Chapter X: Introduction (3)

Straight across the Big-Sea-Water,
From the Portals of the Sunset,
From the prairies of the Red Men,
Where Suggema, the mosquito.
Makes the aggravated hunter
Scratch himself with awful language;
From the land of Hiawatha,
Land of wigwams, and of wampum,
Land of tomahawks and scalping,
(See the works of J. F. COOPER),
Comes the mighty PAHTAHQUAHONG,
Comes the Chief of the Obijways.
Wot ye well, we'll give him welcome,
After manner of the Pale Face,
Show him all the old world's wonders,
Griffins in the public highways,
Gormandising corporations,
And the Market of Mud-Salad.
Show him, too, the dingy Palace,
And the House of Talkee-Talkee;
Where the Jossakeeds--the prophets--
And the Chieftains raise their voices.
Like Iagoo the great boaster,
With immeasurable gabble,
Talking much and doing little,
Till one wishes they could vanish
To the kingdom of Ponemah--
To the Land of the Hereafter!
We will show him all the glories
Of this land of shams and swindles,
Land of much adulteration,
Dusting tea and sanding sugar,
And of goods not up to sample;
Till disgusted PAHTAHQUAHONG,
Till the Chief of the Obijways,
President of Indian Council,
Missionary swell, and so forth,
Cries, "Oh, let me leave this England,
Land of Bumbledom and Beadles,
Of a thousand Boards and Vestries;
Let me cross the Big-Sea-Water,
With Keewaydin--with the Home Wind,
And go back to the Ojibways!"
_Punch_, March 12, 1881.

* * * * *

A _jeu d'esprit_ somewhat in the nature of _The Rejected Addresses_ has recently been published by Mr. George Dryden, of Lothian Street, Edinburgh. It is entitled "_Rejected Tercentenary Songs_, with the comments of the Committee appended." Edited by Rolus Ray.

It will be remembered that the Edinburgh University has just been celebrating its Tercentenary, and the contents of this amusing little sixpenny pamphlet consist of the Poems supposed to have been sent in, by matriculated students of the University, in competition for a prize of Ten Guineas, offered by the Tercentenary Committee for the best song in honour of the occasion.

It contains numerous Latin and Macaronic verses, a long parody of Walt Whitman, one of Gilbert, and two of Longfellow, which I venture to quote. The first is incomplete:--

"I stood in the quad at midnight,
As the bells were tolling the hour;
And the moon shone o'er the city,
Behind the Tron Kirk tower."

"Among the black stone gables
The ghostly shadows lay;
And the moonbeams from the rising moon,
Falling, made them creep away."

"With weary brain and mind opprest,
I stood in the quad and pondered--"

Here it breaks off abruptly; the other is a very fair parody of the _Song of Hiawatha_, although, of course, some of the allusions are only of local interest. The poem is entitled--

PIAMATER.

_By Alfred Longcove._

Should you ask of what I'm writing,
With the scented smoke of segars
Curling around my weary head,
With the odours of the class-rooms,
And its wild reverberations
Of the many interruptions
Of its bands of many students,
Rankling in my ears and nostrils?
Why my head I scratch so often?
Why I ask my muse to aid me
With her bright poetic fire?
Why I burn the gas at midnight?
Why I have so many books--
Poetry books on prosy subjects,
Books of songs by Burns and Moore,
Ponderous books for words referring,
Webster's Unabridged and Walker's
Poet's Rhyming Dictionary--
Strewed around me on the table?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"'Tis because I am composing
A natal song to Alma Mater."

'Tis thy year, O Alma Mater,
Of thy great Tercentenary.
Time, thy years three hundred measures
With his glass; the mighty Hour-glass
Marks thy seconds, passing quickly,
With grains of sand for e'er falling
Through its glassy neck so slender,
Let us sing to her, O students,
A pæan song of natal greetings,
Let us spread our banquet-tables
In the halls of Edina's town.
Let us drain to her good welfare
Many bottles filled with good wine
From the vineyard of the Loire,
From the Spanish town of Xeres,
From the town of great Oporto,
From the country of the Deutchers,
From the flow'ry land of Champagne;
Let us drain the pewter tankards,
Filled with Bass's bittery beer
And with Dublin's triple X stout;
Let us drain our glassy goblets,
Filled with the wine of Gooseberry,
Filled with clarets made in London,
And with other imitations;
Let us brew the Festive Toddy
From the whisky, great Tanglefeet,
On that morn--her natal morning!
Sons and daughters of old Scotland,
Land of Oatcakes and of Whisky,
Don your costumes made for Sunday;
O ye students of Edina,
Put your "go-to-meetings" on you;
O ye Dons, that festal morning,
Don ye your gowns and mortar boards;
Let the Billirubin warble
One of his impromptu ditties,
Physiologic songs of praise--
Sing the praise of Alma Mater;
Let the great, her mighty surgeon,
Throw his dazzling, lustrous sheen
Of his intellect most massive,
In a speech of his own making,
Stock full of jokes and anecdotes--
Speak the praise of Alma Mater;
Let them all, her swell Professors,
Puff her up above the skies.
From the Gardens to the Meadows,
From the Loch--great Duddingston--
To the station of Haymarket,
From the Place of the Lunatics
To the town of Portobello--
Where the many donkey-riders
Ride along its dirty sands;
Where the fellows go on Sunday
For a walk, and drink the _Ozone_
Wafted round promiscuously;
Where they go to meet their damsels,
And walk with them along the strand--
From Merchiston to Warriston,
Let merry songs of praises ring
On that day, her happy birthday.
Now join with me, ye students all,
Wish her now, your Alma Mater,
Greatest wealth and prosperity.
Hail to thee, O Alma Mater,
School above schools upon this earth!
Hail to thee, thou great Alchemist!
Hail to thee, O Verdant Pasture!
Hail to thee, O Parenchyma!
Hail to thee, thou Grecian Pet!
Hail to thee, the great Kail Runter!
Hail to thee, O Billirubin!
Hail to thee, O Wells of Water!
Hail to thee, the Kitchen Surgeon!
Hail to thee, thou Man of Physic!
Hail to thee, thou Just Lawgiver!
Hail to thee, the great Drug Speaker!
Hail to thee, her Story-teller!
Hail to thee, the great Dissector!
Hail to thee, O Damsonjamer!
Hail to thee, her Organ Grinder!
Hail to thee, thou Fossilfeller!
Hail to thee, O Afterglower!
Hail to thee, the Celtic Chairer!
Hail to thee, O Wandering Jew!
Hail to thee, the Magna Charta!
Hail to thee, O great Kirkpaddy!
Hail to thee, Cephalic Mewer!
Hail to thee, no Small Pertater!
Hail to thee, the great Schoolboarder!
Hail to thee, her Comet-gazer!
Hail to thee, the Soda-fountain!
Hail to thee, thou Cubic Crystal!
Hail to thee, O Science Gossip!
Hail to thee, the Engine-Driver!
Hail to thee, thou great Darwiner!
Hail to thee, the Eye-restorer!
Hail to thee, O great Lunatic!
Hail to thee, her long Gatekeeper!
Hail to ye, her famous Children!
Hail to ye, O Students' Council!
Hail to ye, her many Students!
Hail to me, her Song Composer!
Hail to ye, all her Children, Friends,
And Near Relations, on that day!
All hail to our Alma Mater
On her natal morn be given!!![5]

