Chapter IX: Introduction (2)

"Tempt not the Commons," Northcote said,
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead;
Too long its rules have been defied;"
But still the Irish rowdies cried--
"Obstructionists!"

* * * * *

"Beware the Ministerial branch--
Beware the Tory avalanche!"
Was Biggar's caution, and he smiled,
When for a nap he left the wild
"Obstructionists!"

At noon that day O'Donnell craved
A respite, but the Commons braved
The contest, and their only prayer
Was to demolish then and there--
"Obstructionists!"

The chaplain came his usual round,
The Commons sitting still he found,
Using each possible device
To crush that band, not over nice--
"Obstructionists!"

But late on that eventful day
The "stumbling blocks" were kicked away;
South Africa rejoiced afar,
And Biggar moaned, "It's done we are!"--
"Obstructionists!"

_Funny Folks._

* * * * *

ENDYMION.

The shades of night were falling fast
Round Hughenden,--for some time past
A Statesman, working day and night,
A flowery fiction did indite--
_Endymion_.

His hair was dark, and you could trace
A soupçon of an ancient race;
And still, in quite his early way,
He wrote of Lords and Ladies gay--
_Endymion_.

"Tempt not the Press," Lord Rowton said.
"Of critics have a timely dread:
They skinned you when you wrote _Lothair_."
He answered, with his nose in air,
"_Endymion!_"

"Oh stay," the Tory said, "and make
That wicked GLADSTONE writhe and quake."
A twinkle flash'd from out his eye:
"I'll give him rope," he said, "and try
_Endymion!_"

"Beware the day they may begin
To break the Treaty of Berlin!"
This was the Tory's last appeal.
He only said, "I will reveal
_Endymion!_"

And so, when Ireland was aflame,
The Eastern Question just the same,
Conservatives beheld with doubt
Their Leader bring his novel out--
_Endymion_.

And all who waded through the book,
Met Titles, Tailor, Prince and Dook:
What wonder it is all the rage?
For epigram adorns thy page,
_Endymion!_

There, in the twilight, cold and grey,
Serene in Curzon Street he lay.
"This cheque from LONGMANS' will go far,"
A voice said. "Now for a cigar!"
_Endymion!_

_Punch_, December 4, 1880.

* * * * *

A "COMMON" GRIEVANCE; OR, OUR OPEN SPACES AND OUR ÆDILES.

The summer day was waning fast,
As o'er a London heath there pass'd
A youth who walked with steps precise,
And murmured, more than once or twice,
"The Heath is ours!"

His eyes flashed brightly in his head,
Till, as the notice-boards he read,
His cheeks for one short moment blenched,
but soon he cried, with fingers clenched,
"The Heath is ours!"

Then he recalled the large amount
The people'd paid that they might count
That Heath their own, and then again
He shouted out, with might and main,
"The Heath is ours!"

As thus he cried, a keeper came,
And roughly said, "Young man! Your name?
I'll summons you for spouting here!"
"Bah," cried the youth, "I have no fear--
The Heath is ours!"

The liveried myrmidon but jeered,
"Well, that's the queerest tale I've heerd;
This 'eath's been taken by our Board."
Much moved, the youth in answer roared,
"The Heath is ours!"

"Rouse not his ire," an old man said;
"You have not, p'rhaps, the by-laws read?
Alas! he's might upon his side."
"Go to!" the eager youth replied,
"The Heath is ours!"

"O stay!" a maiden said, "nor pass
In that mad way across the grass!
You will be fined. Oh, please don't go!"
"Thanks!" cried the youth, "but I must show
The Heath is ours!"

* * * * *

Then, rising 'gainst crass Bumble's yoke,
He every stupid by-law broke,
And when stern keepers asked his name,
Still loud the self-same answer came:
"The Heath is ours!"

As evening fell, a tottering form,
All heedless of the gathering storm,
Defied each notice-board he passed,
And cried--determined to the last:
"The Heath is ours!"

* * * * *

A youth, when next the sun came round,
Buried in summonses was found;
Still gasping, as yet more were served,
In accents, feeble and unnerved:
"The Heath is ours!"

* * * * *

There to the Police Court brought next day,
He'd many pounds and costs to pay;
And from his lips no more was heard
That cry he'd learned was so absurd:
"The Heath is ours!"

_Truth_, August 2, 1883.

* * * * *

The following description of an unpleasant nocturnal adventure has been written especially for this collection:--

The shades of night were falling fast,
One mile from town was Knightsbridge passed,
We found ourselves (it was not nice)
Tripped up by two men in a trice,
And felt so sore!

Our brow was muddy, as beneath
Their pressure we could scarce draw breath,
Our "withers" seemed to be unwrung.
As we were in the gutter flung,
And felt so sore!

We never shall forget that night
Rising in pitiable plight,
We found our jewellery gone,
Ourselves a sight to look upon,
We felt so sore!

"Try not to pass!" they might have said.
Alas! they tripped us up instead.
Such warning was to us denied,
And stretched upon the pavement wide,
We felt so sore!

"Oh, stay a moment, that arrest
May police vigilance attest,"
Was what we were inclined to cry,
But we could only heave a sigh--
We felt so sore!

Beware a court, where the roads branch,
Be wary, lest an avalanche
Of blows should, when out late at night,
On your poor occiput alight,
We felt so sore!

They ran away with watch and guard,
And left us on the pavement hard,
Whilst we to follow did not dare,
Because we had no breath to spare--
We felt so sore!

No passers by to make a sound,
And not a "peeler" to be found.
Still gasping from their hands of _vice_,
Glad to escape at any price,
We felt so sore!

Then all at once we cried "hooray!"
Here comes a "Bobby" on his way.
A LONG FELLOW we spied afar,
And mentally exclaimed, "Ha! ha!"
Excelsior.

T. F. DILLON CROKER.

* * * * *

A courteous correspondent has forwarded a little pamphlet, which was issued by Enoch Morgan, Sons, and Co., New York, about three years ago. It has some quaintly comical _silhouette_ illustrations, beneath each of which is one of the following verses:--

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Eastern village passed
A youth who bore, through dust and heat,
A stencil plate, that read complete--
SAPOLIO!

