Chapter XXXII: Prologue (3)

Thus pondering how they best might frame reply,
Unto their Sovereign’s speech, mute and perplexed
Sat all the Peers, awaiting who appeared
To second, or oppose, or undertake
The perilous attempt, till Onslow, raised
Alike by merit and the Premier’s choice
To that bad eminence, in glib-set speech
Began: “Since silent all, great powers, ye wait
Counsel and guidance, I myself have framed
A loyal Address of dutiful assent,
Declaring confidence in this our State
And those whose prudence guides it,――fit reply!”
He spoke, and from the other side uprose
Granville, in act most graceful and humane
Of all who fell from office, breathing forth
Hatred implacable, and straight denounced
Revenge, and dissolution dangerous
To less than Peers. Louder applause was heard
As Granville ended, and his sentence pleased,
Counselling revolt, which, when the Premier saw,
Lord Beaconsfield, than whom of all the powers,
Save the Lord Chancellor, none higher sat,
With grave aspect he rose. High on his front
The curl of Vivian clung, though thinned with years,
Majestic still in ruin; and with knee
Somewhat advanced, as if perchance to show
Its mystic circlet, thus imperious spoke:
“Peers of the Empire, still ye look to me,
Your chief, for still to me the popular vote
Inclines, here to continue, and build up here
A growing Empire, so with Freedom joined;
Receive my words, nor heed inferior tongues,
False to their Sovereign and to our State,
Counselling ignoble ease and peaceful sloth,
Not peace. Well have ye judged of old, and still
Ye shall judge well, discerning to avoid,
By me advised, shameful dismemberment
Of this great realm.” He ceased, and straight the powers
Their session ended, voted the Address,
Momentous issue of prolonged debate.

THE BABY.
(Mr. John Foote, Kensington.)

――――――――

SECOND PRIZE.

High on a throne of Royal state which well
Beseemed the rule of Britain, and of Ind,
In sable vested, save for lustrous star
And circlet bright of gleaming gem and gold,
Victoria proudly sat by lineage raised
To that fair eminence, and by desert
Thus high enthroned in her people’s hearts.
Meanwhile the Black-Rod usher by command
Acquaints the Commons, who, their summons called
From Government and Opposition ranks,
Came trooping to the bar, and thronged the floor.
Behold a wonder! They, who in their place
Were pompous in their port as any peer,
Now fight and jostle for a standing-room;
Their self-importance breathless and collapsed
As Æsop’s fabled frog. But far above,
And at their own convenience, like their wont,
The noble lords――dukes, earls, and smaller fry――
In _otium cum dignitate_ sat,
Quaint demi-gods, in crimson robes and hats
Shiny and tall. After short silence then,
The ms. tendered, Cairns the Royal thoughts
And Beaconsfield’s concoctions thus disclosed:
‘My Lords and Gentlemen, once more well met,
Or classically, “Here we are again!”
The firmest friendship knits us to all Powers
(Save tiffs with holy Russia and the Turk,
Which every week or so must needs occur).
Triumphant o’er the Afghans are our arms;
For since no downfall in its grip can hold
All-conquering England, though repulsed awhile,
I hold it victory. Despite our loss
In Zululand, and Chelmsford’s blundering,
_Imperium et Libertas_ will appear
More glorious to the Jingoes than no war,
With what beside in Parliament or field
Hath been involved in failure. To this, then,
Our policy of old we now return――
How best we can contrive, by force or guile,
To filch our neighbours’ lands, and keep our own.’

BRIAN BORU.
(Mr. H. Hamilton, Holloway.)

_The World_, February 18, 1880.

――――:o:――――

“PRAE EXISTENCE, a Poem in imitation of Milton.” London: Printed for John Clark, at the Bible and Crown in the Old Change, near St. Paul’s, 1714. This work was published anonymously, but it had a long Publisher’s Preface, signed J.B., under which initials it may be traced in the catalogue of the British Museum Library (Press Mark 11,631, b.b.b. 39). The Preface states that the structure of the Poem is founded on the opinion “_That all human souls had an existence antecedent to the Mosaic Creation_,” and is intended as an account of the events that occurred in the interval between the battle of _Michael_ and _Lucifer_, and the creation of the World.

