Chapter VI: Introduction (5)

The tear-drops then welled from her eyes,
And down her damask cheek they crept;
Her bosom heaved with sundry sighs,
She cried, "I'll _no_ excuse accept.
I will not speak to him," said she;
"How _dare_ he keep me waiting here!"
When suddenly, approaching near,
Her tardy swain she chanced to see;

And then, forgetting she'd been weary,
She cried, "Oh, here comes Fred!"
And somehow then she seemed less dreary,
"How _nice_ he looks!" she said.

H. C. NEWTON.

From _Tom Hood's Comic Annual_, 1884.

The Poet Laureate's cruise with Sir Donald Currie, in the autumn of 1883, was an event of some importance, as he was then afforded an opportunity of reading his poems to a select audience of Royal personages; it is generally supposed that it was during that trip also that the Prime Minister offered him the title, his acceptance of which has since been the subject of so much comment and censure. _Punch_ (September 22, 1883) described the voyage to the north in the following comical medley of parodies of the Laureate's poems:--

A LAUREATE'S LOG.

(_Rough Weather Notes from the New Berth-day Book_.)

MONDAY.

If you're waking, please don't call me, please don't call me, CURRIE
dear,
For they tell me that to-morrow t'wards the open we're to steer!
No doubt, for you and those aloft, the maddest merriest way,--
But _I_ always feel best in a bay, CURRIE, _I_ always feel best in
a bay!

TUESDAY.

Take, take, take?--
What will I take for tea?
The thinnest slice--no butter,--
And that's quite enough for me!

WEDNESDAY.

It is the little roll within the berth
That by-and-by will put an end to mirth,
And, never ceasing, slowly prostrate all!

THURSDAY.

Let me alone! What pleasure can you have
In chaffing evil? Tell me, what's the fun
Of ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All you the rest, you know how to behave
In roughish weather! I, for one,
Ask for the shore--or death, dark death,--I am so done!

FRIDAY.

Twelve knots an hour! But what am I?
A poet, with no land in sight,
Insisting that he feels "all right"
With half a smile--and half a sigh!

SATURDAY.

Comfort? Comfort scorned of lubbers! Hear this truth the Poet roar,
That a sorrow's crown of sorrows is remembering days on shore.
Drug his soda, lest he learn it when the Foreland gleams a spec
In the dead unhappy night, when he can't sit up on deck!

SUNDAY.

Ah! you've called me nice and early, nice and early, CURRIE dear!
What? Really in? Well, come, the news I'm precious glad to hear;
For though in such good company I willingly would stay--
I'm glad to be back in the bay, CURRIE, I'm glad to be back in the bay!

It is now somewhat more than fifty years since a young, and comparatively obscure writer addressed some presumptious lines to a lady of noble family, in which he sneered at her claims of long descent, ridiculed nobility generally, and concluded by advising her to go out amongst the poor, to teach the children, and to feed the beggars.

The tone of the poem was censorious and offensive; but Lady Clara Vere de Vere, to whom it was addressed, let it pass unnoticed by, knowing that "Everything comes to those who know how to wait," and now this last daughter of a hundred Earls has written a good-humoured rejoinder to the first Baron Tennyson, in which she playfully assumes her age to have remained what it was fifty years ago:--

Baron Alfred T. de T.,
Are we at last in sweet accord?
I learn--excuse my girlish glee--
That you've become a noble Lord;
So now that time to think you've had
Of what it is makes charming girls,
Perhaps you find they're not so bad--
Those daughters of a hundred earls.

Baron Alfred T. de T.,
When last your face I chanced to see,
You had the passion of your kind,
You said some horrid things to me;
And then--"we parted," you to sail
For Oshkosh, in the simple steerage,
But now--excuse my girlish glee--
You reappear, and in the peerage!

Baron Alfred T. de T.,
Were you indeed misunderstood
That other day I heard you say,
"'Tis only noble to be good?"
I really thought you then affirmed--
'Tis so the words come back to me,
"Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood."

Baron Alfred T. de T.,
There stand twin-spectres in your hall,
And as they found you were a Lord
Two wholesome hearts were changed to gall;
The two, an humble couple they,
I think I see them, on my life,
The while they read of "Baron" T.,
The grand old Adam, and his wife!

Trust me, Baron T. de T.,
From yon blue heaven above us bent,
This simple granger and his spouse
Smile as you read your long descent.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
Nor must you think my language cruel,
It seems--excuse my girlish glee--
Consistency's a lovely jewel.

Baron Alfred T. de T.,
I know you're proud your name to own;
Your pride is yet no mate for mine,
My blood is bluer than your own.
Don't bid me break your heart again
For pastime, ere to town I go;
I'll not do that, my noble Lord,
But give you something that I owe.

Baron Alfred T. de T.,
When you were in that angry fit
You turned to me and thundered out,
"Go, teach the orphan girl to knit."
I am an orphan girl myself,
And that my knitting you may see,
Here is a _mitten_ that I've knit--
Excuse my gushing, girlish glee.

* * * * *

Now, there was another young lady who was treated with scant courtesy by the author of _Locksley Hall_, and she, too, has written a reply to the love-sick ravings of the young poet:--

COUSIN AMY'S VIEW.

SCENE--_The neighbourhood of Locksley Hall._

_Enter_ Lady AMY HARDCASH (_ætat. forty_)_, with a book of poems and several children_.

LADY AMY _loquitur_.

CHILDREN, leave me here a little; don't disturb me, I request;
For Mamma is very tired, and fain would take a little rest.

'Tis the place, the same old place, though looking somewhat pinched
and small.
Ah, 'tis many and many a day since last I looked on Locksley Hall!