His brow was sad, but underneath,
White with "Odonto" shone his teeth.
And through them hissed the words, "Well, blow
Me tight if here is 'ary show!"
SAPOLIO!

On household fences, gleaming bright,
Shone "Gargling Oil," in black and white.
Once "Bixby's Blacking" stood alone,
He straight beside it clapped his own--
SAPOLIO!

"Try not my fence," the old man said,
"With 'Mustang Liniment' 'tis spread,
Another vacant spot thar ain't,"
He answered with a dash of paint--
SAPOLIO!

"O, stay," the maiden said, "a rest
Pray give us! What with 'Bixby's Best,'
And 'Simmons' Pills,' we're like to die."
He only answered, "Will you try--
SAPOLIO?"

"Beware them Peaks! That wall so bright
Is but a snow bank, gleaming white,
Your paint won't stick!"; came the reply,
"I've done it! How is that for high?"
"SAPOLIO."

One Sabbath morn, as heavenward
White mountain tourists slowly spurred,
On ev'ry rock to their dismay,
They read that legend strange, alway
"SAPOLIO."

There on the summit, old and fat,
Shameless, but vigorous he sat,
While on their luggage as they passed,
He checked that word, from first to last,
"SAPOLIO."

* * * * *

Advertising parodies of _Excelsior_ abound. Extracts from a few of the best are given below:--

13, CROSS CHEAPING.

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through the ancient city passed,
A youth who scorned to pause or stop,
Until he reached that noted shop,
13, CROSS CHEAPING.

In happy homes he saw the light,
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
He heeded not the cheerful coal,
But strode straight onward to his goal,
13, CROSS CHEAPING.

"Beware of rain," an old man said,
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,"
The youth made quite a little speech,
"I fear no rain if once I reach
13, CROSS CHEAPING."

"Oh stay," a maiden said, "and rest;
Put not your strength to further test,"
A smile lurked in his bright blue eye,
And merrily he made reply:
"13, CROSS CHEAPING."

"Once safely there, I shall forget
My tired feet, and dread of wet;
Whilst buying where I've bought before;
Whilst choosing from that well-filled store,
13, CROSS CHEAPING."

"Their BOOTS have richly earned their fame;
Their SHOES have gained an envied name;
What matters mud, however thick,
When once your feet are shod by DICK,
13, CROSS CHEAPING."

PILOSAGINE.

The shades of night were falling fast,
When on the word his eyes he cast--
That word which struck him with amaze--
Couched in the adverts' meant to praise.
PILOSAGINE.

Sleep from his eyelids fastly fled,
As to himself he wondering said:
"If it be true that I can buy
What will produce a beard, I'll try
PILOSAGINE."

* * * * *

"Tempt not the trash," in tones full rough,
His father urged, "Like other stuff
That you have oft and often tried
'Tis sure to prove." The youth replied,
"PILOSAGINE."

PILOSAGINE at once applied,
The wished-for three for which he sighed,
Imperial, beard, moustache, soon felt;
And thankful is he that e'er he spelt
PILOSAGINE.

* * * * *

I.

The drizzling rain was falling fast,
As thro' the streets of London passed
A youth who bore a neat and nice
Umbrella with the strange device,
"THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."

II.

His step was firm, erect his form,
As heedless of the gathering storm
He homeward hied with dauntless mien
Beneath that elemental screen--
"THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."

III.

He saw umbrellas creased and torn,
By wet and angry persons borne,
And sorrowing o'er their wretched plight,
He pitied those who lacked that night
"THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."

IV.

"Best try a cab," an old friend said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead.
The rain will faster fall anon;"
But still that youth relied upon
"THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."

V.

"O stay," a maiden said, "I'd fain
Ask a brief shelter from the rain."
The astonished youth gazed at the fair,
And gently answered, "You may share,
"THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."

* * * * *

OZOKERIT.

(_By a Long-way-after-a-Fellow-Poet._)

The shades of night were falling fast,
When through a western suburb passed
A man who bore upon his back
A placard, with this word in black--
"OZOKERIT."

His brow was dark, his eye beneath
Gleamed like a lantern o'er his teeth,
Which gnashing ceaselessly he sung
That fragment of an unknown tongue--
"OZOKERIT."

In humble homes he saw the light
Of candles--if anything less bright
Above, the glimmering gas lamps shone,
The contrast wrung from him a groan.
"OZOKERIT."

"Trust not the gas," the old man said,
"Dingy and dull the lamps o'er head--
The illumination is ill supplied,"
But loud that sandwich bearer cried,
"OZOKERIT."

"O stay," the maiden said, "or rest
Until your mystery is guessed!"
A wink obscured his cunning eye,
As still he mentioned in reply--
"OZOKERIT."

Beware the peeler, stern and staunch,
With bull's-eye pendant at his haunch.
This was the pleasant last "Good-day,"
A voice replied, some streets away,
"OZOKERIT."

At break of day, while reeled along,
Shouting their oft repeated song.
Some "Jolly Dogs," with blinking stare,
They heard a voice ring through the air,
"OZOKERIT."

The speaking, tracing by the sound,
They, sitting on a doorstep, found
A man, who bore upon his back
A placard, with that word in black,
"OZOKERIT."

There on the doorstep, cold and flat,
Puzzled by pondering he sat;
And with the hoarseness of catarrh,
He sighed, "I wonders what it are!"
"OZOKERIT."

From _Fun_, October 22, 1870.

* * * * *

CURFEW.

I.

Solemnly, mournfully
Dealing its dole,
The Curfew Bell
Is beginning to toll.

Cover the embers,
And put out the light,
Toil comes with the morning,
And rest with the night.

Dark grow the windows,
And quenched is the fire,
Sound fades into silence,--
All footsteps retire.

No voice in the chambers,
No sound in the hall!
Sleep and oblivion
Reign over all!

LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

CLOSE OF THE SEASON.

I.

Suddenly, joyfully,
Leaving the Row,
The London Belle
Is beginning to go.

Cover the couches
And shut out the light,
Calls cease in the morning,
And parties at night.

