Chapter XIII: Introduction (6)

If poor Persephone to the Dark King
Had children borne, after that rape from Enna,
Much so might they have looked, when suffering
From too much salts and senna.

Many their guises, but no various grace
Or changeful charm relieved their sombre sameness;
Of form contorted, and cadaverous face,
And limp lopsided lameness.

Venus was there; at least, they called her so:
A pallid person with a jaw protrusive,
Who palpably had found all passion slow,
And all delight delusive.

No marvel she looked _passé_, peevish, pale,
Unlovely, languid, and with doldrums laden.
To cheer her praise of knights might not avail,
Nor chaunt of moon-eyed maiden.

_Laus Veneris!_ they sang; the music rose
More like a requiem than a gladsome pæan.
With sullen lip and earth-averted nose
Listened the Cytherean.

_This_ Aphrodite? Then methought I heard
Loud laughter of the Queen of Love, full scornful
Of this dull simulacrum, strained, absurd,
Green-sick, and mutely mournful.

A solid Psyche and a Podgy Pan,
A pulpy Cupid crying on a column,
A skew-limbed Luna, a Peona wan,
A Man and Mischief solemn;

A moonlight-coloured maiden--she was hight
_Ophelia_, but poor _Hamlet_ would have frightened--
A wondrous creature called the Shulamite,
With vesture quaintly tightened;

These and such other phantasms seemed to fill
Those silk-hung vistas, which, though fair and roomy,
Nathless seemed straitened, close, oppressive, still,
And gogglesome and gloomy.

For over all there hung a glamour queer,
A sense of something odd the spirit daunted;
And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear.
"The place is haunted!"

III.

I could no more; I veiled my wearied eyes.
I said, "Is this indeed the High Ideal?
If so, give me plain faces, common skies,
The homely and the real."

But no, this limbo is _not_ that fair land,
Beloved of soaring fancies, hearts ecstatic;
'Tis the Fools' Paradise of a small band,
Queer, crude, absurd, erratic.

I turned, and murmured, as I passed away,
"Such limbos of mimetic immaturity
Have no abiding hold e'en on to-day,
Of fame no calm security."

For over all there hung a glamour queer,
A sense of something odd the spirit daunted,
And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear,
"This place is haunted!"

_Punch_, May 18, 1878.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: "Bonnie Jean's" maiden name.]

Bret Harte.

The humorous writings of this author are as widely read, and as keenly appreciated, in England as in the United States, and when the prose portion of this collection is reached his _Sensation Novels Condensed_ will be fully considered. In these he has admirably hit off the peculiarities of style of such varied writers as Miss Braddon, Victor Hugo, Charles Lever, Lord Lytton, Alexander Dumas, F. Cooper, Captain Marryat, Charles Dickens, Charlotte Brontë, and Wilkie Collins; whilst in _Lothaw_ he produced a clever little parody of Lord Beaconsfield's _Lothair_.

Bret Harte has ably described both the comic and the pathetic sides of the wild life of the Californian miners, with which he is thoroughly familiar; and his best known poems deal with phases of life in that part of the world, where the Chinese element enters largely into the population. For convenience of comparison, the original "Heathen Chinee" is given below, followed by the parodies:--

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES.

_Table Mountain_, 1870.

Which I wish to remark--
And my language is plain--
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name;
And I will not deny
In regard to the same
What that name might imply;
But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third,
And quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred
That Ah Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game
And Ah Sin took a hand.
It was Euchre. The same
He did not understand;
But he smiled as he sat by the table,
With a smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked
In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked
At the state of Nye's sleeve:
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made,
Were quite frightful to see--
Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,
And said, "Can this be?
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour"--
And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued
I did not take a hand;
But the floor it was strewed
Like the leaves on the strand
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,
In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long,
He had twenty-four packs--
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;
And we found on his nails, which were taper,
What is frequent in tapers--that's wax.

Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar--
Which the same I am free to maintain.

BRET HARTE.

* * * * *

THE HEATHEN PASS-EE.

_Being the Story of a Pass Examination._

BY BRED HARD.

Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for plots that are dark
And not always in vain,
The Heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,
And the same I would rise to explain.

I would also premise
That the term of Pass-ee
Most fitly applies,
As you probably see,
To one whose vocation is passing
The "ordinary B.A. degree."

Tom Crib was his name,
And I shall not deny
In regard to the same
What that name might imply,
But his face it was trustful and childlike,
And he had the most innocent eye.

Upon April the First
The Little-Go fell,
And that was the worst
Of the gentleman's sell,
For he fooled the Examining Body
In a way I'm reluctant to tell.

The candidates came
And Tom Crib soon appeared;
It was Euclid, the same
Was "the subject he feared;"
But he smiled as he sat by the table
With a smile that was wary and weird.

Yet he did what he could,
And the papers he showed
Were remarkably good,
And his countenance glowed
With pride when I met him soon after
As he walked down the Trumpington Road.

We did not find him out,
Which I bitterly grieve,
For I've not the least doubt
That he'd placed up his sleeve
Mr. Todhunter's excellent Euclid,
The same with intent to deceive.

But I shall not forget
How the next day at two
A stiff Paper was set
By Examiner _U_--
On Euripides' tragedy, Bacchæ,
A Subject Tom "partially knew."

But the knowledge displayed
By that heathen Pass-ee,
And the answers he made
Were quite frightful to see,
For he rapidly floored the whole paper
By about twenty minutes to three.

Then I looked up at U--
And he gazed upon me,
I observed, "This won't do."
He replied, "Goodness me!
We are fooled by this artful young person."
And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee.