Then 'twas in the spring of life and love--ah, Love, the great
Has-been!
Love which, like the year's own Spring, is very nice--and very
_green!_

In the Spring the new French fashions come the female heart to bless,
In the Spring the very housemaid gets herself another dress;

In the Spring we're apt to feel like children just let loose from
school;
In the Spring a young girl's fancy's very apt to play the fool.

On the moorland, by the waters he was really _very_ nice;
There was no one else at hand, and I--forgot Mamma's advice.

He indulged in rosy raptures, heaved the most suggestive sighs,
Said the very prettiest things about my lips and hazel eyes.

All his talk was most poetic, all his sentiments were grand,
Though his meaning, I confess, I did not always understand.

So that, when he popped the question, I _did_ blush and hang my head,
And,--well, I dare say the rest was pretty much as he has said.

* * * * *

LOCKSLEY'S famous--yes, and married, notwithstanding his fierce curse,
To a dame with lots of gold and very little taste for verse.

Nice to be a Lion's Lady in Society, no doubt!
Not so nice to smooth his mane at home when Leo is put out.

Talk of tantrums! Read these lines he published after--well, the jilt,
Pitching into poor Mamma, and charging me with nameless guilt!

Dear Mamma! _I_ thought her hard--but I'm a mother now myself,
And, I know what utter nonsense is the poet's scorn of pelf.

* * * * *

"Woman is the lesser man!" I hold that false as it is hard.
The most womanish of creatures surely is an angry bard.

Yet, sometimes, when, as at present, Spring is brightening all the
land,
Comes that longing for the fields, SIR RUFUS _cannot_ understand;

Comes a ghostly sort of doubt if e'en Society can give
All, quite all, for which a _well-loved_ woman might desire to live;

Comes a memory of his voice, a recollection of his glance,
Thoughts of things which then had power to make my maiden pulses dance;

Comes,--but I'm extremely stupid. Well, I know if our dear FAN
Took a fancy for a poet, I should soon dismiss the man.

Here she comes! She'll wed, I hope, rich Viscount VIVIAN ere the fall.
She ne'er had had _that_ chance, had I espoused the Lord of Locksley
Hall!

_Punch_, June 1, 1878.

* * * * *

In a magazine entitled _The Train_, published in 1856, there was a poem called _The Three Voices_, written by Mr. Lewis Carroll, who has since become famous for his quaintly humorous works. This was a parody of the obvious truisms, the muddled metaphor, and vague reasonings contained in Tennyson's _Two Voices_, and Mr. Carroll has wisely inserted it in his last collection of poems (_Rhyme? and Reason?_ Macmillan and Co.), it is somewhat altered from its original form, and is much heightened in its effect by the intensely comic, and ably drawn, illustrations of Mr. Arthur B. Frost.

Unfortunately, this clever parody is too long to quote entire, and an extract gives but a faint idea of its terribly grotesque sorrows, and its whimsical burlesque of the Laureate's reasoning in _The Two Voices:_--

THEY walked beside the wave-worn beach,
Her tongue was very apt to teach,
And now and then he did beseech,

She would abate her dulcet tone,
Because the talk was all her own,
And he was dull as any drone.

She urged "No cheese is made of chalk;"
And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk,
Tuned to the footfall of a walk.

Her voice was very full and rich,
And when at length she asked him "Which?"
It mounted to its highest pitch.

He a bewildered answer gave,
Drowned in the sullen moaning wave,
Lost in the echoes of the cave.

She waited not for his reply,
But, with a downward leaden eye,
Went on as if he were not by.

Then, having wholly overthrown
His views, and stripped them to the bone,
Proceeded to unfold her own.

* * * * *

"Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss
Of other thoughts no thoughts but this,
Harmonious dews of sober bliss?

"What boots it? Shall his fevered eye
Through towering nothingness descry
The grisly phantom hurry by?

"And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air;
See mouths that gape and eyes that stare,
And redden in the dusky glare?

"Yet still before him, as he flies,
One pallid form shall ever rise,
And bodying forth in glassy eyes.

"The vision of a vanished good,
Low peering through the tangled wood,
Shall freeze the current of his blood."

Till, like a silent water-mill,
When summer suns have dried the rill,
She reached a full stop, and was still.

To muse a little space did seem,
Then like the echo of a dream,
Harped back upon her threadbare theme.

Still an attentive ear he bent,
But could not fathom what she meant:
She was not deep, nor eloquent.

* * * * *

But, in truth, Tennyson has never failed so signally as when he has attempted to be metaphysical, and although his admirers have written many essays to explain the profundity of his ideas, and the beauties of his philosophy, their explanations seem to require some explaining, whilst it also seems that general readers fail to discern the charm in his would-be philosophical writings.

The _Higher Pantheism_ may be taken as an instance. It commences thus:--

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains--
Are not these, O Soul, the vision of Him who reigns?

Is not the vision He? tho' He be not that which he seems?
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the reason why;
For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel "I am I!"

There are several other couplets which do not tend to unravel the poet's tangled web of thought, whereas if we turn to _The Heptalogia_ (Chatto and Windus, 1880), we find the whole mystery treated with much greater lucidity of expression in _The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell_.

ONE, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is:
Surely this is not that; but that is assuredly this.

What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under:
If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without
thunder.

Doubt is faith in the main; but faith on the whole is doubt:
We cannot believe by proof; but could we believe without?

Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover:
Neither are straight lines curves; yet over is under and over.

* * * * *

God, whom we see not, is; and God who is not, we see;
Fiddle, we know, is diddle: and diddle we take it is dee.

The clever little work, from which the above is an extract, was published anonymously, but has been ascribed by the _Athenæum_, and other authorities, to a no less distinguished poet than Mr. A. C. Swinburne. Its full title is--

SPECIMENS OF MODERN POETS.

THE HEPTALOGIA; OR, THE SEVEN AGAINST SENSE. A CAP WITH SEVEN BELLS.