Closed are the windows,
And out is the fire.
The knockers are silent
All footmen retire.

No groom in the chambers,
No porter in hall:
Dust and brown holland
Reign over all!

II.

The season is ended,
And closed like the play,
And the swells that adorned it
Vanish away.

Dim grow its dances,
Forgotten they'll be,
Like the ends of cigars,
Thrown into the sea.

Squares lapse into silence,
The Railways are full
The windows are papered,
The West End is dull.

Fewer and fewer
The people to call
Sweeps and the charwoman,
Reign over all.

* * * * *

THE END.

Tuesday, September 7, 1880.

(_A Vague Reminiscence of Longfellow._)

Tardily, wearily,
Reacheth its goal
The Session of '80,
Tired old soul!

Cover the benches,
And put out the light;
Divisions are over,
And sittings all night.

The bells are all dumb,
And idle the wire;
Rant sinks into silence,
Reporters retire.

Fewer and fewer
The few footsteps fall;
Quiet and Constables
Reign over all!

_Punch_, September 18, 1880.

* * * * *

THE BRIDGE.

I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark-church tower.

* * * * *

How often, oh, how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on the bridge at midnight
And gazed on that wave and sky!

LONGFELLOW.

THE BRIDGE (By _Longus Socius_.)

I stood on the bridge at midday,
And the crowd was striking in power,
And the roar rose from the City,
And the docks about the Tower.

And I made a bright reflection
On the waters under me,
Like a muddy highway flowing
With steamers to the sea.

* * * * *

How often, oh, how often,
In omnibus or fly,
I have crossed the bridge at midday,
When you hardly could get by.

How often, oh, how often
I have wished the crowd beside
Were at Jericho or elsewhere,
Or the pathways were more wide.

For my heart was hot and restless,
And my mind was full of care,
Lest the train I wished to go by
Might start 'ere I got there.

* * * * *

And I think how many thousand
Of crowd-encumbered men,
Each striving to stem the current,
Have missed their trains since then.

I see the long processions
Of the cabs and the 'busses go,
And the eager people restless,
Because they must walk so slow.

And for ever, and for ever,
For all that a party knows,
As long as the cabs and the 'busses
Must pause with their frequent "whoas,"

To cross it in either direction
Will take an hour or near,
So you simply must start at eleven,
If by twelve you would cross it clear.

_Fun_, November 3, 1866.

* * * * *

THE RINK.

_Respectfully Dedicated to the Author of "The Bridge."_

I sat in the Rink at midday;
The clocks were striking the hour,
But you would not have known, for the April sun
Was quenched in a copious shower.

I saw the raindrops falling
In puddles in the street,
And I envied the throng that was passing along
With wet, but unrollered feet.

And far in the hazy distance
Of that dripping April day,
My snug hearth fire gleam'd redder and higher,
Because I was far away.

The rattle of wheels rang round me,
With a quaint and wooden roar,
And groups of the fair, with dishevelled hair,
Were lying about on the floor.

E'en I, in a moment of madness,
Had snatched at the fatal cup.
And my rollers were on, but I sat all alone,
For alas! I could not get up.

And like those rinkers rolling
Amongst their woodon piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me
That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh, how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had waltzed in that room at midnight,
With a fixed and a vacant eye.

How often, oh, how often,
I had wished that a cab from afar,
Would bear me away in its bosom
To my rooms, and a mild cigar.

For my limbs were hot and restless,
And my boots a serious care,
And the burden of mild flirtation,
Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it is changed and vanished,
It has fallen over the brink;
Before, we were sad, but now we are mad,
And the ball-room is turned to a rink.

Yet whenever I watch these rinkers
Amongst their wooden piers,
Like the sound of April raindrops,
Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands
Of skate-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of ladies,
Have rinked on this floor since then.

I see the long procession,
Still tottering to and fro,
The young feet clumsy and rapid,
The old feet clumsy and slow.

And for ever, and for ever,
As long as the raindrops fall,
As long as we've angling ladies,
(And angular too) at all,

The Rink and its ceaseless rollers,
And its broken limbs, shall appear
As the symbol of Bedlam's madness
And its accurate image here!

KIT NUBBLES

_The Figaro_, June 14, 1876.

* * * * *

THE WHITEFRIARGATE BRIDGE.

I.

I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As "Travis" was striking the hour;
And the moon rose o'er the city
Aslant the Dock Co.'s tower.

II.

I stood and recalled how savage,
In the day that's just gone by,
I was stopped by that bridge at midday,
And watched it raised on high.

III.

For my heart was hot and restless,
My business full of care;
And the check thus put upon me
Seemed longer than I could bear.

IV.

And I thought how many thousands
Of work-encumbered men,
On hearing the bell a-ringing,
Have cursed this bridge since then.

V.

I see the long procession
Still pacing to and fro--
The master, the clerk, the workman;
The Dockmen, officious and slow.

VI.

And forever, and forever,
As long as the Company goes,
As long as we brook the fashion
Of transit, and bow to our woes.

VII.

So long we shall lose our appointments,
So long by our spouses be told
That we're ten minutes late as usual,
And our dinner is getting cold.

_The Whitefriargate Papers_, Hull, February 17, 1872.

* * * * *

SUNSET.

(_An Imitation._)

I stood on the shore at even,
And I looked out into the west,
Out over the pathless ocean,
As the sun sank down to rest.

I saw him dip into the billows,
And the sea was one blaze of light,
As if day's expiring effort
Was to blacken the darkness of night.

From my feet to the far horizon
Was a golden sparkling road,
A type of the path that leads us
From earth to God's abode.

As darkness fell on the waters,
I heard the sea-birds' cry,
And the mighty ocean answered
With its waves in an endless sigh.

Then I thought how like the sunlight
We find our hopes depart,
And the ocean's endless sighing
Found an echo in my heart.

F. W. D., St. Alban Hall.

_College Rhymes_ (T. Shrimpton and Sons, Oxford), 1873.

* * * * *

THE SLAVE'S DREAM.

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand,
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land

* * * * *

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty:
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That be started in his sleep, and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!

LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE SWELL'S DREAM; OR, WHAT HIS HEIR WOULD LIKE TO BRING ABOUT.

(_Dedicated by a Shortman to a Longfellow._)

I.

Beside an untouched ice he lay,
An eighteenpenny cigar in his hand,
He shook his hair with an angry air
At the sound of a distant band.
Then he dreamt in the mist and shadow of sleep
He was a beggar in the Strand.

II.

Wide through his frock-coat's gaping seams
His fancy shirting showed;
He had no gloves, no crutchy cane,
No nosegay _a la mode;_
And he saw a man, with a tinkling pan,
Crying m-u-lk all down the road!

III.

He felt quite sore, and very lean,
His face was sadly tanned;
His bones stuck out on both his cheeks,
And he could hardly stand.
A tear dropped from the sleeper's lids,
His Havanna from his hand.

IV.

And then the dismal vision showed
The way in which he sank;
From golden chains, to aches and pains,
With no balance at the bank.
For this woe he could feel, and it caused him to reel,
He had but himself to thank.

V.

From a popular man, dubbed a wit and a wag,
To a pauper without a _sous;_
From morn till night, like an unhappy wight,
Cut or shunned by all he knew.
And this was his fate, by stopping up late,
And losing his money at "loo!"

VI.

How he had wasted his time and his tin
By keeping and driving a team.
The care and the cash he had spent on his weeds,
All this he saw in his dream.
And, as his thoughts sped, the blood in his head
Curdled up like so much cream.

VII.

He thought of the good he might have done
For love and charity;
And with anguish bowed, he cried out aloud
A word that began with a "d!"
He started and woke--and exceedingly riled,
Rang the bell for a Soda and B.

VIII.

How did he feel as he took out his watch,
And consulted the time of day?
Had he learnt a lesson from the Land of Sleep?
I hope for my sake he may!
And I think the moral _did_ reach its goal,
For he's got quite stingy they say.

From _Cribblings from the Poets_ (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883).

* * * * *

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

Into the Silent Land!
Ah! who shall lead us thither?
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.
Who leads us with a gentle hand
Thither, O thither,
Into the Silent Land?

LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE IRISH LAND!

(_After Longfellow and Salis._)

Into the Irish Land!
Ah! who shall lead us thither?
Clouds in the Western sky less darkly gather,
And household wrecks less thickly dot the strand.
Who leads us with a friendly hand,
Thither, oh thither,
Into the Irish Land?

O Land! O Land!
For which poor Pat hath plotted,
GLADSTONE, mild herald by kind fate allotted,
Beckons, and with his blessed Bill doth stand,
To lead us with a friendly hand
Into the Land whence we've long been parted,
Into the Irish Land!

_Punch_, August 13, 1881.

In _Punch_ of October 21, 1882, there was another parody of this poem, entitled "Song of the Oyster Land," by a _Longing Fellow_, commencing--

"Into the Oyster Land!
Ah! Who shall lead us thither?"

* * * * *

THE NORMAN BARON.

In his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying;
Loud without the tempest thundered,
And the castle-turret shook.
In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,
And the lands his sires had plundered,
Written in the Doomsday Book.

* * * * *

Every vassal of his banner,
Every serf born to his manor,
All those wronged and wretched creatures
By his hand were freed again.
And, as on the sacred missal
He recorded their dismissal,
Death relaxed his iron features,
And the monk replied, "Amen!"
Many centuries have been numbered
Since in death the baron slumbered
By the convent's sculptured portal.
Mingling with the common dust.
But the good deed, through the ages
Living in historic pages,
Brighter grows and gleams immortal,
Unconsumed by moth or rust.

LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE REPENTANT BARON.

A Lay of Berlin.

(_After Professor Shortfellow._)

In his chamber, mine adjoining,
Was the German Baron dining.
Loud his voice with passion thundered,
And with fear the kellner shook.
As I listened it was plainer
That he bullied this retainer,
Forasmuch as he had blundered;
Or it might have been the cook.

Just outside, upon the Linden,
On an instrument (a wind 'un)
Played a minstrel most demurely,
Dismal as the parish waits.
And so loud he kept on getting,
While his frau stood by him, knitting,
That I thought, "The Baron, surely,
Will demolish all the plates."

"Spare a groschen, princely stranger!
May you never be in danger
Of the want of means to spare 'un,
Or a couple, if so be."
Then the minstrel went on playing,
Not a single word more saying;
And exclaimed the shuddering Baron,
"_Miserere Domine!_"

Tears upon his eyelids glistened
While in agony he listened
To the instrument (a wind 'un)
Which the minstrel he did play.
Then unto the kellner ready,
"Take this double thaler," said he,
To the minstrel of the Linden,
Begging him to go away."

In that hour of deep contrition
He beheld with double vision
All the sins he had committed,
And he said in accents thick
To the kellner, "Loo' here, kellner,
You're a 'spec'ble kind o' felner;
_I'm_ a felner to be pitied;
I'm a mis'ble felner! Hic.

"Can you feel for one in sorrow?
I shall make my will to-morrow;
I shall leave you all my money,
Every single thing that's mine.
Watch--repeater; ring--carbuncle;
Kellner you're my long-lost uncle.
Just discovered this--how funny!
Fesh another bolowine."

Many hours the clock has numbered
Since the German Baron slumbered;
And his boots are at the portal
Of his chamber, free from dust;
And an instrument (a wind 'un)
Sounds again upon the Linden,
Waking that unhappy mortal
From the snorings of the just.

GODFREY TURNER.

_Tom Hood's Comic Annual_, 1871.

* * * * *

Longfellow's ballad, _The Skeleton in Armour_ commences thus:--

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armour drest,
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me?"

its metre was admirably imitated by the late C. S. Calverley, in his

ODE TO TOBACCO.

Thou who, when fears attack
Bidst them avaunt, and Black
Care, at the horseman's back,
Perching, unseatest;
Sweet when the morn is grey;
Sweet when they've cleared away
Lunch, and at close of day
Possibly sweetest.
I have a liking old
For thee, though manifold
Stories, I know are told,
Not to thy credit.