In Book I. _Paradise Lost_, Milton thus alludes to Lucifer’s discomfiture:――

“Nine times the space that measures Day and Night
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew,
Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf,”

and the Author of “Prae Existence” commences his poem with the Archangels sounding a retreat from the pursuit of the Rebel Angels condemned to Hell, and the closing of Hell Gates.

With such a text it may be easily imagined that the Poem is not of a very light or cheerful description. It opens thus ominously:――

Now had th’ Archangel Trumpet, raised sublime
Above the walls of Heav’n, begun to sound;
All Æther took the Blast, and Hell beneath
Spoke with Celestial Noise; th’ Almighty Host
Hot with pursuit, and reaking with the Blood
Of guilty Cherubs smear’d in sulphurous Dust,
Pause at the known command of sounding Gold;
And first they close the wide Tartarian Gates,
Th’ impenetrable Folds on Brazen Hinge
Rowl creaking horrible; the Din beneath
O’ercomes the Roar of Flames, and deafens Hell.

* * * * *

The remainder of the Poem is too heavy to be quoted, but the curious in such matters may easily refer to it in the British Museum Library.

――――:o:――――

In Isaac D’Israeli’s _Curiosities of Literature_ there is a chapter entitled “Critical Sagacity and Happy Conjecture;” or, Bentley’s Milton. Dr. Bentley had, by his injudicious corrections and prosaic interpolations, much disfigured his edition of _Paradise Lost_, and D’Israeli, in his article exposes Dr. Bentley’s errors and want of taste.

“――――BENTLEY, long to wrangling schools confined,
And but by books acquainted with mankind――
To MILTON lending sense, to HORACE wit,
He makes them write, what never poet writ.”

“SALMAGUNDI: a miscellaneous combination of original Poetry; consisting of Illusions of Fancy, Amatory, Elegiac, Lyrical, Epigrammatical, and other Palateable Ingredients. Third Edition, London. E. Hodson, Bell Yard, Temple Bar, 1793.” This volume was written by the Rev. George Huddersford, M.A., Vicar of Loxley, Warwickshire, who died November 10, 1809. It contains the two following poems in imitation of _L’Allegro_, and _Il Penseroso_.

WHITSUNTIDE.

Written at Winchester College on the immediate approach
of the Holidays.

Hence, Thou Fur-clad Winter, fly;
Sire of shivering Poverty!
Who, as thou creep’st with chilblains lame
To the crowded charcoal flame,
With chattering teeth and ague cold,
Scarce thy shaking sides canst hold
While thou draw’st the deep cough out:
God of Football’s noisy rout,
Tumult loud and boist’rous play,
The dangerous slide, the snow-ball fray.

But come, thou genial Son of Spring,
WHITSUNTIDE! and with thee bring
Cricket, nimble boy and light,
In slippers red and drawers white,
Who o’er the nicely-measur’d land
Ranges around his comely band,
Alert to intercept each blow,
Each motion of the wary Foe.

Or patient take thy quiet stand,
The angle trembling in thy hand,
And mark, with penetrative eye,
Kissing the wave the frequent fly,
Where the trout with eager spring
Forms the many-circled ring,
And, leaping from the silver tide,
Turns to the sun his speckled side.

Or lead where Health or Naiad fair
With rosy cheek and dripping hair,
From the sultry noon-tide beam,
Dives in Itchin’s crystal stream.

Thy votaries, ranged in order due,
To-morrow’s wish’d-for dawn shall view,
Greeting the radiant Star of Light
With Matin Hymn and early kite:
E’en now, these hallow’d haunts among,
To thee we raise the choral song[50]
And swell with echoing minstrelsy
The strain of joy and liberty.

If pleasures such as these await
Thy genial reign, with heart elate
For Thee I throw my gown aside,
And hail thy coming. WHITSUNTIDE.

――――――――

CHRISTMAS.

Hence, Summer, indolently laid
To sleep beneath the cooling shade!
Panting quick with sultry heat,
Thirst and faint Fatigue retreat!