I. The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell.
II. John Jones.
III. The Poet and the Woodlouse.
IV. The Person of the House (Idyl CCCLXVI.)
V. Last Words of a Seventh-rate Poet.
VI. Sonnet for a Picture.
VII. Nephelidia.

All these poems display wonderful power and choice of language, with a perfect mastery of the most difficult forms of metre, such as only a practised poet could achieve.

* * * * *

_The Nineteenth Century_ for May, 1880, contained another of the Laureate's vague rhapsodical poems, entitled _De Profundis_, of which all the meaning was as well expressed in the following parody as in the original:--

"Awfully deep, my boy, awfully deep,
From that great deep before our world begins;
Awfully deep, my boy, awfully deep,
From that true world within the world we see,
Whereof our world is but the bounding shore.
Awfully deep, my boy, awfully deep,
With this ninth moon that sends the hidden sun
Down yon dark sea, thou comest, darling boy."

_The Princess Ida; or, Castle Adamant_, by Mr. W. S. Gilbert, which was produced at the Savoy Theatre, on January 5th, 1884, though a humorous adaptation of Tennyson's _Princess_, is not strictly a burlesque, and is styled by the author "A Respectful Operatic Per-version" of the Laureate's poem. It is altered from an earlier piece by Mr. Gilbert on the same theme. Almost the only passage which can be considered an actual parody of Tennyson's diction is the speech of the Princess Ida to the Neophytes, which is modelled on the Lady Psyche's harangue in the original poem:--

"Women of Adamant, fair Neophytes--
Who thirst for such instruction as we give,
Attend, while I unfold a parable.
The elephant is mightier than Man,
Yet Man subdues him. Why? The elephant
Is elephantine everywhere but here (_tapping her forehead_).
And Man, whose brain is to the elephant's,
As Woman's brain to man's--(that's rule of three)
Conquers the foolish giant of the woods,
As woman, in her turn, shall conquer Man!
In mathematics, woman leads the way--
The narrow-minded pedant still believes
That two and two make four! Why we can prove,
We women-household drudges as we are--
That two and two make five--or three--or seven;
Or five-and-twenty, if the case demands!
Diplomacy! The wiliest diplomate
Is absolutely helpless in our hands,
_He_ wheedles monarchs--woman wheedles him!
Logic? Why, tyrant Man himself admits
It's waste of time to argue with a woman!
Then we excel in social qualities:
Though Man professes that he holds our sex
In utter scorn, I venture to believe
He'd rather spend the day with one of you
Than with five hundred of his fellow-men!
In all things we excel! Believing this,
A hundred maidens here have sworn to place
Their feet upon his neck. If we succeed,
We'll treat him better than he treated us:
But if we fail, why then let hope fail too!
Let no one care a penny how she looks--
Let red be worn with yellow--blue with green--
Crimson with scarlet--violet with blue!
Let all your things misfit, and you yourselves,
At inconvenient moments come undone!
Let hair-pins lose their virtue; let the hook
Disdain the fascination of the eye--
The bashful button modestly evade
The soft embraces of the button-hole!
Let old associations all dissolve,
Let Swan secede from Edgar--Gask from Gask--
Sewell from Cross--Lewis from Allenby!
In other words, let Chaos come again!

A large number of miscellaneous parodies remain to be noticed, a few of the best will be given in full; of the remainder it will be sufficient to indicate the works in which they occur, as they are readily accessible.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

Some time ago _Funny Folks_ remarked:--

"The Laureate ought to add a verse to his famous lay of the Six
Hundred. It seems that whenever one of the immortal brigade dies, a
couple of recruits, at least, appear and fill his place. There are
already far more living claimants to the glory of participating in
the famous charge than ever took part in it.

"When can their glory fade,
If from the Light Brigade
When ONE is sundered,
Two will his place supply,
Ready to multiply
Still the Six Hundred?"

And in a somewhat similar manner parodies on this famous poem seem to start up on every hand. One, not yet mentioned, appeared in _Figaro_, November 29, 1876.

Another anonymous parody of the same original, called "The Charge of the Tight Brigade," though rather smart, is too slangy in its language to be inserted.

The following has been sent by Mr. James Dykes Campbell, who states that it was current in the Oxford colleges about twenty years ago. The author's name is not known.

THE CHARGE OF THE GOWNSMEN.

_A Reminiscence of the Anti-Tobacco Lecture._

(The Metre has been kindly lent for the occasion by the Poet Laureate).

To the "Star," through the "Star,"
Up the "Star" staircase--
Into the Assembly Room,
Crowded the Gownsmen.
Some one cried, "Chaff the cad!"
Forward they went like mad--
None knew exactly why--
All wished a lark to try--
E'en 'neath the Proctor's eye--
Into the Assembly Room.
On went the Gownsmen.

'Baccy to right of them,
'Baccy to left of them,
'Baccy in front of them,
Densely surrounds men!
Howled at by cad and scout,
Ordered by Proctors out,
Still they pressed onwards well,
Raising a stifling smell,
Into the "Star" Hotel,
To the Assembly Room,
Hastened the Gownsmen.

Flashed every weed alight,
Showed every gownsman fight,
Hitting to left and right,
Checking the Proctor, and
Milling the Townsmen.
Flew Academic blows,
Smashing the civic nose,
Strong was the smoke, and thick,
Making the Lect'rer sick--
Then from the Assembly Room,
Down the stairs, down the stairs,
Bolted the Gownsmen!

Peelers to right of them,
Proctors to left of them,
Pro.'s on the rear of them,
Mingled with Townsmen!
Out of the "Star Hotel",
Those who had smoked so well,
Thro' the Turl--through the High
Mizzled the Gownsmen!

Still shall the tale be told,
When Private Halls are old,
How was that Lect'rer sold
By the fierce Gownsmen!