* * * * *

The author of _The Dagonet Ballads_ has produced so many pathetic poems, descriptive of the terrible miseries of our London poor, that one is rather apt to overlook the humorous poetry proceeding from the same pen. But, like all true masters of pathos, this poet of the people has the power to summon up smiles through our tears. It was well said of Tom Hood "that the blending of the grave with the gay which pervaded his writings, makes it no easy task to class his poems under the heads of 'serious' and 'comic.'" This remark applies with equal force to the poems of George R. Sims, and were it possible to anticipate the verdict of posterity we might expect to find the names of Hood and Sims classed together; indeed, so far as practical results are concerned, the philanthropical efforts of the younger poet are likely far to exceed anything that was achieved by the author of _The Bridge of Sighs_ and _The Song of the Shirt_.

But this is not the place to consider Mr. Sims' position as a serious writer, although, indeed, even the following poem has a moral:--

A PLUMBER.

(_An Episode of a rapid Thaw._)

The dirty snow was thawing fast,
As through the London streets there passed
A youth, who, mid snow, slush, and ice,
Exclaimed, "I don't care what's the price--
A Plumber!"

His brow looked mad, his eye beneath
Was fixed and fierce--he clenched his teeth,
While here and there a bell he rung,
But found not all the shops among
A Plumber.

He saw his home, he saw the light
Wall-paper sopped--a gruesome sight.
He saw his dining-room afloat,
He cried, "I'll give a fi' pun note--
A Plumber!"

"O stop the leak!" his wife had said;
"The ceiling's cracking overhead.
The roaring torrent's deep and wide"--
"I'll go and fetch," he had replied,
"A Plumber."

"Pa ain't at home," the maiden said,
When to the plumber's house he sped.
He searched through London low and high,
But nowhere could he catch or spy
A Plumber.

Next morn, a Peeler on his round,
A mud-bespattered trav'ller found,
Who grasped the "Guide to Camden Town"
With hand of ice--the page turned down
At "Plumbers."

They brought a parson to his side,
He gently murmured ere he died--
"My house has floated out to sea,
I am not mad--it's not d. t.--
It's Plumbers."

This parody is to be found in a small volume entitled _The Lifeboat and other Poems_, by George R. Sims (John P. Fuller, Wine Office Court, London, 1883).

By the author's kind permission I am also enabled to quote the very funny, although slightly incoherent, remarks of--

THE POETS ON THE MARRIAGE WITH A DECEASED WIFE'S SISTER BILL.

It comes as a boon and a blessing to men
When your missus as was disappears from your ken.

ANONYMOUS.

When from the wife you get a parting benison, Her sister will
console you--

ALFRED TENNYSON.

When weary, worn, and nigh distraught with grief,
You mourn Maria in your handkerchief,
Rush, rush to Aunty, and obtain relief.

AN F.S.A. OF OVER 100 YEARS.

Beneath the spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands--
With Mrs. Smith it's all U P,
She's gone to other lands.
But he goes on Sunday to the church,
And hears her sister's voice;
He leaves his scruples in the lurch,
And she makes his heart rejoice.
The morning sees his suit commenced,
The evening sees it done--
Next day the Parson ties the knot,
And Pa and Aunt are one.

LONGFELLOW.

O blood-bitten lip all aflame,
O Dolores and also Faustine,
O aunts of the world worried shame,
Lo your hair with its amorous sheen,
Meshes man in its tangles of gold;
O aunts of the tremulous thrill,
We are pining--we long to enfold
The Deceased Wife's Fair Relative Bill.

SWINBURNE.

Although the above lines were written several years ago, they may be appropriately quoted now that the House of Commons has once again carried, and by a large majority, a resolution in favour of the repeal of the law prohibiting marriage with a deceased wife's sister.

(In a division in the House of Commons on May 6, 1884, Mr. Broadhurst's motion was carried by 238 to 127, or a majority of 111 in favour of the repeal.)

* * * * *

DYSPEPSIA.

The dinner hour had come at last,
The evening sun was sinking fast;
I sat me down in sorry mood,
And darkly look'd upon the food.
Dyspepsia!

My happy comrades' bright eyes beam'd,
And o'er the steaming _potage_ gleam'd;
Alas! not mine to find relief
In whitebait's flavour bright and brief.
Dyspepsia!

