

I love the Bacchanalian strain

In which Parisians deal;

And that which dark-eyed sons of Spain

Attempt in Old Castille.

No matter from what favour'd spot

The melody may be;

Provided it transcendeth not

My own--my upper G.

It greets me in my festal hours,

It brings my gloom relief;

It sprinkles life with loveliest flowers

And plucks the sting from grief.

I'd smile at poverty and pain;

I'd welcome death with glee--

If till the last I might retain

My own--my upper G!

SONGS OF THE SICK ROOM.

NO. 1. COD LIVER OIL.

ON the bleak shore of Norway, I 've lately been told,

Large numbers of cod-fish are found,

And the animals' livers are afterwards sold

At so many "pfennigs" per pound;

From which is extracted, with infinite toil,

A villainous fluid called cod-liver oil!

Now, I don't mind a powder, a pill, or a draught--

Though I mingle the former with jam--

And many's the mixture I've cheerfully quaff'd,

And the pill I have gulp'd like a lamb.

But then I envelop my pills in tin-foil,

And I can't do the same with my cod-liver oil!

In the course of my lifetime I 've swallow'd enough

To have floated a ship of the line,

And it 's purely the fault of this horrible stuff

That I've ceased to enjoy ginger wine.

For how can you wonder to see me recoil

From a liquor I mix'd with my cod-liver oil?

There are few deeds of daring from which I should quail--

There are few things I'd tremble to do--

But there's one kind of tonic that makes me turn pale,

And quite spoils my appetite, too;

But, you see, just at present, I Ve got none to spoil--

So I don't mind alluding to cod-liver oil!

NO. 2. NIGHT AND MORNING.

They brought to my couch (I had not slept a wink,

For brooding all night on my ills)

A neat-looking bottle of something to drink.

And a neat-looking box full of pills.

A neat-looking label attracted my sight,

The neck of the bottle adorning,

Saying, "Please to take two of the pills every night

And a sixth of the draught in the morning."

After slowly perusing these words once or twice,

In a deeply contemplative way,

I exclaim'd, what a volume of useful advice

Does this one little sentence convey!

My friends, though to-day may seem cloudless and bright,

Neglect not to-morrow's dark warning;

And oh! while you 're taking the pills of to-night,

Forget not the draught in the morning!

NO. 3. GENERAL DEBILITY.

My cheeks are pale, mine eyes are weak,

I 've cramp in every joint;

My jaws are toothless, and my beak

Is fractured--near the point.

In youth, by falling from a tree,

I broke my boyish spine;

And never yet did mortal see

Such hideous legs as mine.

In early life my skull was crack'd,

By tumbling down a drain,

And ever since my head is rack'd

With agonising pain.

But though misfortunes thickly come,

This thought consoles my mind--

If I had not been deaf and dumb,

Perhaps I should be blind.

THE COMPACT,

A DARK German legend survives to this

day,

Which relates to a Gottingen student,

Who came by his talent for music, they say,

At a much higher price than was prudent.

I'd rather not mention the bargain he made,--

But his playing was reckon'd so clever

As even to put Doctor Liszt in the shade,

And extinguish Herr Thalberg for ever.

My hero was anxious his rivals should see

How completely he beat them all hollow;

So he sent round his cards for aesthetics and tea,

With some meerschaums and music to follow.

Then round his respected mahogany met

All the wisdom of Gottingen city;

And History mentions that one of the set

_(Not_ a German) was decently witty.

Of course the disputing and noise was immense,

As is always the case with deep thinkers;

But I hear that the tea showed its excellent sense,

By agreeing with most of its drinkers.

Then the music began, and the guests open'd fire,

With fugues, and sonatas, and such-like;

Which are things that we Englishmen don't much admire,

Though they 're just what the Germans and Dutch like.

Our hero stepp'd forth, and his countenance shone

With that mixture of stern resolution

And graceful reserve that a martyr puts on,

When he walks to his own execution.

He turn'd back his cuffs and he put back his hair,

And, after these grave preparations,

Sat down and perform'd an original air,

With a dozen superb variations.

When he fancied his audience was growing more warm,

And the interest rapidly heightening,

He treated the room to an improvised storm,

With abundance of thunder and lightning.