The scene that ensued
Was disgraceful to view,
For the floor it was strewed
With a tolerable few
Of the "tips" that Tom Crib had been hiding
For the "subject he partially knew."

On the cuff of his shirt
He had managed to get
What we hoped had been dirt,
But which proved, I regret,
To be notes on the rise of the Drama,
A question invariably set.

In his various coats
We proceeded to seek,
Where we found sundry notes
And--with sorrow I speak--
One of Bohn's publications, so useful
To the student of Latin or Greek.

In the crown of his cap
Were the Furies and Fates,
And a delicate map
Of the Dorian States,
And we found in his palms, which were hollow,
What are frequent in palms--that is, dates;

Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for plots that are dark
And not always in vain,
The Heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,
Which the same I am free to maintain.

_Light Green_ (W. Metcalfe and Son) Cambridge.

* * * * *

A KISS IN THE DARK.

Which I wish to remark,
That a pleasure in vain
Is a kiss in the dark
When it leaveth a stain:
And a maid who strikes quickly her colours
When pressed, I shall never maintain.

It was at a "surprise,"
Where fair ladies are found
To kill time, while it flies,
With their beaux, who were bound
On having a social re-union,
At the cost of--well, more than a pound.

Just here let me say
To the ladies below,
Who in polka display
Their fantastic light _tow_,
That their husbands, upstairs, also "poker"
Yes, ladies, you well may cry "Owe!"

If the husbands but knew
How their wives flirt below,
They would sing to them--"Glou!"
For they'd stick to them so
That the popinjays all would look elsewhere,
Nor want for a trip of the toe.

In the waltz I embraced
A fair maid with soft eyes;
O! the size of her waist
Made me waste many sighs:
And I likened her cheeks to red roses,
And whispered, "Sweet love never dyes."

Then together we strayed
In the light of the moon,
Where I kissed that sweet maid;
She pretended to swoon,
But her faint was a feint, so I kissed her
Again, for I relished the boon,

Back again on the floor,
With my sweetheart I danced,
While the people there wore
Merry smiles, as they glanced
At my partner, so stayed--in her manner,
And at me, so completely entranced.

When my love turned around
I was shocked at the sight;
Where the roses were found,
One had met with a blight;
While a cheek was still blooming and rosy,
The other was fearfully white.

From my good-looking lass,
Filled with fright, I straight flew
To a bad looking-glass,
Where I gazed: then I knew
That my nose, which was formerly turn-up,
Was radish--bright crimson in hue.

Which is why I remark,
That a pleasure in vain
Is a kiss in the dark
When it leaveth a stain;
And a maiden who runs when you kiss her,
Is fast--which I'll ever maintain.

_Merry Folks._

* * * * *

THAT GERMANY JEW

London, 1874.

Which I wish to remark--
And my language is plain--
That for ways that are dark,
And tricks far from vain,
The Germany Jew is peculiar,
Which the same I'm about to explain.

Eim Gott was his name;
And I shall not deny
In regard to the same,
He was wonderful "fly,"
But his watch-chain was vulgar and massive,
And his manner was dapper and spry.

It's two years come the time,
Since the mine first came out;
Which in language sublime
It was puffed all about:--
But if there's a mine called Miss Emma
I'm beginning to werry much doubt.

Which there was a small game
And Eim Gott had a hand
In promoting! The same
He did well understand;
But he sat at Miss Emma's board-table,
With a smile that was child-like and bland.

Yet the shares they were "bulled,"
In a way that I grieve,
And the public was fooled,
Which Eim Gott, I believe,
Sold 22,000 Miss Emmas,
And the same with intent to deceive.

And the tricks that were played
By that Germany Jew,
And the pounds that he made
Are quite well known to you.
But the way that he flooded Miss Emma
Is a "watering" of shares that is new.

Which it woke up MacD----,
And his words were but few,
For he said, "Can this be?"
And he whistled a "Whew!"
"We are ruined by German-Jew Swindlers!"--
And he went for that Germany Jew.

In the trial that ensued
I did not take a hand;
But the Court was quite filled
With the fi-nancing band,
And Eim Gott was "had" with hard labour,
For the games he did well understand.

Which is why I remark--
And my language is plain--
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks far from vain,
The Germany Jew was peculiar,--
But he won't soon be at it again.

_Jon Duan._

* * * * *

ST. DENYS OF FRANCE (A.D. 272).

_N.B._--_The following lay was composed in humble imitation of the popular bard of Transatlantica._

Which I mean to observe--
And my statement is true--
That for ways that unnerve,
And for deeds that out-do,
St. Denys of France was peculiar,
And the same I'll explain unto you.

Dionysius his name,
And none will deny
hat Denys the same
Does mean and imply;
And he fell in the hands of the pagans,
Who doom'd him a martyr to die.

'Twas century third,
As the history states,
That Denys incurr'd
This saddest of fates;
With one Eleutherius, deacon,
And Rusticus, priest, for his mates.

Yet the woes that were laid
On those Christians three,
And the pluck they display'd
Were quite frightful to see,
And at first you would scarcely believe it,
But the same is asserted by ME.

'Twas one of their foes'
Diabolical whims,
To the flames to expose
The martyr's bare limbs.
But Denys, for one, didn't mind it,
He lay and sang psalms--likewise hymns.

And then he was placed
In a den of wild beasts
With a preference of taste
For martyrs and priests;
But Denys, by _crossing_, so tamed them,
They turned from such cannibal feasts.

Next Denys was cast
In a furnace of fire;
All thinking at last
He'd have to expire;
But the flame sank so low in a minute,
No bellows could make it rise higher.