* * * * *

I am indebted to the courtesy of an unknown correspondent for the following parody, which was recited by Major Wilson after a banquet given in honor of the Anniversary of the Birth of Robert Burns, at the Caledonian Club, Leadville, Colorado:--

"THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BALLET."

Half a leg, half a leg,
Half a leg onward,
All before the foot-lights
Danced the one hundred.
Crash went the German band.
Supes strew'd the stage with sand;
All before the foot-lights
Danced the one hundred.

"Forward, the light ballet!"
Was there a coryphée
Who couldn't help feeling
Some one had blundered?
Turned on the calcium light,
Glittered each spangled tight,
Kicked they with main and might;
All before the foot-lights
Danced the one hundred.

Bald heads to right of them,
Bald heads to left of them,
Bald heads in front of them
Shouted and thundered;
Cynosures of every eye,
Boldly they kicked and high,
Regardless of life and limb,
Into the very sky
Kicked the one hundred,

Flashed all their fleshings bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Crazing the bald heads there,
In orchestra chair, while
All the house wondered.
On light, fantastic toe,
Pirouette and _pas de Seaux_,
Premier and coryphée
Reeled from the vertigo,
Shattered and sundered,
And then they danced back,
But not--not the one hundred.

Bald heads to right of them,
Bald heads to left of them,
Bald heads in front of them
Shouted and thundered;
Bravoed the _dilettante_,
While each old Bonfanti,
With split raiment and scanty,
Danced back from the jaws of death,
Back from the--(see Dante),
All that was left of them,
Left of one hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the high kicks they made!
All the house wondered.
Fling up your big bouquet,
Bald-headed Y. M. C. A.!
Honour the light ballet,
Noble one hundred!

From _The Carbonate Chronicle_, Leadville, Colorado, January 27, 1883.

* * * * *

TRAGIC EPISODE IN AN OMNIBUS.

(Charged to the Poet Laureate.)

_Night Scene--Last City 'bus, chock full of people. Enter--Very
stout old gentleman._

(Related by an eye witness.)

I.

Half a yard, half a yard,
Half a yard onward,
All through that narrow way,
Gasping and out of breath, yet never ponder'd!
"Right, Bill," the 'bus cad said,
"'Bout time we were in bed."
All through that narrow way
Still he strode onward.

II.

Though light began to fade,
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' each row well knew
_Some one_ had blunder'd;
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs to sit tight and try
To look stouter, broad, and high,
As _he_ came onward.

III.

Sneerers to right of him,
Frowners to left of him,
Scowlers in front of him,
Curses a hundred.
Words that no man could spell,
Boldly strove he and well,
All through that narrow way,
Tumbling about pell-mell,
Still on he wander'd.

IV.

To threats he gave no care,
Worrying the poor man there,
As standing he eyed them, while
The 'bus rolled and thundered.
Wrap't in his dark, brown cloak,
Right through that line he broke,
'Twas then that boot and shoe
Thought it a feeble joke--
Corns nearly sundered!
For he turned back again,
Seeing he'd blunder'd.

V.

Sneerers to right of him,
Frowners to left of him,
Scowlers behind him,
Curses a hundred.
Words that no man could spell,
How he got out no one can tell;
Back through that narrow way,
Back from that beastly sell,
Moaning the toil and time,
Unwittingly squandered.

VI.

Can his bumps be repaid?
Won't he be ever afraid
Of 'busses? I wondered!
Honour the try he made,
Honour the stones he weighed,
As he limped homeward.

From "Cribbings from the Poets" (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.)

* * * * *

On page 38 a parody entitled _The Doctor's Heavy Brigade_ was inserted, with a note that the author's name was not known. I have been pleased to receive the information that these clever verses were written by a Scotch poet whose name I am not at liberty to mention, and appeared in _The Scotsman_ about ten years ago.

The following _apropos_ composition, which has never before been printed, is from the same pen.

Tennyson's original poem commences--

"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?"

And concludes--

"Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth,
Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky,
And I will see before I die
The Palms and Temples of the South."

* * * * *

THE LAUREATE IN PARLIAMENT.

You ask me why, though ill at ease,
I sit among those Vere de Veres,
I used to curse in former years,
Pooh-poohing all their pedigrees.

My answer's plain as it is true,
Although of just and old renown,
My fame is flattening slowly down,
And yieldeth not its wonted due.

This state of things I can't afford.
My dramas and my later lays
Have brought me neither pence nor praise.
And, after all, a lord's a lord

And so I joined the upper set,
I know the seasons, when to take
Macmillan by the hand, and make
My poems fly far wider yet.

I speak not of my works to you
Who have them--they shall further go,
The many-headed beast shall know,
That he must learn to read them too.

Yet blame me not for pride or pelf,
I've royal blood, the heralds say,
Insisting on it, yea or nay.
(I never heard of it myself).

And, furthermore, you ought to know
'Twas not my doing, I was sent--
The Premier ordered me, I went;
What man can stay when he says "Go?"

I'd vote for some august decree
Strong as the fabled towers of Ilium,
Broad-based upon the people's William!
Do anything, he asked of me!

Well, yes, the House _is_ dull, but still
A useful haunt, where sitting down,
(Extremely handy when in town)
A man may eat the thing he will.

I only said, the House was dreary!
Wit cometh not, with help to keep
One's eyes awake; but I can sleep
Like others there that grow aweary!

I hold it true whate'er befall.
That, though in bed more quiet kept,
'Tis better to have sat and slept
Than never to have slept at all.

But yet should faction gather head,
Till by degrees to fullness wrought,
Men speak much louder than they ought;
I'll take the train, and go to bed.

Yes, waft me from the brainless mouth,
Wild wind! I seek a calmer sky,
And I will reach before I die
My old home island in the South!

* * * * *

A DREAM OF QUEER WOMEN.

