Chapter XVII: Act III: The Upper Hall in Steer's Farm

_Music composed by_ .......... Mr. HAMILTON CLARKE.
_Dances arranged by_ .......... Mr. J. D'AUBAN.
_Rustic Dresses by_ .......... Mrs. NETTLESHIP.
_Scenery by_ ............ Messrs. HANN, SPONG, & PERKINS.
_Acting-Manager_--Mr. CHARLES J. ABUD.

Assuming that Mrs. Bernard-Beere, as _Dora Steer_, speaks these lines, we have the counterpart of the villainously seductive Earl in _Philip Edgar_, a thankless part, which was admirably played by Mr. Hermann Vezin. This _Edgar_, having ruined and abandoned one sister, returns, after an interval of five or six years, to the scene of his former conquest, and lays siege to the heart of the other sister; confidentially informing the audience that he intends to marry _Dora_ as an atonement for the injuries he has inflicted on the luckless _Eva_. The shouts of derisive laughter with which this announcement (the culmination of absurdity), was met on the first night, led Mr. Hermann Vezin to somewhat modify his language on the following evenings, but he was still compelled to inflict on the audience the most tedious and extraordinary soliloquies touching Communism, Free-love, Agnosticism, and other wholly undramatic topics. For Tennyson had, with characteristic bigotry, chosen to assume that a Freethinker must necessarily be a villain; and with a view of generally condemning opinions distasteful to him, had burdened poor Edgar with the task of proclaiming himself at once as a seducer, a hypocrite, a liar, a coward, a Freethinker, an Agnostic, a Secularist, a Democrat--and all this in speeches of a contradictory and decidedly tiresome description.

On the third representation of the drama the Marquis of Queensberry, who occupied a seat in the stalls, rose, and loudly protested against the Laureate's misrepresentation of the principles of freethought as a gross caricature, especially in regard to Edgar's sentiments about the law of marriage.

He subsequently addressed a letter to _The Globe_, containing the following explanation:--

"THE PROMISE OF MAY."

TO THE EDITOR OF THE GLOBE.

"SIR,--In reply to Mr. Hermann Vezin's letter, which appears in your
issue of to-day, may I be allowed to make a few remarks? He says
that on the first night 'some one started a hiss, which soon grew
into a storm,' &c., and he continues to say, 'it is to be presumed
that this opposition came from professing orthodox Christian
people. On the third night the Marquis of Queensberry, a professed
Freethinker, rose in his stall, and loudly protested against what he
considered a caricature of his own sect.' Not a caricature against
my own sect, Sir, which is Secularism, but against an infamous libel
to the whole body of people who have been designated by that name
of Freethinkers. Mr. Hermann Vezin says, here we have a curious
spectacle of the most outspoken opposition from both extremes, and
that neither party has quite caught Mr. Tennyson's meaning. Whether
two separate parties spoke (or only one, as I expect is the case)
it would be as well if Mr. Tennyson himself would explain what his
meaning is; for, coming so soon after the poem, which he issued to
the public a short time ago, entitled 'Despair,' we Freethinkers
can have but one opinion as to what his meaning is, and that is to
caricature and to misrepresent what the outcome of freethought has
led to in its secession from orthodoxy. My object the other night
in causing an 'interruption' at the theatre was not only to make
a public protest against the supposed sentiments of a Freethinker
(on marriage), but to attract public attention to that protest,
and I consider that the end justified the means, considering
the difficulty that we have in getting a hearing from those who
oppose us, and not only who oppose us, but who misrepresent us.
Freethinkers may not be satisfied with the present marriage law--as
I explained the other day in my letter to the _Daily News_--but that
is no reason that they should not respect marriage, and we cannot be
attacked on a more tender point, from the very delicacy there is to
speak on the subject.--Yours faithfully,

"QUEENSBERRY.

"45, Half Moon-street, Piccadilly, November 20, 1882."

This led to a discussion in the newspapers on Tennyson's muddled metaphysics and absurd theories; public curiosity was thus aroused, and the management was enabled to run the play much longer than could have been expected from its original reception.

_Punch_ (November 25, 1882) had a long and elaborate criticism of the play, giving a humorous analysis of the plot. The opening and closing paragraphs are much to the point, especially as they include two amusing parodies.

NEITHER RHYME NOR REASON;

_Or, Promise of May, and Performance of November at the Globe._

"THE sources of literary ambition are proverbially obscure, and
it is scarcely worth while to enquire why the Laureate, who has
spent a lifetime in filling the world with his verse, should, at
the eleventh hour, have conceived the idea of emptying the Globe
with his prose. If there could be any doubt that he had not only
done so, but also had set himself to the business with a right good
will, the hearty and sympathetic jeers of the not unkindly audience
that attended the first performance of his _Promise_ the other
evening must have settled the matter. Indeed, some of the Poet's own
lines--or something like them--seemed to occur to everybody. Even
his staunchest admirers could be heard in the lobbies between the
acts respectfully quoting to each other--

'I hold it truth that he who flings
His harp aside, to try the bones,
Will somehow find that paving stones,
Are levelled at his neatest things.'

By the way, the management might even now take a hint from a rival
establishment, and try this on a poster.

"The plot of the piece is simplicity itself, and if the talented
author had merely contented himself with working out his pretty
little idyl in some ordinary and unpretentious fashion, there could
hardly have been any doubt about the result. But he went further
than this, and in some inspired moment appears to have conceived the
brilliant and happy idea of spicing his whole story, from beginning
to end, with the wildest and most boisterous fun.