And when he'd been hung
On the cross for a spell,
St. Denys was flung
With his friends in a cell,
As narrow and close as a coffin,
And dark as H E double L.

Said the judge, stern and curt,
"Bring the captives to me."
When he found them unhurt
He cried, "Can this be?
We are ruin'd by Christian endeavor;"
And he meant to destroy the whole three.

On the Saints, who had long
Withstood such attacks,
The foe came out strong
With their tortures and racks.
At last, by the Governor's order,
Their heads were cut off with an axe.

"Do we sleep? do we dream?"
All the witnesses shout;
"Are men what they seem?
Or is witchcraft about?"
For quickly the corpse of St. Denys
Rose up, and began to walk out!

He took up his head,
Tuck'd it under his arm,
And the same, it is said,
Caused surprise and alarm;
Each eye on the marvel was fasten'd
As if by some magical charm.

Cut down to his neck,
Like a flower to its stalk,
The Saint met a check
When he first tried to walk:
But soon he felt stronger than Weston
Or Webb--by a very long chalk.

And angels, we're told,
Led his footsteps along;
While heavenwards rolled
Their chorus of song;
They led him two leagues from the city,
To see that he didn't go wrong.

I hope you'll believe
That this story is fact,
For I scorn to deceive,
And refuse to retract;
For truth I've a great reputation,
And wish to preserve it intact.

Which is why I observe--
And my statement is true--
That for ways that unnerve,
And for deeds that out-do,
St. Denys of France was peculiar,
And the same I have proved unto you.

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

* * * * *

THAT INFIDEL EARL!

(_Plain Language from Artless Ahmed, Istamboul._)

AIR--"That Heathen Chinee."

SULTAN _sings_--

I--aside--may remark,--
And I mean to speak plain,--
That for games that are dark,
Masked by manners urbane,
That Infidel Earl licks me hollow--
And _I_ am no novice inane.

DUFFER-IN is his name,
But I'm bound to deny,
In regard to the same,
What that name might imply.
Though his smile is so pleasant and placid,
A Sheitan there lurks in each eye.

Istamboul was the spot
Where we played, and you'd guess
That the Giaour got it hot--
Found himself in a mess.
Yet he played it on me, did that Giaour,
In a way that was loathsome--no less.

We sat down to the game,
DUFFER-IN took a hand;
I felt sure that the same
_He_ could not understand;
But he smiled as he sat at the table
With the smile that was placid and bland.

_My_ cards were well stocked,--
As no doubt you'll believe,--
And I felt--_don't_ be shocked!--
I'd "a bit up my sleeve."
For when playing with sons of burnt fathers
Our _duty's_ to dupe and deceive.

But the hands which were played
By that dog DUFFER-IN,
And the tricks that he made,
Were a shame, and a sin,
Till at last I was "bested" completely,
And the Giaour scored a palpable win.

Then I felt that _my_ guile
Was but simple and slight,
And he rose, with a smile,
And he said, "_That's_ all right!
Think I'll take the next turn with dear TEWFIK!"
And he started for Cairo that night.

In the little game there
I may not take a hand;
But, my TEWFIK, beware!
He is gentle and bland,
Yet he'll probably give you a hiding,--
Few games that he'll _not_ understand.

Be the game short or long,
He's ne'er flurried nor stuck.
His lead is _so_ strong,
He has Sheitan's own luck;
And you'll find in this goose--as I thought him--
What occurs to geese--_sometimes_--that's "pluck."

Which is why I remark,
Though I own it with pain,
That for games that are dark,
Masked by manners urbane,
That Infidel Earl licks me hollow,
And I don't want to play _him_ again!

_Punch_, November 11, 1882.

* * * * *

FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES.

Do I sleep? do I dream?
Do I wander and doubt?
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
Is our civilisation a failure?
Or is the Caucasian played out?

* * * * *

BRET HARTE.

* * * * *

REMARKS ABOUT OTHELLO.

Do I sleep? Do I dream?
Do I wonder and doubt?
Are things what they seem,
Or is libels about?
Has the Eminent I. scored a failure?
Or is the tragedian played out?

Which questions is strong;
Yet I would but imply
That to them I much long
To get a reply--
Seeing things is kinder mixed up so,
Or, leastways, they seem so to I.

How he got up his name
I needn't relate;
Though, regarding that same,
He owed Colonel Bate-
Man some thanks for the way that he publish'd
The fact that his genius was great.

Then 'twas said with one breath
Perfection was he,
From the "Bells" to "Macbeth"
He was as good as could be--
He came, and he play'd, and he conquer'd--
Like a melodramatic J. C.

And all London went wild
O'er this Eminent I.,
Save a party that smiled,
And thought it good fun;
But as for the late William Shakespeare,
He never had had such a run.

And the public fell down
As though in a trance;
And the West-End of town
Booked their stalls in advance;
Whilst the critics wrote furlongs of praises,
His triumph to further enhance.

And the management, gaily,
Its hand on its heart,
Did advertise, daily,
Its love of high art;
Whilst FIGARO smiled somewhat drily,
And murmured, "O here's a droll start!"

But at last came a night--
'Twas "Othello" you'll guess;
And thought I (well I might),
"Ah! another success!"
But the papers next morning--O pizen!
They upset this view, I confess.

For I dare not repeat
The things that were said:--
Of a mop-stem on feet--
In one weekly I read--
With its arms like a pair of pump-handles,
And the mop dipped in ink for the head.