Come, CHRISTMAS, father Thou of Mirth,
Patron of the festive hearth,
Around whose social ev’ning flame
The jovial song, the winter game,
The chase renewed in merry tale,
The season’s carols never fail.
Who, tho’ winter chill the skies
Canst catch the glow of exercise,
Following swift the football’s course;
Or with unresisted force,
Where Frost arrests the harden’d tide,
Shooting along the rapid slide.

Who, ere the misty, morn is grey,
To some high covert hark’st away;
While Sport, on lofty courser borne,
In concert winds his echoing horn
With the deeply thund’ring hounds,
Whose clangour wild, and joyful sounds.
While echo swells the doubting cry,
Shake the woods with harmony.
How does my eager bosom glow
To give the well-known TALLY-HO!
Or show, with cap inverted, where
Stole away the cautious hare!

Or if the blast of Winter keen
Spangles o’er the silvery green,
Booted high thou lov’st to tread
Marking through the sedgy mead,
Where the creeping moor-hen lies,
Or snipes with sudden twittering rise.
Or joy’st the early walk to take
Where, through the pheasant-haunted brake,
Oft as the well-aim’d gun resounds,
The eager dashing spaniel bounds.

For thee of Buck my breeches tight,
Clanging whip and rowels bright,
The hunter’s cap my brows to guard,
And suit of sportive green’s prepar’d:
For since these delights are thine,
CHRISTMAS with thy bands I join.

――――:o:――――

In 1776 another parody on Milton’s _L’Allegro_ was published, entitled “The Garrulous Man,” a poem addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Miller, Bath; but this the Editor has not succeeded in finding.

――――:o:――――

L’ALLEGRO; OR FUN, A PARODY.

Off, blubbering Melancholy!
Of the blue devils and book-learning born,
In dusty schools forlorn;
Amongst black-gowns, square caps, and books unjolly,
Hunt out some college cell,
Where muzzing quizzes mutter monkish schemes,
And the old proctor dreams;
There, in thy smutty walls, o’errun with dock,
As ragged as thy smock,
With rusty, fusty fellows ever dwell.
But come, thou baggage fat and free,
By gentles called Festivity,
And by us rolling kiddies, _Fun_,
Whom Mother Shipton, one by one,
With two Wapping wenches more,
To skipping Harlequino bore:
Or whether, as some deeper say,
Jack Pudding on a holiday
Along with Jenny Diver romping.
As he met her once a pumping.

* * * * *

Hip! here, jade, and bring with thee
Jokes and sniggering jollity,
Christmas gambols, waggish tricks,
Winks, wry faces, licks and kicks,
Such as fall from Moggy’s, knuckles,
And love to live about her buckles;
Game, that hobbling watchmen boxes,
And Horse-laugh hugging both his doxies;
Come, and kick it as you go,
On the stumping hornpipe-toe:
And in thy right hand haul with thee
The _Mountain_ brim French liberty.
And if I give puffing due,
Fun, admit me of thy crew,
To pig with her, and pig with thee,
In everlasting frolicks free:
To hear the sweep begin his beat,
And squalling startle the dull street,
From his watch-box in the alley
Till the watch at six doth sally;
Then to go, in spite of sleep,
And at the window cry, “Sweep! sweep!”
Through the street-door, or the area,
Or, in the country, through the dairy;
While the dustman, with his din,
Bawls and rings to be let in,
And at the fore, or the back-door,
Slowly plods his jades before.
Oft hearing the sow-gelder’s horn
Harshly rouse the snoring morn,
From the side of a large square,
Through the long street grunting far.
Sometimes walking I’ll be seen
By Tower-hill, or Moorfields green,
Right against Old Bedlam-gate,
Where the mock king begins his state,
Crown’d with straw, and rob’d with rags,
Cover’d o’er with jags and tags,
While the keeper near at hand
Bullies those who leave their stand;
And milk-maid’s screams go through your ears,
And grinders sharpen rusty sheers,
And every crier squalls his cry
Under each window he goes by.