"Not that his purpose was distinctly apparent on the first go off
of his piece in a Lincolnshire farm; for the serious utterances of
several gloomy rustics for a few moments filled the house almost
with awe.

"However, with so much genuine pantomime go for the finish in
reserve, very possibly the author knew what he was about. And he was
not at fault. He must have realised what depths of quiet fun would
be stirred when placing Mrs. BERNARD-BEERE over the dead body of
_Eva_, he made her, in so many words, courteously request _Farmer
Dobson_ and the comic agnostic _Edgar_ to consider themselves quite
at home, and not mind the corpse, as she had a few general remarks
to make that wouldn't take her much more than five-and-twenty
minutes.

"But there,--the matter really defies sober criticism, and, taking
his own charming lines from the bill, the story is soon told:--

'The Town booked well for the opening night,
The Pit was full, an evident pull,
The Grand Old Man had a box of his own,
And VEZIN behind said it looked all right,
And the critics in front took an excellent tone.
There's a chance for _The Promise of May, of May_,
There's a chance for _The Promise of May_.

'But a sly wink woke in the eye of the Town,
And a frivolous fit got hold of the Pit,
And KELLY a pitchfork, and VEZIN a roar,
And the stock chaff followed the Curtain down;
And the Critics they did--as they've done before--
They slaughtered _The Promise of May_, _of May_,
They slaughtered _The Promise of May!_'

"The Laureate cannot write a playable play. _The Falcon_ at the St.
James's was saved by the acting; _Queen Mary_, nothing could save;
_The Cup_ was the success of Miss ELLEN TERRY, Mr. IRVING, the
scene-painter, and the stage management.

"But _The Promise of May_ must be an Utter Frost, with, we are sorry
to think, no Promise to Pay in it; and nothing, except the spasmodic
curiosity of the Public to see what the Laureate can't do, can set
this unfortunate Humpty-Dumpty up again."

* * * * *

THE LAUREATE'S LATEST.

The "town" ran off to the Globe one night,
For a play was played then from the Laureate's pen;
But they soon said, "How dare he?" and kicked up a "row,"
And pooh-poohed the drama--and serve it right,
For that it deserved it I think you'll allow.
Yea, they jeered at "The Promise of May,"--of May--
Annoyed at "The Promise of May."

But stay; we'd better, maybe, leave that song,
Yea, leave its "hen," its "fox," its "cat," and "cheese"--
For where is he who can burlesque burlesque?
And this strange playwright, mystic, wonderful,
Loved stage plays with a love that was his doom!
For lo! this "Promise" played by Bernardbeere
Has gained, at least, this very doubtful fame--
Hereafter, through all ages--"'Twas no good!"

The critics, o'er its threadbare plot,
Ere long grew "crusty"--one and all.
Said they, "'Twill fail; such awful rot
Will on the public quickly pall.
The leading character is strange,
The rest are all a prosy batch,
The audience they'll never catch--
The programme they must shortly change.

"A. T.," they said, "'tis weak and dreary.
A lot of bosh," they said.
"It makes the audience aweary;
Soon it will be dead!"

Besides the forced and feeble plot,
Full soon did men discover
The scientific "snob" was not
A pleasant sort of lover.

Of speech he had an awful flow--
Which Tennyson thought clever--
And he soliloquised as though
He meant to jaw for ever!

And then unto the critics and reviewers,
Irresponsible critics and reviewers,
Thus, Alfred (not in metre of Catullus--
But more in "In Memoriam" sort of measure):

"The critics prattle on amain--
That envious and grumbling race
Declare my play is commonplace,
And rather full of chaff than grain.

"I hold it true--although they bawl,
And I may heavy find the cost--
'Tis better to produce a 'frost'
Than ne'er to write a play at all."

And then unto the Queen (s'berry) he hymned
This little lay; for he, the noble "Q.,"
Cried out at Edgar's "Maxims of the Mud."
Then Alfred and fair Bernardbeere were glad,
And rested well content that all was well.

"You jeered, O, "Q," and you were bold
To treat my great prose-play with mirth;
But your advertisement was worth
No end of praise and lots of gold.

"For _now_ the town will haste to see
My 'Edgar' that made _you_ so ill;
And so they'll keep it in the bill
Since that advertisement from thee."

* * * * *

Shall it not be scorn for me to harp upon this mouldy thing?
For surely in a week or two it will have taken wing.

"Weakness to be wroth with weakness"--that this play is weak, 'tis
plain.
I have seen much better dramas founded by a shallower brain.
From the programme of the Globe, then, sweep this foolish thing away.
Better fifty Meritt-mixtures than this sickly, stupid play!

CARADOS.

_The Referee_, November 19, 1882.

* * * * *

A DREAM OF GREAT PLAYERS.

I read one night, while lying on the down,
In L. T. Annual[11] of the current year--
Tho' unpretending volume, bound in brown--
Great deeds recorded were.

At length, methought that I had wandered far
Through the long path that runs beside the line,
And found myself before the entrance-door,
And knew I was in time.

I knew the stands, I knew the nets, I knew
The smooth, green level of the well-rolled lawn,
And thought, "Here many an athlete anxious grew,
Dreading the fateful dawn."

A voice from out the ticket-office came--
From overworked collector in his prime--
"Pass quickly through, the seats are all thine own
Until the end of time."

Close by a player, leaning on the rail,
Clasping a racket, Tate-made, in his hand--
A champion among men, who made me hail,
And led me to the stand.

His cigarette from out his mouth he drew:
Blew out white clouds, then said, with courteous smile--
"Hast come to see great players? Good! Then you
Had best stay here awhile.