"Try not the duck," my conscience said;
'Twill lie upon your chest like lead;
Delusion all, that bird so fair;
The sage and onions are a snare.
Dyspepsia!

"Oh, taste!" our hostess cried, and press'd
A portion of a chicken's breast;
I view'd the fowl with longing eye,
Then answer'd sadly, with a sigh,
Dyspepsia!

I mark'd with fix'd and stony glare
A brace of pheasants and a hare;
A tear stood in my bilious eye,
When helping friends to pigeon-pie.
Dyspepsia!

"Beware the celery, if you please;
Beware the awful Stilton cheese."
This was the doctor's last good-night;
I answered feebly, turning white,
"Dyspepsia!"

The scarcely-tasted dinner done,
Old Port and walnuts next came on;
I kept my mouth all closely shut;
But how I long'd for just one nut!
Dyspepsia!

Some nuts I had, at early day,
(Morn was just breaking cold and grey),
I, starting up, with loud ha! ha!
Felt falling, like a falling star.
Dyspepsia!

_The Mocking Bird_, by Frederick Field (John Van Voorst, London, 1868.)

THE FATE OF THE WINTER RIDER.

(_By a young lady aged fourteen_).

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through a lonely village passed
A youth, who rode 'mid snow and ice
A two-wheeled thing of strange device--
A Bicycle.

His brow was sad, his eye below
Flashed like his bicycle's steel glow,
While like a silver clarion rung
A bell, which on the handle hung--
Of the Bicycle.

In cosy sheds he saw the light
Of bicycles well cleaned and bright;
Along the road deep ruts had grown,
And from his lips escaped a moan--
"My Bicycle!"

"Try not that road," the old man said,
"'Tis full of holes, you'll break your head;
The farm pond, too, is deep and wide;"
But loud the bicyclist replied,
"Rot! Bicycle!"

"Beware the oak-tree's withered arm,
Beware the holes, they'll do you harm!"
This was the peasant's last good-night;
A voice replied, "Don't fear, all right--
Vive Bicycles!"

At break of day, as in a brook
A passenger did chance to look,
He started back, what saw he there?
His voice cried through the startled air,
"A Bicycle!"

A bicyclist, upon the ground,
Half buried in the dirt, was found
Still hugging, in his arms of ice,
That two-wheeled thing of strange device,
The Bicycle.

There in the twilight cold and grey,
Helpless, but struggling, he lay,
While, now no longer bright and fair,
His bicycle lay broken there--
Poor Bicycle!

_Whizz;_ the Christmas number of _The Bicycling Times_, 1880.

* * * * *

THE SETTLER'S VERSION OF EXCELSIOR.

The shades of night were a coming down swift,
Upidee, Upida.
The snow was heapin' up, drift on drift,
Upidee, Upida.
Through a Yankee village a youth did go,
Carrying a flag with this motto--
"Upidee, Upida."

On his high forehead curled copious hair,
He'd a Roman nose, and complexion fair,
A bright blue eye, with an auburn lash,
And he ever kep' a shoutin' thro' his moustache,
Upidee, Upida!

About half-past nine, as he kep' gettin' upper
He saw a lot of families a sitting down to supper;
He eyed those slippery rocks, he eyed 'em very keen
And he fled as he cried, and he cried as he was fleein'--
"Upidee, Upida."

"Oh take care," cried an old man, "stop;
It's blowing gales up there on top;
You'll be blown right off the other side,"
But the humorous stranger still replied,
"Upidee, Upida."

"Beware the branch of the sycamore tree,
And rolling stones, if any you see;"
Just then the farmer went to bed,
And a singular voice replied overhead,
"Upidee, Upida."

"Oh, stay!" the maiden said, "and rest,
Your weary head upon this breast."
On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,
As he ever kep' a shoutin' as he upward clum,
"Upidee, Upida!"

About a quarter to six in the next forenoon
A man accidentally going up too soon
Heard repeated above him, as much as twice,
Those very same words, in a very weak voice,
"Upidee, Upida."

The very same man about a quarter to seven
(He was slow a-gettin' up, the road being uneven),
Found buried up there, among the snow and ice,
That youth with the banner with the strange device,
"Upidee, Upida."

He was dead, defunct, beyond any doubt,
The lamp of his life was quite gone out,
On the dreary hill-side the youth was a layin',
There was no more use for him to be sayin',
"Upidee, Upida!"

* * * * *

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through the streets of London passed
A party with a packet nice,
On which was seen the strange device--
_Exitium_.

"Hi, stay!" the Bobby cried, "you man."
Says he, "You'll catch me if you can."
Three rapid strides, and he was gone;
From Bobby's lips escaped a groan--
_Exitium_.

At break of day, as in a fright,
The Bobbies came from left and right,
Each murmured, starting in a scare;
A crash resounded through the air--
_Exitium_.

There in the twilight cold and grey--
In ruins stately buildings lay,
And o'er the land the news is spread:
"Another Fenian escapade!"
_Exitium_.

_Scraps_, 14 May, 1884.

* * * * *

Use not the coke, the old man said,
The stove must be by small coal fed.
The heap of slack is deep and wide,
But still their saucy voices cried,
Don't bother us!

_Printer's Devil_, Northampton, 1884.

WHAT IS IN AN AIM.

(_After "The Bridge."_)

I went to bed at eleven,
At the sign of the Azure Boar,
And I knew that my room was seven,
For I'd seen it upon the door.

With a flickering, flaring candle,
That glimmered like sickly Hope,
I found out my way to the handle,
And I flung the portal ope,

When a gentleman--not to _my_ thinking--
Was placed in the door upright;
It was evident he had been drinking,
For he hiccuped out in the night;

And he spoke in a language mighty,
That rang through the chill and gloom;
And he asked me, "Highty-tighty,"
"What the deuce do you do in my room?"