And another remarked
That his voice wasn't clear,
And the more the Moor barked,
The less he could hear;
Whilst a third liken'd him in the death scene,
To a curate whose dreams had been queer.

Scarce a paper I scann'd
Had the old-fashioned praise;
But on every hand
I read with amaze,
That the Eminent I. got a "slating"
Not frequently giv'n in these days.

And, thought I, this is odd!
To turn round in this way:
One day he's a god--
Or, so they all say--
And the next night they call him eccentric,
Which isn't to my mind, fair play.

He ain't a-gone wrong
Like this in a day;
He's been wrong all along
In the same kind of way;
And the faults they have damned in "Othello"
They praised in--well, "Hamlet," I'll say.

So that's why I remark,
And would wish to maintain,
That for hair long and dark,
And a voice that was pain-
Ful, the Eminent I. was peculiar--
But I don't think he'll try it again.

_The Figaro_, March 4, 1876.

* * * * *

GALAHAD. "A superficial imitation is easy enough, but I shall certainly fail to reproduce his subtle wit and pathos." (_Reads._)

TRUTHFUL JAMES'S SONG OF THE SHIRT.

Which his name it was Sam;
He had sluiced for a while
Up at Murderer's Dam,
Till he got a good pile,
And the heft of each dollar,
Two thousand or more,
He'd put in the Chollar,
For he seed it was ore
That runs thick up and down, without ceilin' or floor.

And, says he, it's a game
That's got but one stake;
If I put up that same,
It'll bust me or make.
At fifty the foot
I've entered my pile,
And the whole derned cahoot
I'll let soak for a while,
And jest loaf around here,--say, Jim, will you smile?

Tom Fakes was the chum,
Down in Frisco, of Sam;
And one mornin' there come
These here telegram:
"You can sell for five hundred,
Come down by the train!"
Sam By-Joed and By-Thundered,--
'Twas whistlin' quite plain,
And down to Dutch Flat rushed with might and with main.

He had no time to sarch,
But he grabbed up a shirt
That showed bilin' and starch,
And a coat with less dirt.
He jumped on the step
As the train shoved away,
And likewise was swep',
All galliant and gay,
Round the edge of the mounting and down to'rds the Bay.

Seven minutes, to pass
Through the hole by the Flat!
Says he, I'm an ass
If I can't shift in that!
But the train behind time,
Only _three_ was enough,--
It came pat as a rhyme--
He was stripped to the buff
When they jumped from the tunnel to daylight! 'Twas rough.

What else? Here's to you!
Which he sold of his feet
At five hundred, 'tis true,
And the same I repeat:
But acquaintances, friends,
They likes to divert,
And the tale never ends
Of Sam and his shirt,
And to stop it from goin' he'd give all his dirt!

_Diversions of the Echo Club._

* * * * *

The following admirable parody of Bret Harte's pathetic poems on miner's life in California was written by Mr. Charles H. Ross, the Editor of _Judy_. It is a favourite recitation with Mr. Odell, the popular actor:--

THE BLOOMIN' FLOWER OF RORTY GULCH.

It war Bob war the Bloomin' Flower,
They know'd him on Poker Flat;
He'd gouged a few down Gilgal way,
But no one complained o' that.
He scored his stiffs[7] on the heft of his knife--
Forty I've heern 'em say;
It might have been more--Bob kept his accounts
In a loosish sorter way.

Bob warn't a angel ter look at,
And the Bible it warn't _his_ book;
He swore the most oaths that war swor'd in the camp,
Or blarmedly I am mistook;
But he warn't a outen-out bad 'un,
And he'd got a heart you could touch;
And he never draw'd iron[8] on boy or man
As didn't pervoke him much.

And you can't say fair as drinking
War counted among his sins;
For at nary a sittin' would he put down
More nor fifteen whisky skins.
But one day we was drinkin' and jawin',
Round Haggarty's bar, and I fear
That Haggarty riled him, bein' so slow,
So he jist sliced off Haggarty's ear.

Then Haggarty went for him savage,
Instead of a-holding his jor;
And Bob went for his 'leven-inch knife,
And scatter'd Hag's scraps on the floor.
One of Hag's friends then drew upon Bob,
And shot Joe Harris instead;
And I take it the bar floor got at last
'Bout knee-deep in red.

But when the fun was over in there,
Bob ran a-muck in the street;
And he speared and potted each derned cuss
As he chanced to meet.
And quiet folks shut up their doors--
They thought it safer, you see--
All but a man with his wife and child,
That was settin' down to tea.

Into their parlour rushed Bloomin' Bob,
To that father and mother's surprise:
Jobb'd his bowie through one, and took
The tother between the eyes.
Then he clutched the innocent slumb'rin' babe,
Jist meanin' to knock out its brains;
But at that moment there reach'd his ear
Some long-forgotten strains.

* * * * *

Some soft and touching music this,
Music solemn and sweet,
Played by a common organ-man
Down at the end of the street.
And it went straight home to the digger's heart,
And he did not squelch the child,
But lay it down in its little cot,
And rocked the same--and smiled!

Talk soft! They say the angels
That night smole down on Bob;
And a sorter radiant halo
Gleamed brightly round his nob.
I can't swear to all this for certain,
And it do seem a queerish start;
But I won't set by and hear none o' you say
Bob hadn't a tender heart!

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: Corpses.]

[Footnote 8: To shoot.]

C. Wolfe's Ode.

Since Part VII. appeared, containing the parodies on the above, a correspondent has kindly sent the following, which recently appeared in a Durham newspaper:--

A MOONLIGHT FLIT.