* * * * *

Cats may have had their goose
Cooked by tobacco juice;
Still why deny its use
Thoughtfully taken?
We're not as tabbies are:
Smith take a fresh cigar!
Jones, the tobacco jar!
Here's to thee, Bacon!

From C. S. Calverley's _Verses and Translations_ (George Bell and Sons).

* * * * *

THE DERBY WEEK.

(_A Long Way After a Longfellow._)

Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, how precious are thy pleasures!
Not hymned alone in summer-time
With hoarse enthusiastic rhyme,
Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, but hailed in pewtern measures!

Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, how coarse the cads who "put on"
Their three half-crowns for Insulaire,
Or intimate Sir Joseph's "square."
Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week--as if I cared a button!

Saturnian feasts, Saturnian feasts, you ape, despite Dame Grundy.
We laugh until the dread bell rings,
But oh, the aches to-morrow brings,
And Derby week, and Derby week, that reckoning on the Monday!

The welsher's book, the welsher's book, is mirror of thy glories:
It's ready when _their_ horse comes in,
But somewhat muddled when _you_ win.
The welsher's book, the welsher's book, whips Black's in point of
stories!

So Derby week, oh, Derby week, your usual style, we think, errs,
In ending in too cheerful nights,
Headaches and debts, green veils and fights,
And Derby week, oh, Derby week, Dutch dolls and British drinkers.

_Funny Folks_, June 8, 1878.

* * * * *

The following are parodies of the "Saga of King Olaf," contained in Longfellow's "Tales of a Wayside Inn":--

QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY.

(_A Longfellow Cut Short._)

Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft,
In her chamber that looked over meadow and croft;
She held in her hand a ring of gold
That was brought to her by a henchman old.
King Olaf had sent her that wedding gift;
But knowing King Olaf was prone to thrift,
She gave the ring to her goldsmiths twain,
Who smiled as they handed it back again.
Then Sigrid the Queen in her haughty way,
Asked, "Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, pray?"
They answered, "Queen, if the truth be told,
The ring is Brummagem--'t isn't gold!"
The colour flushed over forehead and cheek,
She simply stamped--but she did not speak.
A footstep rang on the outer stair,
And in strode Olaf with royal air.
He kissed her hand, and he whispered love,
And (just for the rhyme) he murmured "Dove!"
She smiled with contempt as she said "Oh, king!
Step it--and get five bob on that ring!"
The face of King Olaf was dark with gloom,
He swore as he strode about the room.
She raised her brows and looked at the King--
"To swear before ladies is not the thing!"
"Why should I wed thee," he cried, "old maid?
A faded beauty, a heathen jade!"
He swore a swear, and he stamped a stamp,
And he fetched her a whack with his gingham Gamp.
They placed the King in a dungeon vault,
Because he was guilty of an assault,
With Tupper for supper, and hot cross buns
They slowly starved him, those savage ones,
And his only drink was Petrole_um_--
And he'd been accustomed to Red Heart Rum!

A SHORTFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE SAGA OF THE SKATERMAN.

Down by the Serpentine,
Found I the Skaterman--
Found him a-wiping his
Eyes with his ulster-sleeve,
Eyes full of scalding tears,
Red with much blubbering.
Red was his nose likewise--
Deeply I pitied him.

"Cheer up, O Skaterman!
Never say die!" says I.
"Cheer up, my hearty!"--so
Tried I to comfort him,
Slapping his back, whereby
Coughed he like anything,
Forth went my heart to him,
Lent him my wipe, I did,
Dried his poor nose and eyes,
Sitting aside of him
Holding his hand.
"Hark to the Skald!" I says,
"Tell him what's up with thee;
Thor of the Hammer will
Come to thine aid!"
Then spake the Skaterman,
Rumbling with muttered oaths
Deep in his diaphragm,
Grumbling at Thor:
"Blow Thaw and Scald!" he cried;
"Blow heverythink!" he cried,
Salt tears a-rolling down
Alongside his nose.
"See these here 'Hacmes,' Sir,
New from the Store they are,
Never been used afore,
Twelve-and-six thrown away!
Friga the Frigid came,
Friga, great Odin's wife,
Bound up the river-gods,
Laid out an icy floor
Mete for the Skaterman.
Then I began to hoard.
Weekly and weekly hoard,
All of my saving to
Buy these here things--
Came Thaw, the thunder-god,
Brake up the Ice-bound stream--
Twelve-and-six thrown away,
That's what's the matter, Sir--
Thaw, he be blowed!"
Then, with a wild shriek, he
Upped with his knobby stick,
Smote on the Acme steel,
Smote with a mighty stroke,
Smote it and broke it up
Into small flinderkins,
Banged it and smashed it up
Into smithereens.
Shocked, then I left him there,
Grumbling at Thor!

_Punch's Almanack_, 1884.

Another long parody of the same original was contained in _Punch_, September 20, 1879. It was entitled "A Modern Saga," and consisted of nine verses, describing Professor Nordenskiöld's travels and discoveries concerning the North-East passage.

* * * * *

It is now a good many years since a well-known American author, Mr. Bayard Taylor, produced a clever little book, entitled "Diversions of the Echo Club." The late Mr. John Camden Hotten published it in London, and it has since gone through several editions. The scheme of the book is thus given by the author:--"In the rear of Karl Schäfer's lager-beer cellar and restaurant--which everyone knows, is but a block from the central part of Broadway--there is a small room, with a vaulted ceiling, which Karl calls his _Löwengrube_, or Lions' Den. Here, in their Bohemian days, Zoïlus and the Gannet had been accustomed to meet, discuss literary projects, and read fragments of manuscript to each other. The Chorus, the Ancient and young Galahad gradually fell into the same habit, and thus a little circle of six, seven, or eight members came to be formed. The room could comfortably contain no more: it was quiet, with a dim, smoky, confidential atmosphere, and suggested Auerbach's Cellar to the Ancient, who had been in Leipzig.