And never of warning mildly
A word had the stranger said,
Ere he took up a bootjack wildly,
And hurled it at my head;

And down with a noise and clatter
It fell o'er the winding stair,
And some one cried, "What's the matter?"
And I said, "I am not aware!"

And whenever I feel dyspeptic,
And whenever my soul's unwell,
And whenever I've got lumbago,
And whenever my eyelids swell,

I see the man with the bootjack,
He swears as he used to swear,
And I hear the implement falling
And clattering down the stair;

And I say to myself at twilight,
A vindictive person's a brute;
I'd rather have been on the skylight
Than down at the staircase foot!

For whatever evil you suffer,
The words of the sage rehearse,
"Though things may be bad, you duffer,
They might be a good deal worse."

_The Story of a Railway Tavern_, by Professor Long, Fellow of the Learned Societies, contained in _Vere Vereker's Vengeance_, by Thomas Hood, 1865.

* * * * *

Reference was made, on page 80, to Edmund H. Yates's parody on _Evangeline_, it is to be found in "Mirth and Metre," by F. E. Smedley and E. H. Yates, 1855.

It commences thus:--

PICNIC-ALINE.

These are the green woods of Cliefden. The glorious oaks and the
chestnuts
All appertain to the Duke, whose residence stands in the distance--
Stands like a toyhouse of childhood, besprinkled all over with
windows--
Stands like a pudding at Christmas, a white surface, dotted with
black things.
Loud from the neighbouring river, the deep voiced clamorous bargée
Roars, and in accents opprobrious holloas to have the lock opened.
These are the green woods of Cliefden. But where are the people who
in them
Laughed like a man when he lists to the breath-catching accents of
Buckstone?
Where are the wondrous white waistcoats, the flimsy baréges and
muslins,
Worn by the swells and the ladies who came here on pleasant excursions?
Gone are those light-hearted people, flirtations, perhaps love--even
marriage,
All have had woeful effect since Mrs. Merillian's picnic;
And of that great merry-making, some bottles in tinfoil enveloped,
And a glove dropped by Jane Page, are the vestiges only remaining!
Ye who take pleasure in picnics, and dote on excursions aquatic,
Flying the smoke of the city, vexations and troubles of business,
List to a joyous tradition of one which was once held at Cliefden--
List to a tale of cold chicken, champagne, bitter beer, lobster salad!

EDMUND H. YATES.

* * * * *

TOWN AND GOWN.

Brightly blazed up the fires through the long dark days of November,
Glimmered the genial lamp in the wainscoted rooms of the College,
Brightest of all in the rooms of De Whyskers, "the talented drinker."
Thence came the festive song, and the clink of the bottles and glasses,
Thence came the chorus loud, abhorred of the Dean and the Fellows.
There sat De Whyskers the jolly, the drinker of curious liquors,
There sat De Jones, and De Jenkyns, stroke oar of the Boniface Torpid;
There too, De Brown, and De Smith, well known to the eyes of the
Proctors,
Heedless of numberless ticks, and the schools, and a "plough" _in
futuro_,
Sat by the ruddy-faced fire, and quaffed the bright vintage of Xeres.
Merrily out to the night through the fogs and the mist of November
Floated the breath of the weed through the fields of the dark Empyrean,
Rose the melodious sounds of the "dogs" which are known as "the jolly,"
"Slapping" and "banging" along through that noisy and meaningless
ditty.
But silence! the welkin now rings (whatever the meaning of that is),
A rumour of battle is heard, and the wine and the weeds are deserted.
Out to the darkling High, where the cad and the commoner struggle,
Out to the noise, and the din, and the crowd of the unwashed mechanics,
Went forth De Whyskers the bold, brimfull of the valour of Holland,
Flashed both his eyes in the dark with a gleam that was quite meteoric,
As flashes the pheasant's tail when he hears the first gun in October.
Now with a yell and a spring the cads came up to the onset,
Cursing and swearing amain, and throwing their arms out like thunder.
Stopping before All Saints' the hideous work of Dean Aldrich,
Stopping De Whyskers made emphatic the sign for the battle,
Thereon he let fall a blow swift like an armourer's hammer,
Down on his face fell a cad as falls an oak on the mountains,
Forth from his nose came "the red" as oft in the vintage the dresser
Squeezes the blushing grape on the plains of Estremadura.
Now from the end of the High a rush of the cads overwhelming
Sweeps as the sea sweeps on in the long dark nights of the winter,
Howling as howl the wolves through the snow in the forests of Sweden;
Blow after blow is struck, as the flakes come down in the snowstorm.
Now from the Turl to the Broad, and St. Giles's, abode of the peaceful,
Even to Worcester the slow, or _Botany Bay_, as they call it,
Down by Trinity Gates, and Balliol beloved of the scholar,
Down by the temple of Tom, whence the Curfew rings in the gloaming
Thundered the fray till the rain came down on the scene as a damper.

_College Rhymes_ (T. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford, 1865.)

The great "Town and Gown" rows that used to occur annually on the Fifth of November, between the undergraduates and the townspeople, have been gradually dying out, but the memory of them still lingers in many old College Rhymes and traditions. They are most vividly described in _Verdant Green, an Oxford Freshman_, a light-hearted clever little work, by the Rev. E. Bradley, Rector of Lenton, better known under his pseudonym of Cuthbert Bede. Mr. Bradley, although himself a Cambridge man, was intimately acquainted with Oxford.

* * * * *

A VOICE FROM THE FAR WEST,

_Hailing the Centenary Birthday of Burns_.