(_With Apologies to the Poet Laureate._)

I READ, before mine eyelids dropt their shade,
The last romance from MUDIE'S lately writ
By one who is considered--in the trade--
The flower of female wit.

Miss BLANK, the famous writer, whose wild way
Of fiction-weaving was the first to fill
The startled times of good VICTORIA
With ghosts which haunt them still.

And for awhile I tumbled on my bed,
Her Art from slumber held me, as strong gales
Hold driven birds from lighting, and my head,
Chock-full of her strange tales.

* * * * *

Sudden I heard a voice that cried, "Come here!
I want to look at you."

I, turning, saw, curled in an easy chair,
One sitting well wrapped up, as if from cold,
Her cheeks were peachy, and her fluffy hair
Was of the tawny gold.

She, flashing forth a Circe smile, began:
"I murdered men for fun--it was my trade;
But, oh, 'tis long since I have slain a man.
Once, panther-like I played

"With many husbands, and then shed their blood,
But life in this dim place is vastly slow;
I have no men to murder in my mood--
That makes my only woe!

"The men, my lovers, how they bowed their necks
'Neath the neat boots wherewith my feet were shod!
I witched them, and the sturdiest of the sex
Were vassals to my nod.

"At last the sly detective tracked me down;
I tried to coax _him_, but the brute was cold.
They found the last poor fool I tried to drown,
And for the rest--behold!"

With that she tore her robe apart, and half
The polished ivory of her shoulders grand
Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh,
Showing the convict's brand.

* * * * *

From _Punch_, October 12, 1878.

* * * * *

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN AND OTHERS.

I read, before such things had lost their spice,
_Les Jolies Femmes de Paris_--a sweet work,
Devoted to the furtherance of vice--
A sort of Devil's _Burke_.

A scroll of fame and frailty that includes
All Hamadryads that have ever shone,
And nymphs who sell the Satyrs, in the woods
Of Boulogne and St. John.

And for awhile the study of those plates,
Wherein the sylvan beauties were portrayed,
Lifted my soul across the Dover straits,
Without a Boyton's aid.

* * * * *

Then swiftly rose another Voice, and burst:
"Aye, let them troll your ditties and applaud;--
'Twas I, Madame, preceded you, I first
Called poetry a fraud.

"I was Thérésa, and I saw what 'took,'
Dropped art, dropped passion; knew you'd had enough;
The amorous _Sapeur_ cozening a cook
Was all my lay of love.

"And court and street took up the strains in glee;
I sang to Cæsar, sang to prince and priest,
And in the palace of the Medici
Roared _Le Petit Ebeniste_."

Then clashed the cymbals, and the bugles blew,
Vague scents swarmed o'er the visionary stage;
A soft sweet shape arose. We looked and knew
The Darling of the age.

She spoke no word, she had no need to speak;
Who could withstand the sorceress--who compete?
We knew that matchless smile, and that unique
Allurement of the feet;

The way so womanly, and yet so bold;
Her eyes so frank, her gestures so profane;
Her step so light--Ah! no need to be told--
_Voici La Belle Helene_.

Evohe, la belle Hélène, fair and fat,
And forty, though they say you are, Time's touch
Lies soft upon your plumpness--and of that,
Say, _can_ one have too much?

Oh no, my liege, my gracious Grande Duchesse,
However variously our ways incline,
You find us all before your sweet address,
Natives of Gérolstein.

* * * * *

This poem proceeds to describe, at considerable length, the leading actresses then appearing in the Paris theatres and music halls.

From _Edward VII._, 1876.

* * * * *

Another parody of the same poem appeared in _The World_, July 23, 1879, from which a few verses are quoted:--

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN.

"DREAMING, methought I heard the Laureate's song
Of fairest women linked with deeds of shame,
Whose burning loves of insult and of wrong
Were anguish-paths to fame.

"And for a while their sad looks haunt my dream;
Then the night-visions slowly fade away,
And fairer faces in the warm light gleam--
The beauties of to-day.

* * * * *

"And around one, supreme in perfect grace,
Princes bow down, and nobles gather nigh;
And crowds afar off gaze upon her face,
Contented there to sigh.

* * * * *

"Then o'er my dream a daintier figure came,
Whose voice was music, and her gesture grace
The fire of genius frets her tender frame,
And lights her girlish face.

"In foreign tones she murmurs, 'O, the bliss
Of art that triumphs on a perfect stage;
The thunders of applause, and e'en the hiss
That tells of Envy's rage!'"

* * * * *

A parody on the same original, entitled _A Dream of Great Players_ (in reference to Lawn Tennis) appeared, on the 13th February, 1884, in _Pastime_, an ably conducted journal, devoted to out-door games and recreations. Unlike most of the sporting papers, _Pastime_ has a distinctly literary tone, and publishes, from time to time, clever parodies of our modern poets. Two have appeared on Tennyson's blank verse, the first (June 29, 1883), entitled _A Fragment of the Lost Tennisiad;_ the second, which was much longer, appeared in the number for July 27, 1883, and commenced thus:--

THE LAY OF THE SEVENTH TOURNAMENT.

All the long week Lawn-tennis balls had rolled
On the green sward beside the echoing line,
Until the last and stateliest of the crowd
Of players there competing, Donald Stewart,
Had fallen at Wimbledon before his foe,
Ernest: the last, because his skill was great,
They hailed the winner of the All-comers' prize.
And graced with large reward and honour meet.
One struggle yet remained,--Ernest with William,
Renshaw with Renshaw, must at last contend,
Equal alike in name and age,--well matched
In strength and skill,--there lightly-clad they stood,
Brother confronting brother,--and the net
Betwixt them. High above them blazed
The goblet, carved with curious imagery,
Unknown save to the initiate, but to these
Pregnant with meaning, mystic, magical,
Prize of the great Lawn-tennis championship,
Which in its deep capacious womb concealed
A thirsty man's allowance long withheld:
This twice had William gained in equal fight,
Winner of two successive tournaments;
And, could he claim the prize but once again,
'Twere his for ever.