Here authors, books, magazines, and newspapers were talked about; sometimes a manuscript poem was read by its writer; while mild potations of beer and the dreamy breath of cigars delayed the nervous, fidgetty, clattering-footed American Hours. The character which the society assumed for a short time was purely accidental. As one of the Chorus, I was present at the first meeting, and, of course, I never failed afterwards. The four authors who furnished our entertainment were not aware that I had written down, from memory, the substance of the conversations, until our evenings came to an end, and I have had some difficulty in obtaining their permission to publish my reports."

These so-called "Reports" describe the proceedings at eight meetings of the Club, and the conversation is devoted to criticisms of the most famous modern poets. The members next proceed to draw lots as to whose works they shall imitate, the result being a series of parodies, or, more correctly speaking, comical imitations of style, many of which are exceedingly amusing.

The principal poets thus parodied are William Morris; Robert Browning; E. A. Poe; John Keats; Mrs. Sigourney; A. C. Swinburne; R. W. Emerson; E. C. Stedman; Dante G. Rossetti; Barry Cornwall; J. G. Whittier; Oliver Wendell Holmes; Alfred Tennyson; H. W. Longfellow; Walt Whitman; Bret Harte; J. R. Lowell; Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning; and several less known authors.

Amongst the minor poets are included several American writers, whose works are almost unknown to English readers.

On the Fifth night _Zoilus_ draws _Longfellow_, and his comrades caution him to beware how he treats an author, already a classic, whose works have been complimented by many ordinary parodies. He composes the following imitation of Longfellow's hexameters:--

NAUVOO.

This is the place: be still for a while, my high-pressure steamboat!
Let me survey the spot where the Mormons builded their temple.
Much have I mused on the wreck and ruin of ancient religions,
Scandinavian, Greek, Assyrian, Zend, and the Sanskrit,
Yea, and explored the mysteries hidden in Talmudic targums,
Caught the gleam of Chrysaor's sword and occulted Orion,
Backward spelled the lines of the Hebrew graveyard at Newport,
Studied Ojibwa symbols and those of the Quarry of Pipestone,
Also the myths of the Zulus whose questions converted Colenso,
So, methinks, it were well I should muse a little at Nauvoo.

Fair was he not, the primitive Prophet, nor he who succeeded,
Hardly for poetry fit, though using the Urim and Thummin.
Had he but borrowed Levitical trappings, the girdle and ephod,
Fine twined linen, and ouches of gold, and bells and pomegranates,
That, indeed, might have kindled the weird necromancy of fancy.
Had he but set up mystical forms, like Astarte or Peor,
Balder, or Freya, Quetzalcoatl, Perun, Manabozho,
Verily, though to the sense theologic it might be offensive,
Great were the gain to the pictured, flashing speech of the poet.

Yet the Muse that delights in Mesopotamian numbers,
Vague and vast as the roar of the wind in a forest of pine-trees,
Now must tune her strings to the names of Joseph and Brigham.
Hebrew, the first; and a Smith before the Deluge was Tubal,
Thor of the East, who first made iron ring to the hammer;
So on the iron heads of the people about him, the latter,
Striking the sparks of belief and forging their faith in the Good Time
Coming, the Latter Day, as he called it,--the Kingdom of Zion.
Then, in the words of Philip the Eunuch unto Belshazzar,
Came to him multitudes wan, diseased and decrepit of spirit,
Came and heard and believed, and builded the temple of Nauvoo.

All is past; for Joseph was smitten with lead from a pistol,
Brigham went with the others over the prairies to Salt Lake.
Answers now to the long, disconsolate wail of the steamer,
Hoarse, inarticulate, shrill, the rolling and bounding of ten-pins,--
Answers the voice of the bar-tender, mixing the smash and the julep,
Answers, precocious, the boy, and bites a chew of tobacco.
Lone as the towers of Afrasiab now is the seat of the Prophet,
Mournful, inspiring to verse, though seeming utterly vulgar:
Also--for each thing now is expected to furnish a moral--
Teaching innumerable lessons for who so believes and is patient.
Thou, that readest, be resolute, learn to be strong and to suffer!
Let the dead Past bury its dead and act in the Present!
Bear a banner of strange devices, "Forever" and "Never!"
Build in the walls of time the fame of a permanent Nauvoo,
So that thy brethren may see it and say, "Go thou and do likewise!"

This poem does not altogether meet with his comrades' approval; Zoïlus retorts that "it is no easy thing to be funny in hexameters; the Sapphic verse is much more practicable."

_The Gannet_ hereupon asserts that he could write an imitation of Longfellow's higher strains--not of those which are so well known and so much quoted--which would be fairer to the poet, and after a short interval produces--

THE SEWING-MACHINE.

A strange vibration from the cottage window
My vagrant steps delayed,
And half abstracted, like the ancient Hindoo,
I paused beneath the shade.

What is, I said, this unremitting humming,
Louder than bees in spring?
As unto prayer the murmurous answer coming,
Shed from Sandalphon's wing.

Is this the sound of unimpeded labour,
That now usurpeth play?
Our harsher substitute for pipe and tabor,
Ghittern and virelay?

Or, is it yearning for a higher vision,
By spiritual hearing heard?
Nearer I drew, to listen with precision,
Detecting not a word.

Then, peering through the pane, as men of sin do,
Myself the while unseen,
I marked a maiden seated by the window,
Sewing with a machine.

Her gentle foot propelled the tireless treadle,
Her gentle hand the seam:
My fancy said, it were a bliss to peddle
Those shirts, as in a dream!

Her lovely fingers lent to yoke and collar
Some imperceptible taste;
The rural swain, who buys it for a dollar,
By beauty is embraced.

O fairer aspect of the common mission!
Only the Poet sees
The true significance, the high position
Of such small things as these.

Not now doth Toil, a brutal Boanerges,
Deform the maiden's hand;
Her implement its soft sonata merges
In songs of sea and land.

And thus the hum of the unspooling cotton,
Blent with her rhythmic tread,
Shall still be heard, when virelays are forgotten,
And troubadours are dead.

It may be said of "Diversions of the Echo Club" (now published by Messrs. Chatto and Windus), that whilst many of the parodies are amusing, none are either vulgar or ill-natured; the criticisms on the various poets are generally just, thoughtful, and keenly perceptive.