"I am the champion! ask thou not my name;
Not to know me argues thyself unknown.
Many played here, and fell; whene'er I came
All men were overthrown."

"No marvel," I made answer; "In fair field
Myself before such skill had doubtless quail'd,
As all men must." Then, turning, I appealed
To one who merely wailed--

As he with forced perpetual smile averse,
To his full height his stately figure draws--
"My youth," he said, "is blighted with a curse--
This stripling is the cause.

"For seven years The Cup I strove to win,
But ever, when it seemed within my grip,
He, rising o'er all others, entered in,
And dashed it from my lip."

His words of grief fell idly on my ear,
As thunderdrops fall on a sleeping sea.
Sudden I heard a voice that cried--"Come here,
That you may look on me.

"I am ex-champion, now three years displaced,
And since that time I find it very slow;
I have no _men_ to conquer in this waste,
I war with fairer foe."

He paused in gloom, and towards the others faced,
To whom the Smiler--"Oh! you tamely died;
You should have stood well to the back, and placed
The ball along the side."

"Alas! alas!" a low voice, full of care,
Murmured beside me--"Champion I might be,
But for this injured member which I bear
I had gained victory."

I gazed upon him, then became aware
Of some one coming hastily in wrath,
Reminding his twin-brother--"We're the pair
Chosen to play the North.

"_Do_ hurry up, our foes await us there;
The stem, black-bearded form, the referee,
Ejaculating, as he tears his hair,
'Where can the players be?'"

Then seized his arm, and drew him from the spot.
I, feeling tired and thirsty, strolled away;
The day becoming most extremely hot,
I cared to see no play.

_Pastime_, February 13, 1884.

* * * * *

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.

Listen to the doleful story
Of a juvenile M.P.,
He was but a voting Tory,
And a farmer's daughter she.

Spake he in his wisest manner
(Whereat people often smiled),
"You must give up your piano,
You are but a farmer's child.

"Straight forget each foreign tongue, dear,
And, to further my desire,
All the songs you ever sang, dear--
For a tenant is your sire."

So she sells her dear piano;
With the cash her bargain yields
Buys she Gibbs's best guano,
Which she scatters o'er the fields.

Then forgets each well-bred accent,
Foreign, native, just the same,
All her modern books are back sent
To the stores from whence they came.

Then he marries her and makes her
Thus a lady of renown,
And with condescension takes her
To his house by Stamford town.

From the gate his crest depended,
Which the owner's breeding shows;
Hand with fingers wide extended
Stretching from a lordly nose.

Waves the flippant owner's pennant
O'er the keep's embattled brow,
Though her sire was but a tenant
She is Lady Burleigh now.

Long she lived in stately manner
'Mid the highborn and the grand,
But she pined for her piano
Scattered on the teeming land.

Then she grew and ever thinner,
And she murmured, "O that he,
At that agricultural dinner,
Had not ever counselled me."

So she drooped and drooped before him,
And at last, with anguish bent,
To his freedom did restore him,
Following her dear instrument.

He survived in state and bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, young and free,
Not a lord in all the county
Was so great a fool as he.

CECIL.

_The Kettering Observer_, March 21, 1884.

When Lord Burghley, M.P. (son of the Marquis of Exeter), took the English farmers to task for allowing their daughters to play the piano, and to learn a few of the polite little accomplishments of the day, his remarks were generally resented as impertinent, and his name lent itself irresistibly to the ridicule contained in the preceding parody of Tennyson's "Lord of Burleigh." Inasmuch as Tennyson's poem was founded on incidents connected with the courtship and marriage of the first Marquis of Exeter, to Sarah Hoggins, the daughter of a small yeoman farmer at Bolas Magna, in Shropshire. The marriage took place in October, 1791, and the lady died in January, 1797, leaving two sons, of whom the elder became the second Marquis of Exeter, and was the grandfather of the Lord Burghley above referred to.

* * * * *

THE FAITHLESS PEELER.

Skulking slily down the area,
He to her his mind doth tell--
"I feel somewhat dry, my Mary,
And some beer would be as well."
She replies, by way of feeler,
"La, who'd thought of seeing thee?"
He is but a smart young peeler,
And a maid-of all-work she.

He to lips that do not falter,
Raises up the half-pint mug;
Vows his love will never alter--
Eyeing hard the empty jug.
"I can pick that bone of pheasant,
Little care I for a knife--
Love, it makes our duty pleasant,
Luncheon love I dear as life."

He across the kitchen going,
Sees two lordly bottles stand;
"India pale" within them glowing,
And he grasps one in each hand.
From deep thought himself he rouses,
Says to her that loves him well,
"I could pop these in my trousers'
Pocket, and no one might tell."

This he doth by her attended,
And they lovingly converse
Of the toothsome things that tended
To bind so close his heart to hers.
Leg of pork, with sauce of apple,
Fowl and bacon and broad beans;
cold roast beef, with which he'd grapple,
Sooner than with warmed-up greens.

What she gives him makes her dearer,
Such she hopes to be the case;
Hopes his beat will still be near her,
Should she ever change her place.
Oh! but he doth love her truly;
He shall have a cup of tea--
She will bring it to him duly,
Some time after half-past three.

And her heart rejoices greatly,
Whenever peeler she discerns,
Past the small boys pacing stately,
While they mimic him by turns.
Thinks he looks far more majestic
Than he ever looked before--
Fears he winked at the domestic
Higher up at Number Four;

Hears him speak in gentle murmur,
Knows he's answering her call,
While he treads with footstep firmer,
Leading past the garden wall.
All at once the colour flushes
His false face from brow to chin;
As it were with shame he blushes,
While she vows she's "been took in."