Happy thy name, O BURNS! for burns, in thy native Doric,
Meaneth the free bright streams, exhaustless, pellucid, and sparkling,
Mountain-born, wild and erratic, kissing the flow'rets in passing,
Type of thy verse and thyself--loving and musical ever;
And the streams by thy verse made immortal are known by our giant
rivers,
Where the emigrants sing them to soothe the yearnings for home in
their bosoms,
And the Coila and gentle Doon, by the song of the Celtic wanderer,
Are known to the whispering reeds that border the great Mississippi.
Thou wert the lad for the lasses! lasses the same are as misses;
And here we have misses had pleased you--Missouri and the Mississippi.
And "green grow the rushes" beside them--as thy evergreen chorus would
have them.
Thou wert the champion of freedom!--Thou didst rejoice in our glory!
When we at Bunker's Hill no bunkum display'd, but true courage!
Jubilant thou wert in our Declaration of Independence!
More a Republican thou than a chain-hugging bow-and-scrape Royalist!
Even the Stars and the Stripes seem appointed the flag of thy
destiny;--
The stars are the types of thy glory, the stripes thou didst get
from Misfortune.

_Rival Rhymes, in honour of Burns_. Edited by Ben Trovato (Routledge, Warnes & Routledge. London, 1859.)

* * * * *

There are several excellent parodies in _Lays of the Saintly_, amongst them the following, which is given here as it is also in the style of Longfellow's _Evangeline:_--

SISTER BEATRICE (A.D. uncertain).

This is the metre Columbian. The soft-flowing trochees and dactyls,
Blended with fragments spondaic, and here and there an iambus,
Syllables often sixteen, or more or less, as it happens,
Difficult always to scan, and depending greatly on accent,
Being a close imitation, in English, of Latin hexameters--
Fluent in sound, and avoiding the stiffness of commoner blank verse,
Having the grandeur and flow of America's mountains and rivers,
Such as no bard could achieve in a mean little island like England;
Oft, at the end of a line, the sentence dividing abruptly
Breaks, and in accents mellifluous follows the thoughts of the author.

I.

In the old miracle days, in Rome the abode of the saintly,
To and fro in a room of her sacred conventual dwelling,
Clad in garments of serge, with a veil in the style of her Order,
Mass-book and rosary too, with a bunch of keys at her girdle,
Walk'd, with a pensive air, Beatrice the Carmelite sister.
Fair of aspect was she, but a trifle vivacious and worldly,
And not altogether cut out for a life of devout contemplation.
More of freedom already had she than the rest of the sisters,
For hers was the duty to ope the gates of the convent, and take in
Messages, parcels, _et cetera_, from those who came to the wicket.
Ever and often she paused to gaze on the face of Our Lady,
Limn'd in a picture above by some old pre-Raphaelite Master;
Then would she say to herself (because there was none else to talk to),
"Why should I thus be immured, when people outside are enjoying
Thousands of sights and scenes, while I'm not allowed to behold them,
Thousands of joys and of changes, while I am joyless and changeless?
No, I can bear it no longer. I'll hasten away from the Convent:
Now is the time, for all's quiet; there's no one to see or to catch
me."
So resolving at length, she took off her habit monastic,
And promptly array'd herself in smuggled secular garments;
Then on the kneeling-desk she laid down the keys, in a safeplace,
Where some one or other, or somebody else, would certainly find them.
"Take thou charge of these keys, blest Mother," then murmured Beatrice,
"And guard all the nuns in this holy but insupportable building."
And as she spoke these words, the eyes of the picture were fasten'd
With mournful expression upon her, and tears could be seen on the
canvas;
Little she heeded, however, her thoughts had played truant before her,
Then stole she out of the portal, and never once looking behind her,
Wrapp'd in an ample cloak, and further concealed by the darkness,
Out through the streets of the city Beatrice quickly skedaddled.

II

Out in the world went Beatrice, her cell was left dark and deserted;
Scarce had she gone, when lo! with wonderment be it related--
Down from her canvas and frame, there stepp'd the blessed Madonna,
Took up the keys and the raiment Beatrice had quitted, and wore them,
Also assuming the face and figure of her who was absent;
Became in appearance a nun, so that none could discover the difference.
Save that the sisters agreed that Beatrice the portress was growing
Better and better, as one who aspired to canonization;
Daily abounding in grace, a pattern to all in the convent;
Till it would not have surprised them to see a celestial halo
Gather around her head, and pinions spring from her shoulders,
That, when too good for this world, she might fly away to a better.
Her post was below her deserts, and so by promotion they made her
Mistress of all the novices seeking religious instruction.
Such was her great success in that tender and beautiful office,
Her pupils all bloomed into saints, and some of the very first water.

III.

Many a day had pass'd since Beatrice escaped from the convent,
Much had she seen of the world, and its wickedness greatly distress'd
her;
Oft she repented her act, and long'd to return, yet she dared not;
Oft was determined to go, still she "stood on the order of going."
Thus it at last occurr'd that her convent's secular agent
Entered one day, in the house where the truant sister was staying,
But changed as she was in appearance, he did not know her from Adam;
Whilst he in his clerical garb was to her a familiar figure.
"Now I shall learn," thought she, "what they say of my flight and
my absence."
And so she eagerly asked of the nuns and of sister Beatrice,
As of a friend she had known when living near to the convent.
"Truly," the factor replied, "She is still the pride of our sisters,
Favourite too of the abbess, and worthy of all our affection.
Would there were more of her kind in _some_ houses monastic I know of,"
Puzzled and rather distress'd, then answer'd the truant _religieuse_,
"She whom I speak of, alas! was less of a saint than a sinner,
She fled from the veil and the cell, so surely you speak of another?"
"Not in the least, my child," the secular agent responded;
"Sister Beatrice, the saint-like, did _not_ run away from the cloister,
Mistress is she of the novices. Why should she go? Stuff and nonsense!"
"What can it mean?" thought Beatrice, "and who is my double and
namesake?"
So when the agent was gone, resolved she would settle the question,
Off to the convent she went, and knocked at the portal familiar,
Ask'd for the sister Beatrice, was shown to the parlour and found a
Counterpart of herself, as she was in her days of seclusion.
Down on her knees went Beatrice--the why and the wherefore she knew
not.
"Welcome, my daughter, again," said her double, the blessed Madonna;
"Now I restore you your keys, your robe, and your other belongings,
Adding the excellent name and promotion I've won in your likeness;
Be you a nun as before, but more pious; farewell, take my blessing."
Speaking, she melted away in the holy pre-Raphaelite picture.
Again was Beatrice "herself," like Richard the third, _à la_
Shakespeare,
Growing in grace from that day, and winning the glory of Saintship;
While each of the pupils she taught, went to heaven as surely as
_she_ did.