Straight mine eye hath caught new gambols,
While round and round this town it rambles;
Sloppy streets and foggy day,
Where the blundering folks do stray!
Pavements, on whose slippery flags
Swearing coach-men drive their nags;
Barbers jostled ’gainst your side,
Narrow streets, and gutters wide.

Grub-street garrets now it sees,
To the muse open and the breeze,
Where perhaps some scribbler hungers,
The hack of neighbouring newsmongers,
Hard by, a tinker’s furnace smokes,
From betwixt two pastry-cooks,
Where dingy Dick and Peggy, met,
Are at their scurvy dinner set,
Of cow-heel, and such cellar messes,
Which the splay-foot Rachael dresses;
And then in haste the shop she leaves,
And with the boy the bellows heaves;
Or if ’tis late, and shop is shut,
Scrubs at the pump her face from smut,
Sometimes, all for sights agog,
To t’other end of the town I jog.
When St. James’s bells ring round,
And the royal fiddles sound,
And young and old dance down the tune,
In honour of the forth of June;
Till candles fail and eyes are sore,
Then home we hie to talk it o’er,
With stories told of many a treat,
How Lady Swab the sweetmeats eat;
She was pinch’d and something worse,
And she was fobb’d and lost her purse,
Tell how the drudging Weltjee sweat,
To bake his custards duly set,
When in one night, ere clock went seven,
His ’prentice-lad had robb’d the oven
Of more than twenty hands had put in;
Then lies him down, a little glutton,
Stretch’d lumbering ’fore the fire, they tell ye,
And bakes the custards in his belly;
Then crop-sick down the stairs he flings
Before his master’s bell yet rings,
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep
By hoofs and wheels soon lull’d to sleep.

But the city takes me then,
And the _hums_ of busy men,
Where throngs of train-band captains bold
In time of peace fierce meetings hold,
With stores of stock-jobbers, whose lies
Work change of stocks and bankruptcies;
Where bulls and bears alike contend
To get the cash they dare not spend.
Then let aldermen appear,
In scarlet robes, with chandelier,
And city feasts and gluttony,
With balls upon the lord mayor’s day;
Sights that young ’prentices remember,
Sleeping or waking, all November.

Then to the play-houses anon,
If Quick or Bannister be one;
Or drollest Parsons, child of Drury,
Bawls out his damns with comic fury,
And ever, against hum-drum cares,
Sing me some of Dibdin’s airs,
Married to his own queer wit,
Such as my shaking sides may split,
In notes, with many a jolly bout,
Near Beaufort Buildings oft roar’d out,
With Wagging curls and smirk so cunning,
His rig on many a booby running,
Exposing all the ways and phizzes
Of “wags, and oddities and quizzes,”
That Shuter’s self might heave his head
From drunken snoozes, on a bed
Of pot-house benches sprawl’d, and hear
Such laughing songs as won the ear
Of all the town, his slip to cover,
Whene’er he met ’em half-seas over.

Freaks like these if thou canst give,
Fun, with thee I wish to live.
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――

THE HARE HUNTER.

_A Burlesque imitation of various parts of Milton’s L’Allegro and Il Penseroso._

Lo I, who erst, at break of day,
To Nelston Wiggs[51] betook my way,
Alarming all the country round
With barbarous shout and yelping hound;
And many a fox in vain pursued
To Bardon Hill[51] or Button Wood;
And oft returned in evening dark
With empty hands from Horsely Park;[51]
And thought myself a clever lad,
While all the neighbours thought me mad;
Now condescend with nicest care
To hunt the hedge-row for a hare.
Hence, Fox-hunting! thou fiend forlorn,
Of Uproar wild and Tumult born:
No more expect me on the hill,
Obedient to thy summons shrill,
Where late with joy I saw thee stand,
The whip new corded in thine hand,
In boots thy legs entrenched strong,
Thy heels well arm’d with rowels long,
The cap close fitted to thy head,
The blue plush coat, the waistcoat red;
Thy person trim, succinct, and light
Breechee’d high in buckskin tight;
Mounted on a courser fleet,
With ardent eyes and pawing feet;
Hence, with thy tall tail-curling hound,
Of tongue so shrill and ears so round.