Therefore hither came
From Wimbledon and Putney, and the lands
Which lie across the silver stream of Thames,
From far Tyburnia and Belgravian halls,
The strength and manhood of our lusty youth,
The grace and beauty of our matchless maids,
Clothed in rich raiment flashing on the sward
In hues that mocked the butterfly, and made
The rainbow colourless--satin and silk,
Cambric, and lawn, and muslin virginal:
Haply, there also whatsoe'er of strange
Elise, or Worth, or Harberton devise,
The wizards of adornment,--mystic shapes
Dual or indivisible,--the awed bard
Shrinks into silence.

* * * * *

THE BACHELOR'S RETURN.

_A Vere de Vere-isimilitude._

MRS. BIGGS, of Brunswick Square,
On me you shall no more impose.
You said I wanted change of air;
My books, my desk, you bade me close;

You raved about my "precious 'elth."
Has conscience, Mrs. B., no twinges?
You wouldn't lose me for the wealth,
You told me "not of all the Injies."

Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square,
Though I had work upon my hands,
I grew alarmed: oppressed with care,
I sought repose on Ramsgate sands.
Returned at last, I chanced to cast
A glance into my chiffonier.
Oh, Mrs. B., your dodge I see!--
While I've been gone you've drunk my beer!

Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square,
You put strange memories in my head,--
That currant jam!--I'd almost swear
I'd half-a-dozen pots of red.
Oh, your sweet child! On him I smiled
Benignly; but it seemed to me
That he had smears across his face
Which I was hardly pleased to see.

Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square,
You've used up all my choice Pekoe;
My sherry's gone; and where, oh where
Is that half-flask of curaçoa?
Of brandy, too, I'm quite bereft:
The bottle's dry, and--oh, my stars!
This ends what patience I had left--
You've smoked up all my best cigars!

Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square,
Some meeker lodger you must find;
Though good apartments may be rare,
To quit you I've made up my mind.
You held your course without remorse,
To make me trust you with my keys,
But when on you my back was turned,
You needs must play such pranks as these.

Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick square,
If rooms be vacant on your hands,
If footsteps sound not on your stair,
And tenantless your mansion stands,
Go, teach that orphan girl you call
Eliza,--she who cleans the boots,--
The awful fate which waits for all
Who steal their lodgers' best cheroots.

A. P. SINNETT.

From _Tom Hood's Comic Annual_, 1871.

* * * * *

A parody of the May Queen, entitled _The Premier's Lament_, appeared in _The Evening News_, of February 18, 1884, ridiculing Mr. Gladstone for his policy in Egypt, and foretelling defeat as probable in the then pending vote of censure. The parody had no literary merit.

* * * * *

TIT FOR TAT.

WE were two children in one house,
She was as meek as the mildest mouse,
The time had come for a midnight spree!
When we were over our jokes and wine,
She scattered horse-hair chopped up fine.
O! the girl was fair to see!

She laughed well-pleased with what she'd done,
She played the dreadful trick for fun.
The time had come for a midnight spree!
I lay awake! and struck a match,
For didn't the horrible horse-hair scratch.
O! the girl was fair to see!

I made a vow! I laid a snare!
And crept quite softly up the stair,
The hour had come for a midnight spree!
And after dinner from her bed
I stole the pillow for her head.
O! the girl was fair to see!

I took the dredger full of flour,
The pillow powdered for an hour;
The time had come for a midnight spree!
I hated her for her cruel sell,
She loved her tresses passing well.
O! the girl was fair to see!

She slept serenely all that night,
But woke up in a dreadful fright;
The time had come for a midnight spree!
When half awake she neared the glass,
She uttered naughty words, alas!
O! the girl was fair to see!

She brush'd and comb'd her floury head,
"I'll never get it out," she said,
The time had come for a midnight spree!
My deep revenge she'll not forget
I think she may be brushing yet!
O! the girl was fair to see!

From _Fun_, February 1, 1868.

The same journal also contained, December 16th, 1872, _Papa's Theory_ (after A. Tenny..n); and, May 7, 1876, _Home They Brought the Gallant Red_--(croquet.)

* * * * *

George Cruikshank's _Omnibus_, published in 1842, contains on page 260 some pertinent remarks on Parody. "It is essential, says E. P. W., to the full effect of a parody, that the original should be familiar to the reader. Now, several parodies we have received possess that advantage, thus we have half-a-dozen parodies on "Gray's Elegy," suggested by the conflagration at the Tower, and a like number of variations of the "Beggar's Petition;" but although these originals are well known, we pass their parodies by in favour of one upon Tennyson's 'Mariana at the Moated Grange,' entitled"--

THE CLERK.

With black coal-dust the walls and floor
Were thickly coated, one and all;
On rusty hinges swung the door
That open'd to the gloomy wall;
The broken chairs looked dull and dark,
Undusted was the mantel-piece,
And deeply-speck'd with spots of grease
Within the chamber of the clerk.
He only said "I'm very weary
With living in this ditch;"
He said, "I am confounded dreary,
I would that I were rich."

* * * * *

About six fathoms from the wall,
A blackened chimney (much askew)
Smoked in his face--and round and small
The chimney-pots destroyed his view,
Hard by--a popular highway,
With coal-dust turned to pitchy dark,
Where many a little dog doth bark--
Some black, some mottled, many grey.
He said, "My life is very dreary,
With living in this ditch;"
He said, "I am fatigued and weary,
I would that I were rich."

The two other verses of this parody have no great merit, and, indeed, the above are only quoted to show that more than forty years ago there was an outcry about the wretched habitations of our London poor.

* * * * *

THE BUGLE SONG.