Then unable to conceal her
Love, she murmurs, "Oh, that he
Were once more that faithful Peeler,
Which did win my heart from me."
He but begged she'd no more bore him,
When she falls flat at his side;
Gathered soon a crowd before him,
Whilst to lift her up he tried;

And one came to raise her bonnet,
And he looked at him and said,
"Bring a chair, and place her on it,
For I fear she's hurt her head."
Home they took her, and next morning,
By her mistress she's addressed,
"Mary, you have a month's warning--
This time, mind. I'm not in jest.

_The Puppet Show_, July 29, 1848.

* * * * *

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.

(_Slightly altered from the Poet Laureate_).

To the Bill he whispers gaily,
"Land Bill, I the truth must tell--
You're a nuisance; but believe me
That I really love you well!"
She replies, that Irish Maiden,
"No one I respect like thee."
He is Lord of ancient Hatfield,
And a simple Land Bill she.
So most kindly he receives her
Merely with _two_ hours' reproof,
Leads her to the Lords' Committee,
And she leaves her GLADSTONE'S roof.

"I will strive to guard and guide you,
And your beauty not impair;
Only add a few amendments,
Prune a section here and there.
Let us try these little clauses
Which the wealthy Lords suggest;
No connection with FITZMAURICE,
Or with HENEAGE and the rest!"
All he tells her makes her queerer,
Evermore she seems to yearn
For her Commons and her GLADSTONE,
And the moment of return.
And while now she wonders wildly
Why she feels inclined to sink,
Proudly turns the Lord of BURLEIGH,
"I have _drawn your teeth_, I think!"

Then her countenance all over
Pale and (emerald) green appears,
As he kicks her down the staircase,
'Mid their Lordships' wicked jeers.
But her GLADSTONE looked upon her,
Lying lifeless, worn, and spent,
And he said, "Your dress is ragged--
These must be arrears of _rent_."
Deeply mourns the Lord of BURLEIGH,
No one more distressed than he,
When the PREMIER moved the Commons
With the Peers to disagree.
And they gathered softly round her,
Did the Commons, and they said,
"Bring the dress we sent her forth in--
_That_ will raise her from the dead!"

_Punch_, August 13, 1881.

_The Figaro_ of January 22, 1873, contained a long parody (eleven verses), entitled, "The Lord of Burleigh," but it is not now of sufficient interest to warrant its reproduction.

* * * * *

A BURLINGTON HOUSE BALLAD.

(_With Apologies to Our Lordly Laureate_).

In her ear he whispers sadly,
"I've a grief upon my soul,
And I want you very badly
Just to take a little stroll."
She replies, in accents fainter,
"Anywhere, my love, with thee."
He is but a budding painter,
And his fair _fiancée_ she.
To her chamber straight she scurries,
Lest delay should bring reproof,
Pops her bonnet on and hurries
With him from her father's roof.
So she goes, by him attended,
Hears him absently converse,
As with spirits all unmended
He controls his steps to hers.
Faring thus, she wonders greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns.
Sees a building most majestic
In a simple maiden's eye;
Pays he then a smug domestic,
And the turnstile clicks them by.
All around are paint and glitter
High and low upon the wall,
While he treads with feelings bitter,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And as now she freely utters
Rapture it were vain to hide,
Fiercely turns he round and mutters,
"_There's my picture--it is 'skyed!_'"

_Funny Folks_, May, 1884.

* * * * *

THE MAY QUEEN OF 1879,

AS SHE MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

Well, you waked and call'd me early on the first, my mother dear,
As though't had been the jolliest time of all the glad new year,
For as you were aware, mother, in spite the wretched day,
I had to be Queen o' the May, mother, I had to be Queen o' the May.

You did your best for me, mother, I must say that of you;
You had my waterproof prepared, and my goloshes too;
You lent me your own muff, mother, my chilblains were so sore,
And made dear Robin bring the cover'd cart close to our door.

And yet the May-day games, mother, were not a great success;
And I, for I was Queen, alack!--got in the greatest mess;
The mud was over all our boots--it hail'd, too, as it chanced,
And I fell in a puddle, mother, while I with Robin danced.

(_Five verses omitted_).

"So, on the whole, I cannot say I'm glad--no more can you,
You call'd me early on the first, though then I begg'd you to;
In truth, could I have known, it would have been so cold and wet,
I'd have told the lads and lasses, mother, another Queen to get.

"But, there, it is too late to fret--the thing is over now,
But not again will your poor child thus play the fool, I vow;
Another year, if spring is late, I'll stay in bed all day,
Rather than get up early, mother, and be the Queen o' the May."

_Truth_, May 22, 1879.

* * * * *

You ask me why, tho' ill at ease,
Within this region I subsist,
Whose spirits falter in the mist,
And languish for the purple seas?

* * * * *

TENNYSON.

* * * * *

THE NEW UMBRELLA.

You ask me why, though ill at ease,
And chilled with rain, my gentle Stella,
I stand beneath the dripping trees,
With shivering hands and shaking knees,
But do not use my umbrella.

The reason I can soon explain,
Succinctly, simply, and precisely:
If once I used it in the rain,
I could not fold it up again,
Or roll it up so smooth and nicely.

No, precious slender staff! no hand of mine,
With ruthless hate or foolish gaming,
Shall mar thy symmetry divine--
The curved diagonal of line
That circles round thy wooden stamen.