No more I listen to the noise
Of “wind him, rogues,” and “to him boys,”
The “touch,” the “drag,” and “tallihoe,”
And “gone away,” and “there they go;”
And how we earth’d him at Crick Chase,
Or lost him at some cursed place;
From all such ills that did attend us,
Henceforth, good Jupiter, defend us!

But come, thou genius of “Loo Whoore,”
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
Clad in a coat of clumsy size,
Of double drab or knotted frieze,
O’er which is drawn the warm surtout
With flourish’d girdle bound about;
Thy vacant forehead broad and fat,
Shadow’d beneath the round-cropp’d hat.
Sweet power of Thistle-whipping, hail!
Whom in a solitary vale
To prone-eyed Dulness long of yore
The moping nymph Tantarra bore.
Come, but keep your wonted state
On a horse of sluggish gait;
Your looks commencing with the ground,
Where the close-crouching hare is found;
And as across the lands you creep,
Forget yourself and fall asleep
Till the dull steed shall break your nap,
Stumbling through the accustom’d gap.
And first the waddling beagle bring,
That looks as just escaped the string,
With sneaking tail and heavy head,
Such as by neighbour Dash are bred;
And join sharp Cold with Ache severe,
And Patience, that can bear to hear
The pack with melancholy tone
Around the scented hillock moan,
And with such discord as they keep,
Tempt pitying travellers to weep.

Me, Genius, shalt thou often find
On some hill side beneath the wind,
On fallows rough or stubbles dry,
Where the lone leveret loves to lie,
While such mean merriment invites,
Doing thy sadly-pleasing rites.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I see the fat pack puzzling round,
Where the game went long before,
Sounding sad with sullen roar;
With slow-paced heed, and tedious cunning,
Through all her artful mazes running,
Untwisting every knotty wile
Both of the double and the foil;
In notes with many a winding bout
Of drowsy murmurings long-drawn out,
Bewailing their dull master’s folly,
Most pitiful, most melancholy,
But chiefly let the Southern’s tongue
Drag its deep dismal tone along,
In bellowings loud, and utterance hoarse,
Such as its mournful way may force
Through all my hearing’s cavities,
And bring the tears into my eyes.

But let my due sight never fail,
Where beaten paths divide the vale,
With anxious skill and cunning care,
To prick the footsteps of the hare,
While I cheer the beagle’s toil,
With “hoo the way,” and “hark the foil!”
And when at last old age and gout
Prevent my longer going out,
O may I from my easy chair
The wonders of my youth declare,
Extol at large myself and steed,
And talk of hounds of my old breed,
Till I become through neighbouring shires
The oracle of country squires.
These pleasures, Hare Hunting, impart,
And I am thine with all my heart.
MUNDY.
_Elegant Extracts from the British Poets_, 1824.

――――:o:――――

FASHION.