[At the commencement of the Wagnerian performances at Bayreuth, the chief _motivo_ in the opera was given out by several bugles, after which the curtain rose.]

The bugle calls in Bayreuth's halls
Some notes of Wagner's mythic story;
The tenor shakes, the heroine quakes,
And the wild Teuton leaps in glory.
Blow, bugles, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Echoes of Melody, ye answer, "Dying, dying."

O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,
With no perspiring players showing;
O sweet and far from bar to bar
The horns and trumpets faintly blowing.
Blow--let us hear composers' ghosts replying;
Blow, Wagner, blow, while Melody is dying.

"Sweet tunes," they cry, "you shall not die,
Nor fade from hill, and field, and river,
But sweetly roll from soul to soul,
And gladden music lovers ever."
Blow, bugles, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
But Melody still answers--"Never dying."

From _Funny Folks_.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE IRWELL.

I flow by tainted noisome spots,
A dark and deadly river;
Foul gases my forget-me-nots,
Which haunt the air for ever.
I grow, I glide, I slip, I slide,
I mock your poor endeavour;
For men may write, and men may talk,
But I reek on for ever.

I reek with all my might and main,
Of plague and death the brewer;
With here and there a nasty drain,
And here and there a sewer.
By fetid bank, impure and rank,
I swirl a loathsome river;
For men may write, and men may talk,
But I'll reek on for ever.

I grew, I glode, I slipped, I slode,
My pride I left behind me;
I left it in my pure abode--
Now take me as you find me.
For black as ink, from many a sink,
I roll a poisonous river;
And men may write, and men may talk,
But I'll reek on for ever.

And thus my vengeance, still I seek
Foul drain, and not a river;
My breath is strong, though I am weak,
Death floats on me for ever.
You still may fight, or may unite
To use your joint endeavour;
But I'll be "boss," in spite of Cross,
And poison you for ever.

_The City Lantern_, Manchester, 1874.

* * * * *

THE BAGGAGE MAN.

WITH many a curve the trunks I pitch,
With many a shout and sally;
At station, siding, crossing, switch,
On mountain-grade or valley.
I heave, I push, I sling, I toss,
With vigorous endeavour,
And men may smile and men grow cross,
But I sling my trunks forever!
Ever! ever!
I bust the trunks for ever.

The paper trunk from country town
I balances and dandles;
I turn it once or twice around,
And pull out both the handles,
And grumble over travelling-bags
And monstrous sample-cases;
But I can smash the maker's brags
Like plaster-Paris vases,
They holler, holler, as I go;
But they can stop me never,
For they will learn just what I know--
A trunk won't last forever;
Ever! never!

I tug, I jerk, I swear, I sweat,
I toss the light valises;
And what's too big to throw, you bet,
I'll fire it round in pieces.
They murmur, murmur everywhere;
But I will heed them never,
For women weep and strong men swear,
I'll sling their trunks forever!
Ever! ever!
I'll bust the trunk forever!

From the United States _Independent_, September, 1881.

After the defeat of Colonel Burnaby, and the Hon, A. C. Calthorpe, at the last Birmingham election, the following parody appeared in _The Gridiron_, a local satirical paper.

The dashing Colonel's testimony in favour of Cockle's pills was the cause of many jokes at his expense in the election squibs. Messrs. Stone and Lowe were prominent members of the Birmingham Conservative party.

"Home they brought the news with dread!
He nor swore nor uttered cry:
His committee watching said,
He must weep, or he will die.

"Then they praised him, Stone and Lowe,
And called him worthy to be loved,
Jingo's friend and Gladstone's foe,
Yet he neither swore nor moved.

"Rose up Calthorpe from his place,
Lightly to the warrior crept,
Made a speech all full of grace,
But he neither swore nor wept.

"Rose a man of ninety years,
Placed a pill-box on his knee,
Like summer tempest came his tears,
"Cockle mine, thou'st done for me!"

* * * * *

HARD TIMES.

(A Parody of _The Grandmother._)

AND so your prosperous days have passed away from you, John;
And empty have grown your pockets, and all your customers gone;
And the Government still keep talking--they never were over-wise;
Never fit to rule you, John--but you wouldn't take my advice.

For, John, do you see, the Tories were never the men to save;
It doesn't look well to be mean while Britannia rules the wave:
Swagger enough--lots of swagger--but it all costs money, you know.
And so your grandfather found, John, some seventy years ago!

For I remember the troubles that vexed your grandfather, John,
Stripped every rag off his back, to the very shirt he had on;
It was all for England, and glory--but that cost money, you know--
Seventy years ago, John, seventy years ago.

And now you say it's the same, what with Afghanistan and Zulu,
And that darned American weather come over to bother you too;
'There won't be very much left me, if this sort of thing goes on;
And this is a time of peace--of peace with honour!' says John.

'And all trade seems half dead, and the farmers can't pay their rent,
While the landlords are only too happy to give them back twenty per
cent.
Farmers!--and pay no rent? Well, the rent perhaps could be borne,
But giving back twenty per cent. won't make up for American corn.

To be sure, Lord Beaconsfield says that we're an Imperial race,
And an unscientific frontier is really a sort of disgrace;
And Stafford and Holker--I hear them too--their voices are sweet,
But they can't very well expect _me_ to get fat on American meat.

And to tell you the good plain truth, I never can quite understand
What it is Lord Beaconsfield means, or what he's got in his hand;
He conjures eggs out of his hat, he keeps fireworks under his bed,
I really am not always certain he's not going to stand on his head.

And the Liberals make it their text as they go to the hustings, no
doubt!
Even those who do nothing in office understand what to promise when
out;
There wouldn't be waste any more--not enough to make meat for a mouse--
If Gladstone was at the Exchequer, and Hartington leading the House.