Scarce a sound was heard, not a word was spoke,
As a van down the back way they hurried;
For some tenants were bolting, not paying their rent,
And looking confoundedly flurried.

They'd packed up in silence at dead of night,
And, having no thought of returning,
Had nailed up the shutters to keep in the light
Of the paraffin-lamp left a-burning.

But just as they'd got the loading done,
And with the last chair were retiring,
They heard the butcher (that son of a gun)
At the door for his money inquiring.

Sharp and short was the answer he got--
They told him "It gave them much sorrow;
It wasn't convenient to settle just then,
But they'd certainly do so to-morrow."

Slowly and sadly they hurried away
From that snug little house of one storey,
Chucked the key in the water-butt, out of harm's way,
And left it alone in its glory.

Loudly they'll talk of the tenants now gone,
And the landlords will say they were rum 'uns;
But little they'll care if he lets them alone,
And don't find them out with a summons.

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

Two old parodies of the same original, on theatrical matters, may also, for the sake of completeness, be inserted here. They are both taken from _The Man in the Moon_, which was a small comic magazine, edited by the late Angus B. Reach, with many funny illustrations by Hine, Sala, and other humorous artists. _The Man in the Moon_ was started in 1847, and five volumes in all were issued; its contents are now, of course, somewhat out of date, but there are some clever parodies which will be inserted in this collection--many of these parodies were, no doubt, from the facile pen of Albert Smith, who was one of the principal contributors to the magazine.

THE BURIAL OF PANTOMIME.

_Stanzas of_ 1846-7.

Not a laugh was heard, not a topical joke,
As its corpse to oblivion we hurried,
Not a paper a word in its favour spoke
On the pantomime going to be buried.

We buried it after the Boxing night,
The folks from our galleries turning,
For we knew that it scarcely would pay for the light
Of the star in the last act burning.

No useless play-bill put forth a puff,
How splendid the public had found it.
But it lay like a piece that had been call'd "Stuff,"
With a very wet blanket round it.

Stoutly and long all the audience hiss'd,
When they found neither sense nor reason;
But we steadfastly dwelt on the points we had miss'd
And we bitterly thought of next season.

We thought, when we felt it was really dead,
As we pass'd old Covent Garden,
That Opera and Ballet would take up its place,
And we not be worth half a farden.

Loudly old gentlemen still will prate,
As they always do, of past actors;
But we know that poor Mathews' and Howell's fate
Was as bad as a malefactors.

Slowly and sadly we laid it down,
For we knew that we couldn't make bad well,
And we felt that the _prestige_ was vanish'd at last,
But we drank to the health of poor Bradwell.

_The Man in the Moon_, Volume 1.

* * * * *

THE BURIAL OF PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE.

(_Princess's Theatre_).

Not a house was drawn--not a five-pound-note--
So his run to its closing we hurried;
Not a listener could follow his hazy plot,
So the dreary abortion we buried.

We buried him, sadly, one Friday night,
For our hopes were gone past returning;
And the manager's pangs were a moving sight,
By the foot-lights dimly burning.

All bare and exposed to the critics lash,
On that luckless stage we found him--
On that stage where he deemed he should cut such a dash,
With armour and mobs around him.

Few were the words which the manager said,
To soothe the tragedian's sorrow;
But they glared at each other with looks which made
Us hope they would fight on the morrow.

They doubtless thought, though their tongues they held,
That of all the dreadful messes,
A sadder than Philip Van Artevelde,
Had never disgraced the Princess's.

Loudly the manager told what he spent--
And he said that Macready had made him--
Ah! little attention the "Eminent" paid,
But coolly let Maddox upbraid him.

But now was our dreary duty done--
Our sleep-moving drama retiring,
From the distant jeer and the cutting pun,
Which the foe were constantly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid it down
That a poem, which is famed in story,
Be it writ in a book, be it carved on a stone,
Should be left there alone in its glory.

_The Man in the Moon_, Volume 3.

* * * * *

THE BURIAL OF THE BILLS.

(_A Parody apropos to present circumstances, August_, 1884.)

Not a joke was heard, not a troublesome vote,
As the bills into limbo they hurried;
Not e'en INGLIS discharged a farewell shot,
O'er the grave where the Jew-Bill was buried.

They buried them darkly at dead of night,
For bed all the members yearning;
With the aid of the Speaker to keep them right,
And GREEN'S parliamentary learning.

No vain discussion their life supprest,
Nor did truth nor talk confound them;
They passed a few, and as for the rest,
They burked them just as they found them.

For most of the Session's task was done,
The supplies marked the hour for retiring;
And as August drew near, each son of a gun,
At the grouse, in his dreams, was a-firing.

* * * * *

So they settled the Bills--other folks' and their own--
Never destined to figure in story;
They shed not a tear, and they heaved not a groan,
But they burked them alike, Whig and Tory!

_Punch_, 1850.

* * * * *

A TALE OF A TUB.

Not a cackle was heard, or matitudinal crow,
As the cask to the orchard they barrowed;
And gently and tenderly laid him below,
Where some ground had been recently harrowed.

The tears trickled slowly down Emma's fair check,
While Ned sobbed aloud in his fustian,
And Marian's feelings forbade her to speak
For fear of spontaneous combustion.

They gazed on his coat of cerulean blue,
Ana silently gauged his dimensions,
Then covered him up with a hurdle or two
To balk the sly foxes' intentions.

Then slowly and sadly they turned them away,
With their hearts overladen with sorrow:
Said Emma, "Bedad! he is safe for to-day."
Said Ned, "We must tap him to-morrow."