* * * * *

Such is the metre Columbian, but where is the bard who devised it?
Tenderest he of the poets who wrote in the tongue of (New) England,
Where the minstrel who sang of "Evangeline," also "Miles Standish?"
Alas! he will never again pour forth his effusions pathetic,
But his name and his fame endure, and this characteristic measure
In honour of him I adopt, without any thought of burlesquing.
Thus on the ear its cadence, like sounds from the labouring ocean,
Breaks, and in accents mellifluous follows the thoughts of the author.

_Lays of the Saintly_, by Walter Parke (Vizetelly & Co.), London, 1882.

Charles Wolfe.

The Reverend Charles Wolfe, who was born in Dublin in 1791, has earned literary immortality by one short poem, and that copied with considerable closeness from a prose account of the incident to which it refers. Reading in the _Edinburgh Annual Register_ a description of the death and burial of Sir John Moore, the young poet turned it into verse with such sublime pathos, such taste and skill, that his poem has obtained imperishable fame in our literature.

Mr. Wolfe also produced a few other poems of unquestionable grace and pathos, but nothing approaching the beauty of his immortal ode. He was, for a time, curate of Ballyclog, in Tyrone, and afterwards of Donoughmore. His arduous duties in a large, wild, and very scattered parish left him little leisure to cultivate the muses, and soon told on his delicate constitution. He died of consumption on 21st February, 1823, at the early age of 32, and thus the assertion of his detractors that he produced nothing else of sufficient merit to show that he could have written the ode in question, may be easily met by the two pleas--firstly, that he had other duties to perform; and, secondly, that his career was too brief to admit of many, or great, performances.

The battle of Corunna was fought on January 16, 1809, by the British army, about 15,000 strong, under Sir John Moore, against a force of about 20,000 Frenchmen.

The British troops had just safely accomplished a retreat to the coast in the face of a superior force, and were on the point of embarking, when the French attacked; the enemy was repulsed, but the British loss was very great, and Sir John Moore, who was struck on the left shoulder by a cannon ball, died, much lamented by his troops. His body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna, and a grave was dug for him on the ramparts by a party of the 9th Regiment. No coffin could be procured, and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The interment was hastened, for firing was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious attack were made, they should be ordered away, and not allowed to pay him their last duty. The embarkation of the troops took place next day, under the command of Sir David Baird, who had also been wounded in the fight.

The following is what Lord Byron correctly termed, "The most perfect Ode in the language":--

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

'The following lines were written by a Student of Trinity College,
on reading the affecting account of the Burial of Sir John Moore, in
the _Edinburgh Annual Register_':--

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning.
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him--
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone--
But we left him alone with his glory!

The ode was first published in _Currick's Morning Post_ (Ireland) in 1815, with the signature "W. C.," and the Rev. J. A. Russell, in his "Remains of C. Wolfe" (London, 1829), states that a letter is preserved in the Royal Irish Academy, addressed by the Rev. C. Wolfe to John Taylor, Esq., at the Rev. Mr. Armstrong's Clononty, Cashel, in which he says:--"I have completed the 'Burial of Sir John Moore,' and will here inflict it upon you." This letter bears the post mark "September 9, 1816."

Yet although the poem was quickly copied into all the newspapers, and at once became widely popular, its authorship long remained the subject of controversy. By some it was ascribed to Lord Byron, whilst Shelley was inclined to name Thomas Campbell as its author. In 1841, long after the death of Wolfe, it was dishonestly claimed by a Scotch teacher, Mr. Macintosh, who ungenerously sought to pluck the laurel from the grave of its owner.

The friends of Wolfe came forward, and established his right to the poem; the impostor was compelled to withdraw his claim, and apologise for his misconduct.

Of the numerous claims to the authorship of these lines the most striking was that advanced by the Rev. Francis Mahony ("Father Prout") in "Bentley's Miscellany," Vol. 1, p. 96, 1837:--

"The Rev. Mr. Wolfe is _supposed_ to be the author of a single
poem, unparalleled in the English language for all the qualities
of a true lyric, breathing the purest spirit of the antique, and
setting criticism completely at defiance. I say _supposed_, for the
gentleman himself never claimed its authorship during his short and
unobtrusive lifetime. He who could write the "Funeral of Sir John
Moore" must have eclipsed all the lyric poets of this latter age by
the fervour and brilliancy of his powers. Do the other writings of
Mr. Wolfe bear any trace of inspiration? None.

"I fear we must look elsewhere for the origin of those beautiful
lines; and I think I can put the public on the right scent. In
1749, Colonel de Beaumanoir, a native of Brittany, having raised
a regiment in his own neighbourhood, went out with it to India,
in that unfortunate expedition, commanded by Lally-Tolendal, the
failure of which eventually lost to the French their possessions in
Hindostan. The colonel was killed in defending against the forces
of Coote, PONDICHERRY, the last stronghold of the French in that
hemisphere.

"He was buried that night on the north bastion of the fortress
by a few faithful followers, and the next day the fleet sailed
with the remainder of the garrison for Europe. In the appendix to
the "Memoirs of LALLY-TOLENDAL" by his son, the following lines
occur, which bear some resemblance to those attributed to Wolfe.
Perhaps Wolfe Tone may have communicated them to his relative, the
clergyman, on his return from France. _Fides sit penes lectorem._"

PADRE PROUT.