_A Paraphrase of L’Allegro._

Hence, loath’d vulgarity,
Of Ignorance and native Dullness bred,
In low unwholesome shed,
’Mongst thieves and drabs, and street sweeps, asking charity:
Find some suburban haunt,
Where the spruce ’prentice treats his flashy mate,
And smoking cits debate:
Or at a dowdy rout, or ticket ball,
Giv’n at Freemason’s hall,
With tawdry clothes and liveries ever flaunt.
But come, thou nymph of slender waist,
Known early by the name of Taste.
And now denominated Fashion,
Whom erst, by no unlawful passion,
Pleasure’s fair nymph, on Britain’s shore,
To radiant ey’d Apollo bore:
Or Hermes (so the grave dispute is)
The frolic god of chemist beauties,
Found Lady Someone in the dark
As once they met at ―― ―― Park,
There, on a couch of damask blue,
And squabs, and cushions, damask too,
Fill’d her with thee, thou white-arm’d fair,
So delicate and _de bon air_.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Steed, and light hung Tilbury,
Undiscoverable rouge,
Polish’d boots; and neckcloth huge,
(Such as might deck a Dandy’s cheek,
And draw the gazers for a week.)
Mackintosh’s racy phrase,
And wit, that peerless Ward might praise.
Come, and let your steps be bent
With a lively measurement,
And bring the proper airs and graces,
That make their way in certain places:
And, if I give thee honour due
Fashion, enroll me with the few,
With Spencer, Sidney Smith, and thee,
In a select society:
To ride when many a lady fair, in
Her morning veil begins her airing,
And with the nurse and children stow’d,
Drives down the Park, or Chelsea Road:
Then to stop in spite of sorrow,
And through the window bid good morrow
Of vis-a-vis, or barouchette,
Or half-open landaulet:
While little Burke, with lively din,
Scatters his stock of trifles thin,
And at the Bridge, or Grosvenor Gate,
Briskly bids his horses wait;
Oft listening how the Catalani
Rouses at night the applauding many,
In some opera of Mozart,
Winning the eye, the ear, the heart.
Then in the round room not unseen,[52]
Attending dames of noble mien,
Right to the door in Market Lane,
Where chairmen range their jostling train,
And footmen stand with torch alight,
In their thousand liveries dight,
While the doorkeeper on the stairs,
Bawls for the Marchionesses’ chairs,
And young dragoons enjoy the crowd,
And dowagers inveigh aloud,
And lovers write a hasty scrawl,
Upon the ticket of a shawl.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
As the circling crowd it measures;
Virgins old with tresses gray,
That in corkscrew curls do stray;
Ladies, on whose softer breast,
Gallants receive a hope of rest;
Little feet with sandals tied,
Shallow heads and shoulders wide;
Necks and throats of lovely form,
Bosom’d high in tippet warm,
Where some beauty spreads her snare,
The envy of surrounding fair.

Hard by, the Op’ra being past,
To some small supper let me haste,
Where ladies, wits, and poets met,
Are at their various banquet set,
Of fifty little tempting messes,
Which the neat-handed Gunter dresses:
And there with satisfaction see
The pullet and the early pea,
Or, if the sultry dog-star reign,
The melon, ice, and cool champagne.
Sometimes, to a late delight
Argyll advertisements invite,
Where the wreathed waltz goes round,
Or English tunes more briskly sound,
To twice a hundred feet or more,
Dancing on the chalky floor:
And wise mama, well pleased to see
Her daughter paired with high degree,
Stays till the daylight glares amain:
Then in the carriage home again,
With stories told, of many a bow,
And civil speech from so-and-so.
She was asked to dance, she said,
But scarcely down the middle led,
Because his Lordship only thought,
How soonest to find out a spot,
Where, seated by her side, unheard,
He whispered many a pretty word,
Such as no poet could excel!
Then, having paid his court so well,
Most manifestly meaning marriage,
He fetch’d the shawls and call’d the carriage,
Handed her from the crowded door,
And watched till she was seen no more.

Thus done the tales, the flutt’ring fair
Go up to bed, and curl their hair.
Country houses please me too,
And the jocund Christmas crew,
Where chiefs of adverse politics
Awhile in social circle mix,
And tenants come, whose country franchise
Connects them with the higher branches,
Since all the great alike contend
For votes, on which they all depend.
Let affability be there,
With cordial hand and friendly air.
And private play and glittering fête,
To make the rustic gentry prate,――
Such joys as fill young ladies’ heads,
Who judge from books of masquerades.

Then will I to St. Stephen’s stray,
If aught be moved by Castlereagh,
Or matchless Canning mean to roll,
His thunders o’er the subject soul.

And sometimes, to divert my cares,
Give me some flirt, with joyous airs,
Married a girl, a widow now,
Such as will hear each playful vow,
Too young to lay upon the shelf:
Meaning――as little as myself:――
Still speaking, singing, walking, running,
With wanton heed and giddy cunning,
With a good mien to testify
Her converse with good company,
That Chesterfield might lift his eyes
From the dark Tartarus where he lies,
Beholding in her air and gait,
Graces that almost compensate
The blunders of his awkward son
And half the harm his book has done.

These delights if thou canst give,
FASHION, with thee I wish to live.

_Posthumous Parodies._ (John Miller, London, 1814.)