Pattering upon the platform--they'll all be pattering soon,
When Beaconsfield makes up his mind to dissolve them some fine
afternoon,
I seem to be sick of it all--I know every word they'll say,
And perhaps it will come even sooner, for some are beginning to-day.

So this is a time of peace--of peace with honour, you know;
And empty have grown my pockets--they never used to be so;
At least, not often, I think. I never was one to boast,
But I seem to be sick of it all--and of empty pockets the most.'

Prize parody from _The World_, November 19, 1879.

* * * * *

The second prize parody on the same topic commenced thus:--

BREAD has gone up again. Was that what you said to me,
child?
Bread and coals gone up, and the weather wet and wild;
Bread gone up again, and cold and hunger severe;
An' me not knowing which way to turn, an' you but a child,
my dear.

Don't look at me that way, Mary, with eyes that plead for
bread--
O Lord, I could bear it well enough, if it only fell on my
head!
But the child so weak and sickly, and me but an old man now,
Asking no better, though, Lord knows, than to work in the sweat of
my brow.

But work is not to be had, though I seek it from morning till night:
Not to be had by me; there are men who are younger, a sight;
Younger and stronger, too, who take what is to he had;
And bread has gone up and cold is sharp, and times is very bad.

* * * * *

At page 127 of _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton (Wyman and Sons, 1880) will be found another long parody of the same original.

* * * * *

THE SPITEFUL LETTER.

Of course, it is here, all snarl and sneer,
A letter from my Tutor.
He said it was wrong, not to read in the "Long,"
For he was far acuter.

O little don, in the days bygone,
Did you never prefer the pages
Of those gay books--a woman's looks--
To the lore of Eastern sages?

Were there not times when College Rhymes
Relieved your mind dejected?
And were they not a sorry lot
Of things you had rejected?

The time is brief from the fresh green leaf
Of the callow moderator;
From the greener leaf to the yellow leaf,
The age of perambulator.

Silly, am I? Is that your cry?
And, I shall live to see it?
Exactly so; but yours said "No,"
And mine said "Yes, so be it."

And he would know who 'twas that so
Had filled my thoughts with folly,
And, oh! the name was the very same,
The name of our love was Molly.

From _The Shotover Papers_, Oxford 1874.

* * * * *

In _Fun_ of February 1, 1868, it was asked, "Who sent _The Spiteful Letter_ to Alfred Tennyson?"

"If anybody _did_--and nobody doubts that it really was
somebody--everybody ought to know about it. _Fun_ has, therefore,
addressed a circular to everybody who is anybody in the round of
rhyme, putting the direct question--'Was it you, you, or you?'
Down to the latest moment answers had been received from George
Macdonald, the Poet Close, Algernon Swinburne, and Walt Whitman."

As the two last-named parodies are the best they are quoted, although it will be seen that they give not the slightest explanation of the origin of _The Spiteful Letter:_--

FROM A.....N S......E.

Sick of the perfume of praise, and faint with the fervid caresses,
Flushing his face with a flame that is fair, like the blood on a dove;
Weary of pangs that have pleased him, the poet refrains and confesses--
Shrinks from the rapture of death, and the lips and the languors of
love;
The rootless rose of delight, and the love that lasts only to blossom,
Blossom and die without fruit, as the kisses that feed and not fill;
Famishing pleasure, dry-lipped, with the sting and the stain on her
bosom,
And all of a sin that is good, and all of a good that is ill!

(This explicit language of Mr. S......E'S will, we are sure, be satisfactory to all our readers. No explanation could make his reply clearer and more readily intelligible.--ED. _Fun_.)

* * * * *

FROM W..T W..TM..N.

(_An American, one of the roughs, a kosmos._)

Nature, continuous ME!
Saltness, and vigorous, never-torpid yeast of ME!
Florid, unceasing, for ever expansive;
Not schooled, not dizened, not washed and powdered;
Strait-laced not at all; far otherwise than polite;
Not modest, nor immodest;
Divinely tanned and freckled; gloriously unkempt;
Ultimate yet unceasing; capricious though determined;
Speak as thou listest, and tell the askers that which they seek to
know.
Thy speech to them will be not quite intelligible.
Never mind! utter thy wild common-places;
Yawp them loudly, shrilly;
Silence with shrill noise the lisps of the foo-foos.
Answer in precise terms of barbaric vagueness,
The question that the _Fun_ editor hath sparked through Atlantic cable
To W..T W..TM..N, the speaker of the password primeval;
The signaller of the signal of democracy;
The seer and hearer of things in general;
The poet translucent; fleshy, disorderly, sensually inclined;
Each tag and part of whom is a miracle----.

(_Thirteen pages of MS. relating to_ MR. W..T W..TM.N _are here omitted_).

Rhapsodically state the fact that is and is not;
That is not, being past; that is, being eternal;
If indeed it ever was, which is exactly the point in question.

⁂ The fact, rhapsodically stated, occupies twenty-six more pages of MS., but is left in as much doubt at the end as it was in at the beginning.--Ed. _Fun_.

SONG OF THE UNSUCCESSFUL STOCK EXCHANGE SPECULATOR

(_Apropos of certain recent failures_).

Break, break, break!
It's a serious thing to see,
And I wish I could manage to utter
The cheques that are forged by me!

Oh well for the bill-broking cad
That is able to toddle away!
Oh well for the discounting lad
That goes to no Botany Bay!

The detective police go on,
To find him whose name's on the bill--
And it's oh for a whiff of Havannah brand,
And a glass of the wine that is still!

Break, break, break!
It's little of me you will see;
For the tender touch of detective's hand
May some day be felt by me.

From _Faust and 'Phisto_, 1876.

* * * * *

_Tithonus_ was the subject of two long prize parodies, concerning Lord Beaconsfield, which appeared in _The World_, July 30, 1879.

The opening stanzas of the first parody are now of almost historical interest:--