Alas! Ere the dawn of another to-day,
There only was weeping and wailing;
That beautiful tub had been carried away,
Or had leaked through a gap in the pailing.

And the Beaks, when applied to, just wagged their old heads,
And said, "Since for advice you must ask us,"
Don't bury your casks in your strawberry beds,
Lest men take them by _Habeas Caskus!_"

JOHN E. ALLEN.

(The touching incident described in these affecting lines occurred to some friends who, for fear of an explosion, buried a cask of paraffine oil in their garden; a midnight robber despoiled them of their spirit, and they could not make light of it.)

* * * * *

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

POET LAUREATE.

THE first four parts of this collection were devoted to parodies of the works of the Poet Laureate, a few examples being given of the imitations of each of his more important poems. Numerous subscribers have requested that the collection should be continued, so that the first volume might contain as nearly a complete set of parodies on Tennyson's works as it is possible to form. With this view many additional contributions have been sent in; whilst some that have quite recently appeared, and a few that were previously omitted as being too lengthy, will now be included. Independently of the amusing nature of many of the parodies still to be given, collectors of _Tennysoniana_ will appreciate the completeness thus to be obtained, and it will be seen that very few of Tennyson's poems have escaped parody.

Although it may appear that the imitations now to be given will come somewhat out of order, no inconvenience will eventually result, as the index will show, in a tabulated form, under the head of each _original_ poem every parody of it. The order adopted in the recent editions of the Laureate's poems will be followed in this further collection, and the parodies will illustrate Mariana; Circumstance; The Palace of Art; Riflemen Form; Lady Clara Vere de Vere; The May Queen; The Dream of Fair Women; "You Ask Me Why;" "Of Old Sat Freedom;" Tithonus; Locksley Hall; Lady Godiva; The Lord of Burleigh; The Voyage; Enoch Arden; The Brook; The Princess; Alexandra; In Memoriam; Maud; Hands All Round; and the Idyls of the King.

THE HAYMARKET THEATRE ON THE OCCASION OF THE REVIVAL OF A DULL OLD FIVE-ACT PLAY.

With kindest friends, each private box
Was thickly peopled one and all;
The busy tongues fell at the knocks
The prompter gave against the wall.
The grand tiers' heads look'd old and strange,
Unresting was box-keeper's key,
For those who something came to see,
Within the dismal five-acts' range.
She only said, "It readeth dreary;
No pathos and no fun."
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
Before it hath begun."

Her yawns came with the first act even;
Her yawns came ere the third was tried.
She had been listening from seven,
With nought to praise, nor to deride.
After the friends forgot to clap,
Which very soon they ceased to do,
She drew the box's curtains too,
And thought, "I'll take a little nap."
She only said, "The play is dreary;
No pathos, and no fun,"
She only said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that it were done."

* * * * *

The hazy nature of the plot;
The box locks clicking; and the sound
Which to the actors on the stage
The prompter made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the power
Which could get acted such a play,
When they would nothing have to say
To pieces of the present hour.
Then said she, "This is very dreary!
This must not be," she said;
"Sooner than feel again so weary,
I'd go right home to bed."

_The Man in the Moon_, Volume 2, 1848.

* * * * *

THE EXILED LONDONER.

"Since I have been at this place I have lost as many as three copies of _The Times_ in a week, while _Punch_ was as regularly stolen as it was posted."--_Times_, January 10.

With black _ennui_ the Exile sits,
Watching the rain-drops as they fall;
The bluebottle about him flits,
That ate the peach on the garden wall.
No _Times_ nor _Punch_, 'tis very strange;
Unlifted is the iron latch;
Of papers he's without the batch
That gives his days their only change.
At first he only said, "Oh deary!
The post is late," he said;
"Of waiting I am rather weary,
I would my _Punch_ I'd read."

About the middle of the day
The postman's form its shadow cast,
The door he sought with footsteps gay,
The _Times_ and _Punch_ are here at last.
Out with them; but 'tis very strange,
The envelope is open torn--
'Tis but the _Herald_ of the morn;
His paper they have dared to change.
He only said, "The _Herald_'s dreary,
Dreary, indeed," he said;
"It's very look has made me weary;
It never can be read."

Upon some stones--a hillock small,
The Londoner in exile leapt,
And over objects large and small
A telescopic watch he kept;
He saw the postman walk away,
He gazed till it was nearly dark,
Then only made this sad remark,
"Nor _Times_ nor _Punch_ will come to-day."
He only said, "'Tis very dreary
They do not come," he said;
"While I for want of them am weary,
They're elsewhere being read."

And even when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds a game did play,
Blowing the sign-boards to and fro,
As if 'twould blow them right away;
He'd with the spider, as it climbs,
Hold converse--asking if 'twould tell
Whether the postman dared to sell
The weekly _Punch_ and daily _Times_.
He only said, "'Tis very dreary,
Dreary, indeed," he said;
"Of life I'm almost getting weary,
My _Times_ and _Punch_ unread."

All day within the dreamy house
His shoes had in the passage creak'd;
The maid-of-all-work, like a mouse,
Out of her master's presence sneak'd,
Or from the kitchen peer'd about,
Or listen'd at the open doors,
To hear his footsteps tread the floors
With the short hurried pace of doubt.
She only said, "My master's weary,
And angry, too," she said;
She said, "Oh deary me! oh deary!
I wish he'd go to bed."

The crickets chirrup on the hearth,
The slow clock ticking--and the sound
Of rain upon the gravel path
That hems the Exile's cottage round;
All these, but most of all the power
Of sleep after an anxious day,
Up-stairs had hurried him away.
He paced his chamber for an hour,
Then said he, "This, indeed, is dreary,
My _Times_, my _Punch_," he said,
"Without you I am always weary;
I'll tumble into bed."