――――:o:――――

ODE

By an Amateur, an ardent admirer of
MILTON,
On the Centennial Birthday of Burns.

I.

Hence, chroniclers of Time,
Makers of almanacs and strange predictions,
Held by the wise as fictions;
Begone, and wallow in the river’s slime,
To calculate the tides;
Or be your bed in bedlamitic cell,
Where moon-calves best may dwell,
To note her phases and her quarters dark,
That lovers well may mark,
What silvery hour for meeting best provides,
But here your art is wanted not,
This day――the ne’er-to-be-forgot
Makes an Era of its own;
And the dark Cimmerian throne
Of Erebus and Nox, no more
Encumbers Lethe’s barren shore,
In chains of silence to oppress
The victims of forgetfulness.

* * * * *

III.

In centennial cycle we,
With pomp, and feast, and revelry,
Multitudinously meet,
Natal day of Bard to greet,
Fauns and Dryads, Sylph and Fairy,
Hail this epoch centenary.
See on yonder mountain top
Caledonia plays Scotch-hop
With swimming eye and mazy gait,
(By “Mountain dew” inebriate)
Summons every loyal chiel
To reel the dance and dance the reel;
While centuries come, and centuries go
“On the light fantastic toe.”

* * * * *

XII.

Such our day!――from morning’s light
Till what time the angular flight
Of the bat suggests that we
Zig-zag home as well as he,
Thus the mazy path we’ll go
Still on the _fantastic_ toe,
Though the _lightness_ all hath fled
From the foot into the head.
After festal elevation,
Each descends to’s proper station
Where the locomotive’s snorting,
And the careful guard escorting;
Or, it may be, at the feasts’ end,
Some seek busses to the West End,

Some with frowns and some with smiles,
Debating how they’ll gang their miles,
Ev’n as, through life, it doth prevail,
That some do buss it,――some do rail.

These extracts are taken from a long poem contained in _Rival Rhymes, in honour of Burns_; collected and edited by Ben Trovato. Published by Routledge, Warnes and Routledge, London, in 1859. This little volume contains parodies of Father Prout; Thomas Campbell; Longfellow; Hood; Tennyson; Barry Cornwall; Macaulay; Pope, and Thackeray. It is now known that it was written by Samuel Lover, the novelist, it will, however, add little to his fame either as a poet, or a humourist.

――――:o:――――

RECREATION RHYMES.

By the Author of “The Idylls of the Rink.”

FOOTBALL.
BY J * * N M * * * * N.

Hence, hateful idleness,
Thou thing accursed, of parents dread begot,
And with thy selfish lot
Betake thee where my eyes shall see thee less;
For, sprung from such a race,
Ennui thy mother, and thy father Vice,
Thou never couldst be nice.
Begone, where I no more shall see thy face.
Come, goddess of another sort,
Yclep’d by men and mortals, Sport!
Come, offspring of a noble pair.
Thy mother Leisure, sweet and fair,
And Health thy Father, stout and strong.
Come, ’tis of thee I make my song.

First let me pray the tuneful Nine
To aid me with a ray divine,
To guide me as I sweep the string,
And teach me rightly how to sing;
For, sooth, no classic bard, I deem,
Could ever find a nobler theme;
Nay, garbed in language rich and terse,
And married to immortal verse,
With fairy figures richly dight,
How can it fail to give delight?

It is a wintry holyday,
When young and old come out to play;
The air is crisp, the day is bright,
In sooth it is a goodly sight.
As to the trysting place they hie,
Right merrily the time goes by,
With sportive quip, and pungent pun,
With hearty laugh, and joyous fun.
Then, hasting to a spot remote,
Each player doffs his outer coat,
And shows himself in vesture trim,
Which closely fits each lissome limb;
Then to the ground speeds with a will,
To prove his prowess and his skill.
The rival chiefs, a worthy pair,
Now toss the coin high in air,
And he whom fortune doth befriend
Makes choice of goal to guard and fend;
The while his foe ’mid joyous cry
First drives the aëry ball on high.