It seemed as if peal after peal rent the sky,

With a rumbling sepulchral and hollow;

And fierce lurid flashes pour'd forth from on high,

With a speed that no mortal could follow.

Of course such a state of affairs could not last,

And the player at length made his mind up,

By a whirlwind of octaves play'd furious and fast,

To bring the display to a wind-up.

He finish'd his piece and look'd modestly round,

Expecting loud cheers and encoring;--

Imagine his utter disgust when he found

Every soul in the company snoring.

He summon'd his tempter in fury, they say,

And accused him of treacherous dealings,

In selling him powers that were quite thrown away,

Amongst wretches who hadn't got feelings.

"Well, I own," said the Fiend, "they are not well-behaved.

But you 're certainly one of the flat sort

If you fancy that Christians who hope to be saved

Would be partial to _music of that sort!_"

THE VISION OF THE ALDERMAN.

AN Alderman sat at his festive board,

Quaffing the blood-red wine,

And many a Bacchanal stave outpour'd

In praise of the fruitful vine.

Turtle and salmon and Strasbourg pie,

Pippins and cheese were there;

And the bibulous Alderman wink'd his

eye,

For the sherris was old and rare.

But a cloud came over his gaze eftsoons,

And his wicked old orbs grew dim;

Then drink turn'd each of the silver spoons

To a couple of spoons for him.

He bow'd his head on the festive board,

By the gaslight's dazzling gleam:

He bow'd his head and he slept and snored,

And he dream'd a fearful dream.

For, carried away on the wings of Sleep,

His spirit was onward borne,

Till he saw vast holiday crowds in Chepe

On a Ninth November morn.

Guns were booming and bells ding-dong'd,

Ethiop minstrels play'd;

And still, wherever the burghers throng'd,

Brisk jongleurs drove their trade.

Scarlet Sheriffs, the City's pride,

With a portly presence fill'd

The whole of the courtyard just outside

The hall of their ancient Guild.

And, in front of the central gateway there,

A marvellous chariot roll'd,

(Like gingerbread at a country-fair

'Twas cover'd with blazing gold.

And a being array'd in pomp and pride

Was brought to the big stone gate;

And they begg'd that being to mount and ride

In that elegant coach of state.

But, oh! he was fat, so ghastly fat

Was that being of pomp and pride,

That, in spite of many attempts thereat,

He couldn't be push'd inside.

That being was press'd, but press'd in vain,

Till the drops bedew'd his cheek;

The gilded vehicle rock'd again,

And the springs began to creak.

The slumbering alderman groan'd a groan,

For in vision he seem'd to trace

Some horrible semblance to his own,

In that being's purple face.

And "Oh!" he cried, as he started up;

"Sooner than come to that,

Farewell for ever the baneful cup

And the noxious turtle fat!"--

They carried him up the winding-stair;

They laid him upon the bed;

And they left him, sleeping the sleep of care,

With an ache in his nightcapp'd head.

EVENING DRESS.

LIKE to spend an evening out

In music and in mirth;

I think a party is about

The finest fun on earth:

And if I rarely patronise

The gay and giddy throng,

'Tis not, my friend, that I despise

The revel, dance, and song:

But I 've a dread I can't express

Of going out in Evening Dress.

I'm partial to the British stage;

And--spite of its decline--

The Drama, from a tender age,

Has been a love of mine.

You ask me why I seldom go,

And why I always sit

In one distinct, unvaried row--

(The second of the pit);

'Tis not because it costs me less,

But all along of Evening Dress.

I hate the habits which denote

The slave to Fashion's rule;

I hate the black, unwieldy coat

Which makes one look a fool.

I execrate the Gibus hat

(Collapsing with a spring),

The shiny boots, the white cravat,

And nearly everything

That's worn by dandies who profess

To be _au fait_ in Evening Dress.

My braces break--a button goes--

My razor gives a slip,

And cuts me either on my nose

Or else upon my lip;

Or, while I'm cabbing to the place,

A lot of mud or dirt

Gets plaster'd either on my face,

Or else upon my shirt.

In fact, I always make a mess

Of that confounded Evening Dress.

WINE.

A Scientific Drinking Song.