LES FUNÉRAILLES DE BEAUMANOIR.

(_The Original of "Not a drum was heard_.")

I.

Ni le son du tambour ... ni la marche funèbre ...
Ni le feu des soldats ... ne marqua son départ.
Mais du BRAVE, à la hâte, à travers les ténèbres,
Mornes ... nous portâmes le cadavre au rempart!

II.

De minuit c'était l'heure, et solitaire et sombre--
La lune à peine offrait un débile-rayon:
La lanterne luisait péniblement dans l'ombre,
Quand de la bayonnette on creusa le gazon.

III.

D'inutile cercueil ni de drap funéraire
Nous ne daignâmes point entourer le HEROS;
Il gisait dans les plis du manteau militaire
Comme un guerrier qui dort son heure de repos.

IV.

La prière qu'on fit fut de courte durée:
Nul ne parla de deuil, bien que le cœur fut plein!
Mais on fixait du MORT la figure adorée ...
Mais avec amertume on songeait au demain.

V.

Au demain! quand ici ou sa fosse s'apprête,
Ou son humide lit on dresse avec sanglots,
L'ennemi orgueilleux marchera sur sa tête,
Et nous, ses vétérans, serons loin sur les flots!

VI.

Ils terniront sa gloire ... on pourra les entendre
Nommer l'illustre MORT d'un ton amer ... ou fol;
Il les laissera dire.--Eh! qu'importe A SA CENDRE,
Que la main d'un BRETON a confiée au sol?

VII.

L'œuvre durait encore, quand retentit la cloche
Au sommet du Befroi:--et le canon lointain,
Tiré par intervalle, en annonçant l'approche,
Signalait la fierté de l'ennemi hautain.

VIII.

Et dans sa fosse alors le mîmes lentement ...
Près du champ où sa gloire a été consommée:
Ne mîmes à l'endroit pierre ni monument
Le laissant seul à seul avec sa Renommée!

This "Father Prout," whom Mr. G. A. Sala terms "the wittiest pedant, the most pedantic wit, and the oddest fish he ever met with," was well known as an inveterate jester, as well as an accomplished linguist, so that the above effusion did not deceive his associates, especially as the documents referred to in it, as evidence, had no existence save in the fertile brain of "Father Prout."

In the recent edition of the "Maclise Portrait Gallery," by Mr. William Bates, M.A. (Chatto and Windus, 1883), is an interesting biography of this eccentric genius, in which will be found all that is known about his French imitation of Wolfe's Ode. Mr. Bates truly remarks that, notwithstanding Padre Prout's skill in French versification, there are internal evidences that the poem was not written by a Frenchman, and further that it has the unmistakable air of a translation. Unfortunately, however, the mischief was done, and what Mahony may have intended for a harmless pleasantry, has raised a literary controversy of wide dimensions. His verses were copied into serious French journals, and many well-informed foreigners believe the lines to have originated from a French source. Thus M. Octave Delepierre, in his _Essai sur la Parodie_ (Trübner and Co., London, 1870), seems to have been entirely misled by the hoax. He gives part of the French version, and whilst stating that it is not a settled point, which was first written, he does not mention Father Prout's article, and seems entirely ignorant of the fictitious and humorous origin of the French imitation.

Singularly enough, _The Athenæum_, of July 1, 1871, in reviewing M. Delepierre's work, fell into the same error, and seriously argued against the French claim, forgetting all about Father Prout.

M. Delepierre's statement is (_Essai sur la Parodie_, p. 163):--"Lorsqu'elle fut publiée en 1824, elle parut assez belle pour que le Capitaine Medwin suggérat qu'elle était due à la muse de _Byron_. Sydney Taylor réfuta cette supposition, et restitua l'ode à son véritable auteur, le _Rev. Charles Wolfe_."

"Ce n'est pas seulement en Angleterre qu'on a discuté la paternité de cette ode célèbre. On trouve à ce sujet toute une discussion littéraire dans le journal _L'Intermédiare des Chercheurs et Curieux_, 5ᵋ année, page 693, et 6ᵋ année, pages 19 et 106."

"D'après ces détails, il paraîtrait que cette pièce n'est que la traduction d'une ode Française, composée à l'occasion de la mort du Comte de Beaumanoir, tué en 1749, à la défense de Pondichery. L'une de ces deux odes est évidemment une traduction de l'autre; mais quel est l'original?"

The following is the note in the _Intermédiare_, to which M. Delepierre refers:--

"The well-known verses on the death of Sir John Moore, attributed
to the Rev. Charles Wolfe, but never acknowledged by him, are
so similar to the above, that it is supposed Mr. Wolfe may have
received the French stanzas from his relative, Mr. Wolfe Tone, after
his return from France."

The best answer to which is, that the French have never yet produced a genuine and authentic copy of the original version, of a date earlier than that of Wolfe.

The ode has been translated into German (by the Rev. E. C. Hawtrey); into Latin Elegiacs (by the Rev. J. Hildyard); and there is a Greek translation of it "By a Scottish Physician" in the _Arundines Devæ_ (Edinburgh, 1853); there is also a parody of it by the late Mr. J. H. Dixon, which is highly spoken of, but, up till now, this has eluded the editor's researches.

The Rev. R. H. Barham's well known parody in "The Ingoldsby Legends" is especially notable for its close imitation of the original; thus not only is the metre closely followed, but nearly all the lines are made to end with similar rhymes to those in the original.

Barham had a good excuse for this comical effusion, in the wish to expose and ridicule the pretensions of a certain _soi-disant_ "Doctor," a Durham veterinary surgeon of the name of Marshall, on whose behalf a claim had been made, in 1824, for the authorship of the "Ode." But this was afterwards said to have been a mere hoax, as this Marshall was more remarkable for convivial, than literary tastes.