_Punch_, January 22, 1848.

* * * * *

LORD TOMNODDY IN THE FINAL SCHOOLS.

With blackest ink the books around
Were thickly blotted one and all;
The very nails looked half unsound
That held the pictures to the wall.
The dismal scene was wrapped in gloom,
Sported was the unsocial oak:
Seedy and torn and thick with smoke
The curtains hung athwart the room.
He only said, "The schools are dreary:
This Euclid racks my head.
Of Ethics I am very weary;
I shall be ploughed," he said.

His sighs came with the lightening heaven,
And ever through the day he sighed.
He could not play in the Eleven,
Or coach the Eight at eventide.
After the shutting of the gates,
He drew his casement curtain by,
And watched along the gleaming High
The lovers strolling with their mates.
He only said, "The schools are dreary:
This Euclid racks my head.
Ethics are the reverse of cheery;
I shall be ploughed," he said.

And half asleep he heard forlorn
The caterwauling on the roof;
The chapel bell rung out at morn
Came to him--but he held aloof.
In dreams he seemed to see the Halls,
And fatal precincts of the Schools:
To watch the crowd of ghastly fools,
Who tried in vain to pass their Smalls.
He only said, "The schools are dreary:
This Euclid racks my brain.
Of Ethics I am very weary;
I shall be ploughed again."

He sat and darkened all the air,
With smoke up-wreathing from his weed:
All day, half-dreaming in his chair,
He sat and read--or seemed to read--
Or from the window peered about.
His friends still hammered at his door;
He heard them on the upper floor;
Their voices called him from without.
He only said, "The schools are nearing;
I cannot come," said he.
"Although of Ethics I am wearying,
I shall be ploughed, you'll see."

For hours he sat, without a pause,
And snored o'er Plato's sage debate
Of the Republic and the Laws:
Both these his brain did obfuscate
But most of all he loathed the power
Of _x_ + _y_, whose depths profound
Long-winded dons would oft expound,
And moralise on by the hour.
Then said he, "I am very weary,
This Euclid racks my brain.
Mansell and Mill are very dreary;
I shall be ploughed again!"

H. C. I., QUEEN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD

_College Rhymes_ (T. and G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1868.

* * * * *

A FRAGMENT.

They lifted him with kindly care;
They took him by the heels and head;
Across the floor, and up the stair,
They bore him safely to his bed.
They wrapped the blankets warm and tight,
And round about his nose and chin
They drew the sheets, and tucked them in,
And whispered: "Poor old boy, good-night!"
He murmured, "Boys, oh, deary, deary,
That punch _was_ strong," he said;
He said: "I am aweary, weary--
Thank heaven, I've got to bed!

_Australian Paper._

* * * * *

AUGUST THE TWELFTH.

OVER-NIGHT.

I.

You must wake, and call me early--call me early--Willie Weir,
To-morrow is the glorious Twelfth, that comes but once a year;
The cockneys and the keepers will all be out of doors,
And I'm to shoot over the moors, Willie--I'm to shoot over the moors.

II.

There's many a pack of pointers, but none that point likemine;
There's Paragon and Pincher--there's Kit and Keelavine,
And my little Dandie Dinmont, that stands firm as any house,
So I'm to bag all the grouse, Willie--I'm to bag all the grouse.

III.

I sleep so soundly all the night that I shall never wake,
Unless you call me loudly when the dawn begins to break,
For I've to put on my philabeg and sporran's foxy tail,
To _look_ like a genuine Gael, Willie, to _look_ like a genuine Gael.

IV.

As I came up the valley, whom think you I should see?
Ben Moses of the Minories, he has rented Bonachree!
He wished to rent _my_ moor, Willie, but boggled at the price,
So I went in by telegram, and nailed it in a trice.

V.

Shelty Pony shall go to-morrow, to carry two fowls at least,
For a cockney on the hillside is a _very_ ravenous beast;
And you shall bring the saddlebags to hold the birds I spot,
For I'll get my worth of the moors, Willie, at least in the powder
and shot.

VI.

So you must wake me early--call me early, Willie Weir,
To-morrow is the glorious Twelfth, that comes but once a year.
From Cheapside unto Chelsea, they're envying me at home,
For I'm to shoot over the moors, Willie, as far as I can roam.

ON THE TWELFTH.

I.

I bade you wake me early, with my shaving-jug and brogues,
But Scotch and English servants are all a pack of rogues.
It's the only Twelfth of August in the Highlands I shall see,
Yet you snored on your truckle-bed, Willie, and never thought of me.

II.

Last night I saw the sunset, he looked both wroth and red,
As if he knew when dawning came I'd still be lay-a-bed.
From crag and scaur and heather I hear the popping shot,
And not a single bird, Willie, has fallen to my lot.

III.

What say you? "'Tis a soft day, the roads are runnin' burns,
"The heather's a' wet blankets, ye might droon ye in the ferns;
Ye canna see a hand forenent, the mist's sae white and chill,
Ye'd sune be bogged amang the muirs, and lost upon the hill."

IV.

There's not a sportsman on the hills, the rain is on the pane,
I only wish to sleep until the sunshine comes again.
I wish the mist would lift, and the light break out once more,
I long to kill a grouse, Willie, ere the Twelfth of August's o'er.

V.

I have been stiff and lazy, but I'll up and dress me now,
You'll fetch my breakfast, Willie, and my plaid before I go.
Nay, nay, you must not brush so hard, my very teeth you jolt,
You should not rub me down, Willie, as if I were a colt.