The skill that wrapped thee up so tight
And fastened up the ring and button
Is rarer far than second-sight,
The art of catching fish at night,
Or carving any joint of mutton.

* * * * *

(Two verses omitted).

_The Cambridge Meteor_, June 13, 1882.

* * * * *

"OF old sat Freedom on the heights,
The Thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet."

* * * * *

TENNYSON.

* * * * *

PAM UPON THE HEIGHTS.

[Lord Palmerston was appointed Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, March, 1861].

NOT old, stood Pam upon the Heights,
The Commons roaring at his feet,
And Beadledom, with antique rites,
Did him the homage meet.

_Punch_, in his place did much rejoice,
Not for the title then assigned,
But glad to hear the brave old boy's
Name shouted on the wind.

Admiring much his British pluck,
His ready tongue, his cheery jest,
His never downing on his luck,
But hoping for the best.

His hate of humbug, saving such
As should to humbugs still be flung,
His speeches, void of artist touch,
Yet suiting English tongue.

His deeper hatred for the gang,
Who, prating of some Right Divine,
Doom freedom's friends to starve, or hang,
Or in foul dungeons pine.

Cheer for the Constable! Our foes
Find him the nightmare of their dreams;
We, the wise Englishman, who knows
The Falsehood of Extremes.

_Punch_, 1861.

* * * * *

LORD BEACONSFIELD AS TITHONUS.

THE Whigs decay, the Whigs decay, and fall,
The Obstructives drag our Senate through the mire;
Parliaments cumber earth, then pass away;
E'en this one, after many a session, dies;
While I, secure of immortality,
Take my calm saunter, propped by Monty's arm,
Along the highways of the busy world,
A noted figure, roaming, in my dream,
All sorts of places in my Favourite East,
The gleaming halls and splendours of Lothair.
Alas for that grand piece of statesmanship,
That glorious work, the Berlin settlement!
So highly lauded by my chosen print
The _Daily Telegraph_. Almost I seemed
To its great heart none other than a god!
Bulgaria asked for independency;
'Twas granted with a few strokes of the pen.
Some people really don't care what they grant.
But the strong Russ, indignant, worked his will,
Pared down and minimised my settlement;
And though he could not end it, left it maimed,
The veriest of hashes. Can fine words
From Salisbury make amends? Though even yet
Our faithful organs in the daily press
Are tremulous with praise, weep tears of joy
To hear us. Come, let's go; we've had enough
Of Government. How can a man desire
To mix with Irish members, rowdy lot,
Who never mind the ruling of the Chair,
But pass beyond the Speaker's ordinance,
Which all obey--or ought to, if they don't?

A black cloud hovers o'er the Cape: there come
Glimpses of dark men we have made our foes.
Once more I hear the rumour steal abroad
Of an election-time approaching near;
And who can tell the upshot? Will the rout
Whom I enfranchised not so long ago
Shake off the yoke of Tory Government,
And bring the Liberals in instead? Who knows?

Fain would I get me to the gorgeous East!
I wonder how my constitution stands
The rigours of this chilly English clime,
This so-called summer, wretched, cold, and wet.
I shiver by the fireside, while the steam
Floats from the damp fields round my country seat,
And racks my agèd bones with rheumatism.
Place me upon some Asiatic throne,
Give me an empire in the realms of morn,
Thither I'd hasten from this _bourgeois_ court
On a triumphal car with silver wheels.

V. A. C. A.

_The World_, July 30, 1879.

* * * * *

WHAT LOCKSLEY HALL SAID BEFORE HE PASSED HIS OXFORD RESPONSIONS,

(_Vulgo_ SMALLS).

OH the misery of "Smalls!" the cark, the turmoil, and the grind!
Oh the cruel, cruel fetters which are wreathing round my mind!
There is grammar, there is _Euclid_, and far worse than all of these,
Arithmetical refinements, with their stocks, and rules of threes,
With their discount and their practice, and their very vulgar
fractions,
Smashing up the one ideal into many paltry factions.
Square root makes the head to ache, the decimals the tear to start,
For they're ever circulating round the fibres of my heart--
Learning grammar is like putting water in a leaky pot,
And its memory is only like the days remembered not;
Verbs in "M I" are aggravating, _Euclid_ makes the foot to stamp,
Only lucid when enlightened by a moderator lamp,
The old spider and his cobwebs! would that I could sweep them out
From the dust and must of ages with a triumph and a shout;
Shall I spurn him with my foot, or shall I scorn him with mine eye?
Shall I tear him into pieces? SOUTHEY burnt him--so will I.

C. C.

B. N. C. _College Rhymes_, 1861.

These lines also appeared in _Punch_.

There was also an early parody of "Locksley Hall" in _Punch_, describing the Railway Mania of 1845. This parody was rather technical in its language, not very amusing, and is now quite out of date.

* * * * *

BATTUE SHOOTING.

Gather round, my noble comrades; hardy sportsmen, gather where,
Placed in yonder shaded corner, stands for each an easy chair;
Close behind are well-packed hampers, and attendants duly wait
To reload your deadly weapons while you sit and shoot in state.
Amply fed and reared, my pheasants--tame they'll answer to your call,
But, like whirling leaves in winter, soon you'll see them thickly fall.
Hark, the beaters drive them forward. Now, prepare--the time is nigh,
We shall soon reduce their numbers. Peste! they're far too fat to fly!
See the startled hares and rabbits vainly shelter safe have sought,
Headlong rushing, mad with terror--surely this is noble sport!
Eh! what say you? Let go at them, now's the time to try your skill;
Crawling wounded, lame and fluttering, down they go the bag to fill.
Warmish work, and quite fatiguing--let's refresh ere we renew.
Vulgar hinds may sneer and welcome. Vive, say I, the good battue!