GO, bring me the goblet that maddens my soul

Where the sulphate of copper lurks deep in the bowl

Where the saccharine matter tastes richly intense,

And the brain-turning alcohol threatens the sense.

Deleterious acids, I laugh ye to scorn,

For one alkali kills ye, when taken at morn;

And I know that a towel tied wet round my brow,

May demolish the headache that hangs o'er me now.

No matter what vintage--no matter what name--

To the brave Bacchanalian all wines are the same:

For the best of Champagne and the mildest of Cape

Are alike manufactured from juice of the grape.

What matters it whether the North or the South

May have yielded its blood for the epicure's mouth?

What matters it whether the East or the West

May have sent the rich fluid that gladdens this breast?

Amidst Burgundy's hills or the plains of Bordeaux

May the national fruit long continue to grow.

May the art of fermenting improve day by day,

And the vatting take place in its usual way.

And, oh! may the heads of our State persevere

In their efforts to crush the rude stimulant, Beer.

By providing Great Britain the means to import

A superior claret at ninepence a quart!

MY ULTIMATUM.

HO speaks to me of "giving up,"

Or thinks about despairing?

Who says the bitter in his cup

Is bitter past the bearing?

For may I feel the thing to do

(Let Fate be hard or tender)

Is--like _La Garde_ at Waterloo--

To die and not surrender.

What struggles I myself have had;

Escapes how very narrow!

My first affray was with a lad

Who bore a bow and arrow.

If I should ever meet again

That young and old offender,

I see my course before me plain--

To die and not surrender.

In youth I ran a race to snatch

A laurel from Apollo,

Whom very few contrive to catch

Though very many follow.

Amid the throng in search of song--

With bards of either gender--

E'en yet I pant and limp along,

To die and not surrender.

I strove with Plutus day and night,

But left the field in dudgeon;

And now I wage a fiercer fight

With Tempus. old curmudgeon.

Go on, Destroyer; you destroy,

But Art shall be the mender.

"Gray hair?" I 'll get a wig, old boy,

Or _dye_ and not surrender!

ALL ALONE,

A Lay of the Morte Saison,

MY Brown has gone away to Greece?

My Robinson to Rome;

My Jones was off to-day for Nice,

And I am still at home.

One friend is on the Tiber,

Another on the Rhone,

The third a _bock_-imbiber--

And I am all alone.

The Row is dull as dull can be;

Deserted is the Drive;

The glass that stood at eighty-three

Stands now at sixty-five.

The summer days are over;

The town, ah, me! has flown

Through Dover or to clover--

And I am all alone.

I hate the mention of Lucerne,

Of Baden and the Rhine;.

I hate the Oberland of Berne,

And Alp and Apennine.

I hate the wilds of Norway,

As here I sit and moan--

With none to cross my doorway--

For I am all alone.

Brick streets do not a prison make,

Nor hollow squares a cell;

And so for Memory's pleasant sake,

I 'll bear my sorrows well.

My lyre may lose the gladness

That mark'd its former tone;

But, oh! respect my sadness--

For I am all alone.

"OH NIGHTS AND SUPPERS," ETC.

ATE grant us again such a meeting

Of music, and wisdom, and wit--

Where Mirth may make sure of a

greeting,

And Care of a notice to quit.

With our long and yet fast-flying

nights,

And with six clever dogs for a

quorum--

We still may revive the delights

Of our _Noctes conoque deorum._

Long nights, to be long recollected;

Short nights, can I shortly forget,

How punning went mad, and infected

The soberest brains in our set;

How the quips and the cranks running round

Put a stopper to mental decorum;--

How Laughter was monarch, and crown'd

At our _Noctes conoque deorum?_

Not always in lightness, however,

Our nights and our suppers were spent;--

At times we could cease to be clever,

Could speak with a nobler intent.

And an eloquence fresh from the heart

(Not unworthy the Senate or Forum)

Bore often a prominent part

In our _Noctes conoque deorum_.

Our circle was rarely completed

Without one musician at least,

So Melody came to be treated

As welcomest fare at the feast.

From the breathings of Italy's lyre

Up to fugues _à la mode Germanorum,_

We'd plenty to hear and admire

At our _Noctes conoque deorum._

THE WEATHER.