Note.--In the autumn of 1824, Captain Medwin having hinted that
certain beautiful lines on the burial of this gallant officer might
have been the production of Lord Byron's muse, the late Mr. Sydney
Taylor, somewhat indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner,
the late Rev. Charles Wolfe. During the controversy a third claimant
started up in the person of a _soi-disant_ "Doctor Marshall," who
turned out to be a Durham blacksmith, and his pretensions a hoax.
It was then that a certain "Doctor Peppercorn" put forth _his_
pretensions to what he averred was the only "true and original"
version, viz.:--

Not a _sous_ had he got, not a guinea or note,
And he looked confoundedly flurried,
As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the Landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the Club returning,
We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light
Of the gas lamp brilliantly burning.

All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,
Reclined in the gutter we found him,
And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,
With his _Marshall_ cloak around him.

"The Doctor's as drunk as the d----," we said,
And we managed a shutter to borrow;
We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head
Would consumedly ache on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed,
And we told his wife and his daughter
To give him, next morning, a couple of red
Herrings, with soda water.

Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone,
And his Lady began to upbraid him;
But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on
'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.

We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done,
When, beneath the window calling,
We heard the rough voice of a son-of-a-gun
Of a watchman, "One o'clock," bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down
From his room in the uppermost story;
A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,
And we left him alone in his glory.

Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.--_Virgil._
I wrote the verses, * * claimed them--he told stories.

_Thomas Ingoldsby._

* * * * *

The following parody is copied literally from an old ballad sheet in the British Museum, bearing the imprint:--"Printed and sold by J. Pitts, 6 Great St. Andrew Street, Seven Dials." No date is given, but that it was prior to 1830 is shown by the reference to the "Charleys," a nick-name for the old London watchmen, who were superseded by the new police towards the end of 1829. But the crimes of Body-snatching, and "Burking," were not finally put a stop to until, by the act of 1832, provision was made for the wants of surgeons by permitting, under certain regulations, the dissection of persons dying in workhouses, etc.:--

Not a trap was heard, or a Charley's note
As our course to the churchyard we hurried,
Not a pigman discharg'd a pistol shot
As a corpse from the grave we unburied.

We nibbled it slily at dead of night,
The sod with our pick-axes turning,
By the nosing moonbeam's chaffing light,
And our lanterns so queerly burning.

Few and short were the words we said,
And we felt not a bit of sorrow,
But we rubb'd with rouge the face of the dead
And we thought of the spoil for to-morrow.

The useless shroud we tore from his breast
And then in regimentals bound him,
And he looked like a swoddy taking his rest,
With his lobster togs around him.

We thought as we fill'd up his narrow bed,
Our snatching trick now no look sees;
But the bulk and the sexton will find him fled,
And we far away towards Brooks's.

Largely they'll cheek 'bout the body that's gone
And poor Doctor Brooks will upbraid him;
But nothing we care if they leave him alone
In a place where a snatcher has laid him.

But half of our snatching job was o'er,
When a pal tipt the sign quick for shuffling,
And we heard by the distant hoarse Charley's roar
That the beaks would be 'mongst us soon scuffling.

Slily and slowly we laid him down,
In our cart famed for staching in story;
Nicely and neatly we done 'em brown,
For we bolted away in our glory.

* * * * *

At the time when the first Reform Bill was under discussion its opponents constantly asserted that, if it were carried, the ancient constitution of the country would be swept away, and that ruin, revolution, and anarchy would result. The following parody appeared in a Liberal newspaper of the period:--

ODE ON THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF THE CONSTITUTION.

"Who will not be alive to the merits of the following verses on the
death of the British Constitution, which has been dying for the
last four years at least. The lament of the Conservative party over
his death and burial abounds in feeling and sentiment worthy of its
prototype."

Not a moan was heard--not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the devil they hurried,
Not a speaker discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our idol was buried.

They buried him darkly at dead of night,
With their threats our remonstrance turning,
By the struggling Stephen's misty light,
In the brazen socket burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
In a sheet of parchment they bound him,
And he lay with Old Sarum for ever at rest,
With schedule A around him.

Few and short were the speeches said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we mournfully looked on the face of the dead,
And thought of the coming morrow.

We thought as they tumbled him into his bed,
And laid him at rest on his pillow,
That the Radical soon would step over our head,
And we be turned out by the bill--oh!

Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But England's destroyed if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where Lord Russell has laid him.

But half our heavy task was done,
When the time came for ending the session,
And we heard by the sound of the Tower gun,
That the King was now in procession,

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the further defence of the Tory,
We carved not a line on his funeral stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.

_Figaro in London_, 8th September, 1832.

* * * * *

There was another parody of these celebrated lines published just after Mr. John O'Connell had threatened to die on the floor of the House of Commons, a threat which, of course, gave rise to more laughter than dismay:--

LINES,

(AFTER WOLFE)

_Written on the threatened Death_ (_on the Floor of the House_) _of
John O'Connell_.

Not a groan was heard, not a pitying note,
As down on the floor he hurried;
Not a member offered to lend his coat,
Or ask'd how he'd like to be buried

We looked at him slily at dead of night,
Our backs adroitly turning,
That he might not see us laugh outright
By the lights so brightly burning.

No useless advice we on him press'd,
Nor in argument we wound him;
But we left him to lie, and take his rest,
With his Irish _clique_ around him.

Few and short were the speeches made,
And we spoke not a word in sorrow;
But we thought, as we look'd, though we leave him for dead,
He'll be fresh as a lark to-morrow.

We thought, we'll be careful where we tread,
And avoid him where he's lying;
For if we should tumble over his head,
'Twould certainly send us flying.

Lightly they'll talk of him when they're gone,
And p'rhaps for his folly upbraid him;
But little he'll care, and again try it on,
Till the Serjeant-at-arms shall have stayed him.

But half of us asked, "What's now to be done?"
When the time arrived for retiring,
And we heard the door-keeper say, "It's no fun
Our attendance to watch him requiring."