* * * * *

Surely those who so love slaughter might, when close time comes
for grouse,
Find congenial occupation if they donned the butcher's blouse.

D. EVANS.

_The Weekly Dispatch_, August 31, 1884.

* * * * *

GODIVA.

(_A Pose Plastique_, by Madame Warton, _before_ the forthcoming picture by Edwin Landseer, R.A.)

OR, THE PEEPING GENT OF COVENTRY STREET.

_I waited in the street named Coventry;
I hung outside the 'bus from Putney Bridge,
To watch the three short fares; and there I shaped
The last new "Tableau Vivant" into this._

NOT only we, the smartest blades on Town,
Fast men that with the speed of an express
Run down the slow, not only we, that prate
Of gents and snobs, have loved the genus well,
And loathed to see them unamused; but she
Did more, and undertook, and overcame,
The Venus of the _Tableaux Vivans_--Madame
Warton, Queen of the Walhalla, near the street
Of Coventry: for when there was nought up
To take the Town, the Gents all came to her,
Clamouring, "If this last, we die of slowness!"
She sought a painter, found him where he strode
About the room, among his dogs, alone,
His beard shaved close before him, and his hair
Cropped short behind. She told him the Gents' fears,
And prayed him, "If this last, they die of slowness!"
Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed,
"What would you have _me_ do--an animal painter--
For such as _these?_" "A _Tableau_ paint," said she.
He laughed, and talked about Sir Peter Laurie.[12]

Then chucked her playfully beneath the chin;
"O, ay, ay, ay, you talk!" "Talk! yes!" she said.
"But paint it, and prove what I will not do."
And with a sly wink there was no mistaking,
He answered, "Ride you as the famed Godiva,"
And I will paint it," she nodded, and in jest
They parted, and a cabman drove her home.

All was arranged. The boardmen in the street,
As curs about a bone, with snarl and blow
Made war upon each other for a board:
The best man won. She sent bill-stickers forth,
And bade them cover over every hoarding
With large placards, announcing she would please
Her favourite gents; who, as they loved her well,
From then till Monday next, in crowds should come
And gaze at her,--each one his shilling paying
For seats within the public promenade.

Then went she to her dressing room, and there
Unhooked the wedded fastenings of her gown,
Some soft one's gift; but every now and then
She lingered, looking in her toilette glass,
Rougeing her cheek: anon she shook herself,
And showered the rumpled raiment 'neath her knee;
Then clad herself in silk; adown the stair
Stole on; and like a bashful maiden slid
Through passage and through passage, until she reached
The platform; there she found her palfrey trapt
With pewter logies and mosaic gold.

Then rode she forth, clothed all in silken tights:
The fiddles played beneath her as she rode,
And the reserved seats hardly breathed for fear.
The little wide-mouthed heads beyond the stalls
Had cunning eyes to see: the crimson rouge
Made her cheek flame: a fast man, winking, shot
Light horrors through her pulses: the saloon
Was all in darkness; though from overhead
The flickering gas-light dimly flared: but she
Not less through all bore up, till, last she gave
The signal to the workmen in the flats,
And round upon the pivot slow she turned.

Then rode she back, clothed all in silken tights:
And one low Gent, decked out in Joinville tie,
The certain symbol of a Gentish taste,
Using an ivory opera-glass he'd hired,
Peeped--but the glasses, ere he had his fill,
Were shivered into pieces, and the curtain
Was dropt before him; so that the deposit
Left on the glass was forfeit to the Jew;
And he that knew it grieved: Now all at once,
With twelve great shocks of sound, the interlude
Was scraped on cat-gut from a dozen fiddles,
One after one, for neither did keep time,
Nor play in tune: and Madame Warton gained
Her chamber; whence re-issuing, as "Venus
Rising from the Sea," the ennui passed away,
And she made everlasting lots of tin.

_The Puppet Show_, April 1, 1848.

* * * * *

THE VOYAGE.

We hired a ship: we heaved a shout:
We turned her head towards the sea;
We laugh'd and scull'd, and baled her out,
We scream'd and whistled loud for glee:
We scull'd, we scream'd, we laugh'd, we sang,
Beneath the merry stars of June:
Went flute tu-tu, and banjo bang:
We meant to sail into the moon!

Far off a boatman hail'd us high:
"My boat is named the Bonny Bess;
Old Jack will charge you more than I,
For I will charge you sixpence less:
My boat is strong, and swift, and taut,
But Jack's--she is not worth a cuss."
We held his terms in scorn, for what
Was sixpence or a crown to us?

We bang'd; we baled; we scull'd; we scream'd;
The water gain'd upon us fast.
We looked upon the moon: she seem'd
As far as when we saw her last.
We look'd: no terror did we show;
We did not care a button, we;
We knew the good ship could not go
_Beyond_ the bottom of the sea.

But one--at best he was a lout--
The same, we guess, was short of chink--
Exclaim'd in terror, "Let me out,
I am quite sure the ship will sink.
The leak is quickly gaining height;
'Twill soon be half-way up the mast."
And through the hatch that starry night
We let him out, and on we pass'd.

Slight skiffs aslant the starboard slipt,
And jet-black coal-boats, stoled in state,
And slender shallops, silvern tipp'd,
And other craft both small and great.
But we nor changed to skiff or barge,
Or slender shallops, silvern-peak'd;
We knew no vessel, small or large,
Was built by mortal hands, but leak'd.