* * * * *

Before leaving Longfellow there are two amusing imitations of Hiawatha to be quoted; Unfortunately, the very clever _Song of Big Ben_ is too long to quote in full, but it is easily accessible:--

THE SONG OF BIG BEN.

Should you ask me why these columns
Filled with words of many speakers--
Why this record of their doings,
With their frequent repetitions,
Their inane deliberations,
And their aggravating dulness?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"That I write them as I hear them,
As I hear, and as I see them;--
That the world may learn what happens
In the painted, gilded chamber,
In the chapel of St. Stephen's,
At the House of Talkee-Talkee,
Where, upon the woolsack, patient,
Lolls the Chancellor, hard-headed,
Where, enthroned above the table,
Sadly sits and broods the Speaker."
Should you ask me why he sits there?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"'Tis because the people will it;
'Tis because they send up members
Who will talk for moons together;
Nought accomplishing, yet spouting,
Like the dolphin, Mishe-no-zha,
Weak and watery stuff for ever."
If still further you should ask me,
Saying "But what do these members,
And the many like unto them,
In the House of Talkee-Talkee?"
I should answer your enquiry
Straightway in such words as follow:--
"Much they love to hear their voices
Talking rubbish at all seasons:
Many 'mongst them seize all chances
For the riding of their hobbies;
Ride them late and ride them early,
Ride them through the Standing Orders;
Ride them without bit or bridle,
Knowing not, nor caring whither."
And if once again you query,
Saying, "Is this all they do there?"
I should answer your fresh query,
I should meet your new conundrum
Right away in some such fashion
As the following, for instance,
I should tell you, "There are many
Who will bide their time with patience,
Knowing that to them by waiting
Will come all the things they long for.
That M.P. means oft More Power;
That 'twill bring them briefs and clients,
Make them 'guinea-pigs' and chairmen,
Knight them, maybe, in the future;
Or ennoble them if only
They will spend their money freely
For the party they belong to."
If you really had the conscience
To make any more enquiries,
I would answer, I should tell you
Not to ask more leading questions,
But to wait and read these columns.
In these records find your answers,
In these lines replies discover.

THE LORDS.

To the gilded, painted chamber
Of the House of Talkee-Talkee,
Comes a crowd of various people,
Comes a flock of noble ladies,
Painted most, and all _decolletees;_
Come the Bishops and the Judges,
Gravely taking up their places;
Clad in their state robes, the Judges,
Like to agéd washerwoman;
In their puffed lawn sleeves, the Bishops,
Fussy, like the hen that cackles
Over new-laid egg or chicken;
Come diplomatists by dozens,
Blazing with their numerous orders,
Which they gladly take, like bagmen;
Come with their vermilion buttons
And their petticoats of satin,
Wond'ring much, the Chinese Envoys:--
Wond'ring why it is the ladies
Care to sit squeezed up like herrings?
How it is their faces glow so
With the ruddy hues of nature?
Wond'ring why it is the nobles
Moon about with hideous cloaks on,
Making them appear round-shouldered,
Mute-like, "Jarvie-ish," ungainly?
Why it is Lord Coleridge carries
'Neath the folds of his the head-gear
Known in slang phrase as a "stove-pipe!"
Why in swallow-tail of evening
Mr. Pierrepoint walks at noon-day?
Why the Primate greets profusely
Fezzed Musurus when he enters?
Why the latter comes to gaze on
These ill-fated dogs of Christians
That his former masters cheated?
And their wonderment continues
As they hear the _charivari_,
See the entrances and exits,
Watch staid men in green and silver,
Rushing here and running thither.
Others, clad in velvet small-clothes,
Pottering in among the benches,
Nought effecting but confusion.

* * * * *

Entered are at last the household,
And the Queen comes through the doorway,
Sits she in her dress of velvet
On the throne, and all is silent.
Only for a minute's space though,
For, from down a distant lobby,
Comes the sound of pattering footsteps,
Like the rush of many waters,
By the shore of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big Sea Water.
Nearer, nearer, comes the pattering,
Louder, louder grow the voices,
More pronounced the hurried scuffling.
Now it seems as though the sound wave
Rolled close to the chamber's portal,
And, 'midst loud complaints and laughter,
Plainly heard by all who sat there,
Comes unto the bar the Speaker;
At his heels are Stafford Northcote,
And Ward Hunt, the Tory giant,
After them the deluge! Members
Fight and push, and pull and scuffle;
Loudly wrangle for their places,
And protest with scanty measure
Of politeness or good breeding;
Whilst their premier, safe translated,
Smiles a smile that's cold and selfish.

But at length the Commons settle
Into order as behoves them.
And the Chancellor upstanding
Mounts the throne's wide steps, and kneeling
To his sovereign he offers
Her own speech, which she declining,
He unrolls, and then distinctly
With a voice and tone majestic
(Picked up in his constant practice),
Read it in this way and this wise:--
"Listen to these words of wisdom
Sounding much but meaning little,
That with much elaborate caution,
In the Cabinet we hit on.

Oh, my faithful Lords and Commons,
As it is so far from likely
That you read the daily journals,
As it is so very certain
You've heard nothing that has happened,
I will tell you what you cannot
By remotest chance have heard of:
Know ye then, my trusted children,
There has been a war in Turkey,
And my Ministers have written
Some despatches on the subject;
So if, later on, my Commons
Should find out the vote for foolscap
And for ink and quills is swollen,
They will know the cause and pass it;
But let me haste on to tell you
In thrice twenty lines the items
That for weeks have been known fully
Through the papers to the people.
Know ye then, my Lords and Commons
(This is likewise news important,
I have journeyed far to tell you),
We joined Europe in a Conference,
And we sent our trusty cousin,
Robert Cecil, Salisbury's Marquis,
To take part in its discussions?
Know ye not that Robert Cecil,
Lordly master he of Hatfield,
Went and saw, but did not conquer--
Went and talked, but did not manage
Well his coaxing or his bluster;
Nay, came back completely vanquished,
And must do without his dukedom?
Need I add, my knowing children,
How his failure grieved his colleagues--
How Lord Derby wept to hear it--
How Lord Beaconsfield has felt it?
Still bewails it much in private,
And in public should his lips curl,
That is merely force of habit.
Know ye too, my legislators,
My most able statute-makers,
That my Indian subjects vastly
Liked the squibs let off at Delhi,
By my dreamy poet-Viceroy;
And, about to die of famine,
They enjoyed the show immensely.
All the Colonies are prosp'rous!
Which, if I am not mistaken,
Will be news to many of them,
Say, for instance, to Barbadoes.