VI.

I'll bring back dinner, if I can, in a brace of cock and hen,
But if you do not see me, you will know I've dined with Ben.
If I cannot speak a sober word when I come back from the toddy,
Just tuck me into bed, Willie, like a canny Hieland body.

VII.

Good-bye, you rascal, Willie; call me earlier in the morn,
Or I'll thrash you into next week, as sure as you were born;
For I must get my money back from grouse and hare and deer,
So wake, and call me early--call me early, Willie Weir.

_Will-o'-the-Wisp_, August, 1869.

* * * * *

MALA-FIDE TRAVELLERS.

(_Unlicensed by the Laureate._)

Late, late, past ten, so dark the night and chill.
Late, late, eleven, but we can enter still.
Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now!

No thought had we the night was so far spent,
And, hearing this, the Bobby will relent.
Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now!

No beer, though late, and dark, and chill the night.
O let us in, and we will not get tight!
Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now!

A glass of gin to-night would be so sweet.
O let us in, that we may have it neat!
Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now!

_Punch_, November 16, 1872.

The following imitation of Tennyson is of interest as having appeared forty years ago, when the poet was comparatively unknown:--

A FRAGMENT--COMPOSED IN A DREAM.

BY A. TENNYSON.

In Hungerford, did some wise man
A stately bridge of wire decree,
Where Thames, the muddy river, ran,
Down to a muddier sea.

Above the people rose its piers,
Their shadows on the waters fell;
Year after year, for many years,
All unapproachable!

And filmy wires through æther spread,
From such proud piers' unfinished head,
Kept up a mild communication,
Worthy of their exalted station;

And many gazers far below,
Wafted by the waveless tide,
Which 'neath those slender wires did flow,
Upturned their eyes, and sighed--

"If that _air_ bridge," they whispered low,
"Vos broad enough to let us pass,
Ve'd not av so much round to go,
As now ve av--alas!"

* * * * *

_Punch_, 1844.

* * * * *

THE M.P. ON THE RAILWAY COMMITTEE.

(_Dedicated to Alfred Tennyson_).

With shareholders in anxious lots,
The rooms were crowded, one and all,
The Barristers stood round in knots,--
And quite forsook Westminster Hall.
Sections and plans looked odd and strange;
And the M.P. at each new batch,
Weary and worn, looked at his watch,
In hopes the Counsel to derange.
He only said, "It's very dreary:
He'll never stop!" he said;
He said, "I'm a-weary--a-weary,
I would I were in bed!"

The speech began before eleven,
And might go on till eventide;
He must be in the House at seven,
Upon a motion to divide.
The Barristers in white cravats
Unto each other gave the lie;
The M.P. sadly shut his eye
And thought of the Kilkenny cats.
He only said, "It's very dreary,
They'll never stop!" he said;
He said, "I'm a-weary--a-weary,
And must not go to bed."

Until the middle of the night,
He'd heard the Irish Members crow;
The House broke up in broad daylight,
Heavily he to bed did go,
In hopes to sleep; but without change,
In dreams, he seemed to hear, forlorn,
The Barrister he'd heard that morn;
And saw, in slumber, sections strange.
He sighed, and said, "'Tis very dreary;
I cannot sleep!" he said;
He said, "I am a-weary--a-weary,
Both in and out of bed."

* * * * *

The hot sun beating on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which in opposing lines' behoof
The counsel made,--did all confound
His sense: then longed he for the hour
When their report they came to lay
Before the Commons; and the day
On which he'd 'scape SIR ROBERT'S power,
Then said he, "This is far too dreary:
I will retire," he said;
He sighed, "I am so weary--a-weary,
I'll go to Jail instead."

_Punch_, 1845.

* * * * *

CIRCUMSTANCE.

Two children in two neighbour villages,
Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas;
Two strangers meeting at a festival;
Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall;
Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease;
Two graves, grass green, beside a gray church-tower,
Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed;
Two children in one hamlet born and bred;
So runs the round of life from hour to hour.

A. TENNYSON.

* * * * *

CIRCUMSTANCE.

(_After Tennyson_).

Two children on Twelfth Night, all mirth and laughter,
Obliged to take two powders the day after.
Two strangers meeting at a morning call.
Two lovers waltzing at a country ball.
Two mouths to feed upon an income small.
Two "lists to be retained" of various things
Wash'd out of town to save home's direst curse.
Two babies quite too much for one young nurse;
So flies the time of life on rapid wings.

_The Man in the Moon_, Volume 4, 1848.

* * * * *

THE PALACE OF ART.

(_A Parody, which it is requested may not occur to anybody during the Inauguration of the Exhibition_, 1862).

I built my Cole a lordly pleasure house,
Wherein to walk like any Swell:
I said, "O Cole, make merry and carouse,
Dear Cole, for all is well."

(_Here follows an exquisite description of the said pleasure-house, also known as the International Exhibition. After four hundred and ninety-seven verses comes the last_).

But Cole, C.B., replied, "'Tis long, your story,
And here's a Rummy Start;
Dilke walks in glory with a Hand that's Gory,
While I am _not_ a Bart."

SHIRLEY BROOKS.

The following parody graphically describes that singular phase of modern English art, known as the Æsthetic School, originated by the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, namely, Dante G. Rossetti, Holman Hunt, J. E. Millais, and Thomas Woolner. The works of the disciples of this school have recently found a home in the Grosvenor Gallery, founded by Sir Coutts Lindsay:--

THE PALACE OF ART.

(_New Version_).