Beyond the blank horizon burn'd;
The moon had slid below the main;
About the bows we sharply turn'd,
And scull'd the good ship home again.
Before us gleam'd the hazy dawn;
We scull'd, but ere we shockt the lea,
And paid old Jack, the ship had gone
Down to the bottom of the sea.

Above the wreck the sad sea breaks,
And many a pitying moonlight streams;
And o'er the yeasty water flakes
The snow-white sea-gull, sliding screams.
If any goods be wash'd ashore,
Or cash--if any cash be found--
To us, and not to Jack, restore:
But then--you cannot; we were drowned.

S. K. C.

_Kottabos_ (William McGee), Dublin, 1875.

* * * * *

"Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me."

* * * * *

TENNYSON.

It seems hard to believe that the weather was even hotter in New York during last June than it was in London during certain days of July and August. An American poet thus records his impressions:--

Hot, hot, hot,
Is the blistering breath of June,
And I would that my throat could utter
An anti-torridness tune.
O well for the Esquimau
That he sits on a cake of ice!
O well for the Polar bear
That he looks so cool and nice!
But the scorching heats pours down
And blisters both head and feet!
And O for a touch of vanished frost,
Or the sound of some hail and sleet!

* * * * *

THE LAY OF THE DRENCHED ONE.

(_Time_, 11.45 P.M.)

Pelt, pelt, pelt,
On the cold wet earth, thou Rain!
While my tongue is about to utter
The anger that swells in my brain.

Oh, well for the waterproof'd gent,
As he walks in his shiny array:
Oh, well for the dandified swell,
As he drives in his cabriolet.

And the last lone 'bus rolls on,
As full as its guard can fill;
But oh for the sight of a vanish'd cab,
And the sound of a wheel that's still!

Pelt, pelt, pelt,
On the damp, drench'd streets, O Rain;
But the tender bloom of a dress-coat spoilt
Will never return again.

JOHN COLLETT.

"But, says the _Sporting Times_, Calcutta is a rough place for a 'stony-broke,' for there is no comfortable workhouse for Europeans, such as would remind one of Tennyson's well-known 'Workhouse Song.'"--

"Break, break, break,
All these cursed stones I see,
For that is the task they've set me,
And _I wish that I wasn't me_."

* * * * *

Wake! wake! wake!
In thy Northern land so free,
And our eloquent leader utters
A protest for you and me.

Oh, well for Midlothian's sons
That they shout with him in the fray,
Oh, well for our British lads,
For we know he will gain us the day.

And the Franchise war goes on,
Though the Lords would have us be still;
But, O for our triumph, thou Grand Old Man,
When the people have their bill.

Wake! wake! wake!
To the war-cry of "Liberty!"
And slav'ry's old despotic days
Shall never return to thee.

RICHARD H. W. YEABSLEY.

_The Weekly Dispatch_, September 14, 1884. (Parody Competition).

* * * * *

RHYME FOR ROGERS.

Howe'er it be, it seems to me
A House of Peers can be no good:
Mob caps are more than coronets,
And Hyde Park crowds than Hatfield's brood.

_Punch_, September 6, 1884.

* * * * *

Tennyson's "Enoch Arden" has been less frequently parodied than most of his poems; some years ago the Australian Punch had a clever burlesque of it, and a "continuation" of Enoch Arden was privately printed in 1866. This very scarce little pamphlet consisted of twelve pages, in a blue wrapper, and had no printer's name or place on it. As it is now eagerly sought after by collectors of Tennysoniana, it is here given in full:--

ENOCH ARDEN,

(CONTINUED)

BY

C. H. P.

Not by the "LAUREAT,"--but a timid hand
That grasped the Poet's golden lyre, "and back
Recoil'd,--e'en at the sound herself had made."

1866.

ENOCH ARDEN

(_Continued_).