Gentlemen, who pull the purse-strings,
I presume you will, as usual,
Vote sufficient of the needful.
Go, then, and in these great labours
May the spirit of the Master,
Gitche Manito, the Mighty
Aid you, lest they should o'erwhelm you."

Then uprose the Queen, and vanished,
And a hubbub fills the Chamber:
Peers take off their robes of velvet;
Ladies cover up their shoulders,
And the throng is quickly scattered;
Yet was very full the chamber--
Full of Lords, and full of strangers,
All come down, and feeling curious
How the Earl and eke the Marquis
Would get on when brought together;
Some there were who thought the Marquis
Would upon the Earl his back turn;
Some who thought the Earl would curl his
Upper lip, and snub the Marquis;
Others that the Marquis, smarting
With the knowledge that he'd been offered
Coolly on the Eastern altar,
That he had been made a victim;
Had been sent to wreck his prestige,
'Mongst the diplomatic breakers,
Would dig up the buried hatchet
From the _Quarterly's_ shut pages,
Would dash down the friendly peace-pipe,
And his tomahawk turn wildly
On his former foe, Ben Dizzy;
But it did not come to pass so,
For on Thursday all was quiet,
And the Salisburian lion
Lay down with the Dizzian lambkin.
And the Marquis keeps his vengeance
For a more convenient season,
If, indeed, he has not hopes still
Of a dukedom for his failure.
After this they talked for four hours,
But the talk meant simply nothing!

THE COMMONS.

As the "brave" re-seeks his wigwam,
Left deserted in the autumn,
When the early spring-tide tempts him
To return and hunt the bison--
To return and trap the beaver--
To return and scalp the "pale-face"--
To return, in short, and do for
Many beasts and birds and fishes;
So unto their long-left places,
To their worn and padded places,
Where they sought for reputation--
Where they strove for loaves and fishes--
Where they hounded down the helpless--
Where they vexèd those in office--
Where they howled and snored and hooted--
Where they quite wore out the Speaker,
Harried Adderley and Holker,
Tried in vain to draw Ben Dizzy,
And gave forth such endless rubbish--
Came the M.P.'s for the Session.
Came in state, too, Mr. Speaker
With the mace and with his chaplain;--
Gold the mace, and Byng his chaplain;
Whereupon did Captain Gossett,
In his normal tights and ruffles,
"Tile" the door till prayers were over.
Thus all present fell to praying,
Let us hope they prayed in earnest,
For delivery from envy,
Spite and malice and Kenealy.
Prayed for sense (God knows most want it),
Prayed for very frequent count-outs,
And for early dissolution.
[_Left Praying._

Now the mace is on the table
From his oaken throne the Speaker,
In his hand the Queen's speech holding,
Tries to read it, but half through it,
Something ails him, and he falters.
May we not trace his emotion
To the thought of what's before him?
How can he fail to remember
That the bores have re-assembled.
Stronger both in lung and purpose,
That when they left town last August.
And he knows he can't escape them,
That his eye perforce will caught be
By the Lewises and Lawsons,
By the Biggars and the Whalleys,
By the Newdegates and Parnells,
This is why his voice completely
Fails him and prevents his reading,
This is why his accents die out,
Like the last song of Pu-kee-wis,
Of the dying swan, Pu-kee-wis;
This is why they have to bring him
Of the water from his cistern
(Let us hope it first was filtered),
Which he drinks, and so recovers;
Drinks, and so concludes his reading.

Then, since there is no amendment,
One would think that when the mover
And the seconder had spoken
That the House would straightway scatter;
Little do they know, who think so,
Of the ways of Mr. Gladstone!
Little do they understand him,
If they think he can keep silence
When the Eastern question's talked of!
Could they fancy Whalley speechless,
With the Jesuits on the _tapis?_
Could they picture Doctor "Dewdrops"
Dumb upon the Magna Charta?
Or the Common Serjeant henceforth
Dropping his deceased wife's sister?
Could they e'en think Holker clever?
Couple modesty and Jenkins?
Take from Lewis his white waistcoats,
Or from Plimsoll his last hobby?
Could they do all this? it's doubtful,
Even then, if Mr. Gladstone
Could be really kept from speaking.
When the Eastern question's mentioned,
He is always running over
With a tide of verbal fulness;
At a moment's notice ready
To break through his lips or flow out
In a pamphlet from his study,
Just as when the cat, Me-aw-nee,
Sees a mouse she pounces on it;
As the buffalo, Shu-shu-kah,
At the sight of crimson's maddened;
As the sturgeon, Minhe-nah-ma,
Meets a mackerel, but to bolt it,
As the 'possum, Pau-ku-kee-wis,
When it finds a gum-tree, climbs it,
So does this M.P. for Greenwich
Seize upon the Eastern question,
Be it in, or out of, season,
Be it _apropos_ or useless,
Be it positively dangerous
To allude to it in public;
So on Thursday seized he on it,
Even though he knew the time was
Not yet come to talk upon it,
Poured his stream of words upon it,
Swamped it with his fluent diction;
And when he had talked a column,
Was informed by Gathorne Hardy,
That the questions he'd propounded
Would be answered in the blue-books;
That the information asked for
Would be printed in the blue-books;
That, in short, his speech was useless--
_Verba et præterea nihil_.
Whereupon the Speaker vanished,
And the House broke up its sitting.

_Truth_, February 15, 1877.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF PAHTAHQUAHONG.

"The REV. HENRY PAHTAHQUAHONG CHASE, hereditary Chief of the Ojibway tribe, President of the Grand Council of Indians, and missionary of the Colonial and Continental Church Society at Muncey Town, Ontario, Canada, has just arrived in England, on a short visit."--_The Standard._