So Enoch died, as he had lived so long.
Alone--alone! for Miriam Lane had pass'd
To an adjoining chamber; but she heard
Those joyous dying words, "A sail! a sail!
I'm sav'd," and hurried back to comfort him;
But wist not that the "sail" his spirit saw
Was God's own ark, propell'd by angel wings
Towards the Ocean of Eternity.
"Ah well!" she said; "poor Enoch! he is gone;
God rest his soul: give him more joy in Heaven
Than he had found on earth,--at least of late:
I thought he had not long to linger here,
The sea made such a moaning all the night:
It sounded like his death-wail; and methought
I saw the corpse-light dancing in the fen.
Now will I tell the neighbours who he was:
They'll wonder how Dame Miriam knew the truth,
But kept it close, because she loved her friend
Enoch:--they cannot call me gossip now."
It chanced that day, that Philip left his mill
Earlier than wont: the nutting-time was come,--
That season of the year so closely link'd
To Philip's destiny;--it seem'd to stir
His pulse to quicker beat, and send a thrill
Of strange mysterious feeling thro' his veins.
He knew not how, or why: but Philip hurried on
That he might keep the promised holiday
With all the children--his, and hers, and theirs--
All dear to him; nor least the bonny Ralph,
That last wee prattler, climbing to his knee.
And all were ready with their nutting crooks;
And Annie Ray, his own, his wife at last,--
His "beam of sunshine," as he called her oft.
But as he left his mill, the passing-bell,
With its first startling boom, tolled on his ear.
It is a sound that enters at the brain,
A saddening augury of woe, and strikes
The inmost chord of sympathising hearts
That fondly breathe an echoing sigh of pain.
Sudden it falls, chilly as winter's frost,
Turning to icicles the heart's warm blood.
Spoke Philip to the comrade at his side,
"Know you for whom that passing-bell is struck?
Some full-grown man: it is the minute-toll."
"Mayhap the stranger down at Miriam Lane's;
I heard that he was dying yester-e'en.
The tide has turn'd but now: 'tis running out;
Whoe'er he was, his soul upon the shore
Waited the ebbing tide to ebb away."
Then came they to a little knot of men
(Fishers in dark-blue knitted woollen vests)
Hard by "the idle corner,"--so 'twas called,--
The blacksmith's forge. The honest gossippers,
As Philip pass'd along, hushed their voices.
Could he have read their looks, he might have known
Some dark o'er-clouding sorrow was at hand,
More nigh than he could think for, and more hard.
Then passed a woman from the ale-house door,
And, all unwitting Philip was so near,
Cried, "Have you heard who died just now?
'Twas Enoch Arden,--lost, but late returned;
And Miriam Lane has known it all along!"
As if some hand had struck a sudden blow,
Philip seemed stunned: the blood forsook his cheek,
The big cold drops stood out upon his brow,
As on the victim's, stretched upon the rack.
His comrade laid his hand on Philip's arm,
And uttering no word (what could he say?)
Led him, as one half-blinded, step by step,
Until they reached the home, where Annie Ray,
Poor widow-wife, sat watching his return;
He stagger'd towards her, caught her in his arms:
God help me,--kiss me darling,--wife look up!
"My wife--his wife--I know not what I say:
If we did sin it was unwittingly;
O, Annie! darling, one more fond embrace,
E'er it be said our wedded love was wrong."
Then, as she wonder'd, gazing on his face,
And twined her loving arms around, he told,--
Yes, told her all--how Enoch had returned.
Then Philip's comrade, who had linger'd near,
Beckon'd the children out, and closed the door:
There Miriam met them, with the lock of hair:
But, loth to interrupt the sorrowers,
She led the children to the house of death;
And took a key from off the wooden peg,
Beside the settle, where she used to hang
The skeins of twine to mend the fishing nets:
Then gently led them up the narrow stair,
That creaked beneath their stealthy-moving tread.
Sacred the silence that we ever keep,
When death is in the house! we speak, we walk,
With muffled tone and step, as if the dead
Could be disturb'd, and waken out of sleep.
Then Miriam turn'd the key;--that jarring click!
How harsh it grated on the children's ear!
As do the pebbles on the boat's sharp keel.
Cold thro' the open casement came the breeze:
There stood the bed--and on the sacking lay,
Distinct beneath the sheet, a rigid form--
The feet so prominent, the arms close down!--
The children clung together, half afraid,
While Miriam turned the coverlid aside.
They dar'd not stoop to kiss the pallid face;
But gaz'd awhile, then slowly left the room.
Once they had seen their brother, as he lay
Dead in his little cot: but he had look'd
So beautiful asleep, you might have thought
Death's angel had but gently turned him round,
To rest more quietly: the tiny hands
Were clasp'd together, and the face bent down,
As resting on the pillow--not like this,--
So stiff, so cold, so utterly alone.
Now, as the twilight fell the second day,
Another mourner came: she spoke no word:
Miriam had put the key within her hand,
Turning aside, to dash away her tears:
The widowed woman went up-stairs alone.
One moment gazing on her Enoch's face,
She stoop'd to kiss it, putting back the hair,
As she had done in life: then kneeling down
She pray'd,--"forgive me,--pity me,--Oh God."
She touch'd his marble-cold, pale, hand with hers,
That bore e'en then the double wedding rings.
She laid her aching head upon his breast,--
When from her lips came forth a cry,--a shriek,
Like to a hare's when shot: and Miriam came,
And bore her senseless from the room of death.
'Twas strange how quick the widow's glance had caught
Each little circumstance of the chamber,
And noted in her loving memory,--
How on the table lay his Bible--closed:
No need had Enoch now of Holy Writ,
No need of Gospel Message; for he stood
In presence of his SAVIOUR, and his GOD.
But had she open'd where the much-worn page
Told of the frequent reading, she had seen
The marks of blistering tears upon that text,
"Whose shall she be in Heav'n? there they marry
Not, nor give in marriage, but are angels."
There was a fly upon the window pane
Whose low monotonous hum she scarcely heard,
And that unconscious; but in after years
The buzzing of a summer fly recall'd,
E'en in her happiest hours, _that_ day,
That lonely visit to the bed of death;
And cast a moment's shadow o'er her heart.
More keenly she remarked the remnant store
Of lulling anodynes: ah! bootless all
To soothe the fever of his aching brain:
The Wise Physician healed him with a touch,
(E'en as we lay our hand on ringing glass
To still the sound that careless fingers make),
And sent a loving angel as his guide
Through the dark valley to the realms of joy.
There lay his watch, his big round silver watch,
Whose constant tick had sadly echoed "Home"
In all his wanderings; now its pulse was hushed:
No need of Time for him: he had Eternity.

* * * * *

Then Philip left the village for awhile:
And when once more the nutting-season came,
And yellow "rust-spots" on the autumn leaves,
He and his Annie were again at home!
They'd learnt the lesson God had set them, "Wait:"
And now the time of their reward was come:
In _Faith's_ strong soil _Patience_ had taken root,
And brought forth _Hope_ and _Joy_, as bloom and fruit.

* * * * *

ENOCH'S "HARD 'UN."