Now listen to the merry din,
And see the much-loved sport begin.
The ball swift travels through the air,
Now here, now there, and everywhere,
Now sailing on with lofty bound,
Now creeping slowly o’er the ground.
The players now, an eager crew,
The well encasèd ball pursue,
Rush on and kick it as they go,
With the light but well-shod toe.
Now see a youth fly o’er the ground,
And deftly catch it on the bound;
Tight in his grasp he holds his prize,
To evade the foe as on he flies.
Then loud is heard the welcome cry
“A scrummage, to the rescue hie!”
And, with a roar of wild delight,
Rush all to “scrummage,” strangely hight.
And now indeed a wondrous scene
Is acted on the village green;
For all who play, save three or four,
Rush madly on, at least a score
Of heads and shoulders quickly meet,
And twice as many eager feet.
Now many a toe meets many a shin
And leaves its mark on manly skin,
And elbows, seeking cosy cribs,
Find lodgment in opposing ribs;
And all seem to yon blue-eyed lass
A seething, surging, kicking mass.

And now, while still they push and shout,
The well-kicked ball creeps slowly out.
A nimble-footed youth espies
And after it like lightning flies,
And, ere his foes see through the trick,
Essays a deftly-aimèd kick.
“Home,” cries the keeper of the goal,
Too late from scrummage rush the shoal,
The ball skims o’er the opposing hosts,
And gently drops between the posts.

Now change they sides, and soon again
The ball is speeding o’er the plain,
While after it each eager wight
Scampers in transports of delight.
Until at length he respite seeks,
With wearied limbs but rosy cheeks.
His mud-bespattered garments shows
How oft on Earth he’s laid him low;
But still this brings him no remorce,
He feels the hot blood through him course,
And knows that in his much-loved game,
He’s found both pleasure, health, and fame.

_Pastime_, September 7, 1883.

AN EPITAPH.

_On the admirable Dramatic Poet, William Shakespeare._

What needs my Shakespeare for his honour’d bones,
The labour of an age in pilèd stones?
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a starry pointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What needs’t thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,
Hast built thyself a livelong monument.
For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,
The easy numbers flow; and that each heart
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,
That Kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die.
JOHN MILTON.

――――――――

AN EPITAPH (CONSIDERABLY) AFTER MILTON.

_On that admirable, but lately maligned Dramatic Poet, the divine_
WILLIAMS.

“What needs my SHAKSPEARE for his honoured bones,”
The veneration of SMITH, BROWN, and JONES?
Or that his hallowed genius should be hid
From dunces by pedantic Form bestrid?
“Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,”
What matter if PONSARD asperse thy name?
That is no wonder, no astonishment:
All are not pedants on the Continent.
For whilst Teutonic poetry and art
Esteem thy numbers, and the German heart
Prizes the leaves of thine unvalued book,
What, if thou by a booby art mistook?
Thou, a dull coxcomb of his rules bereaving,
Hast stupified him by too much conceiving.
Calling thee obsolete _bonhomme_!――the fly
Has buzzed about thy glory――let him die.

This parody appeared in _Punch_, December 27, 1856, and another, very much resembling it appeared in the same paper in 1863:――

MR. MILTON MODERNISED.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,
The sovereigns of Brown, Robinson and Jones?
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a Hepworth-Dixon pyramid?
Dear son of memory――great heir of fame,
Why all these little names tacked to thy name?
Thou may’st feel wonder and astonishment
At all this row about thy monument,
While to the shame of our dramatic art,
Thy plays of our stage banquet make no part.
Methinks, t’were well, blushing, to bring to book,
Praises so Empty, though so big they look,
And with our stage ungraced of thy conceiving,
Own ourselves arrant humbugs, self-deceiving;
Meanwhile do thou in quiet Stratford lie,
Heedless of all this buzzing of small fry.

――――:o:――――

A READING MAN.

“One whose mind is devoted to nothing else but the study of Mathematics; one who, though naturally, perhaps, of a peacable, quiet temper, and disposition, so congenial to study, yet whose highest ambition is to be accounted the greatest WRANGLER in the university!”

Hence, loathed MATHEMATICS!
Of lecturer and blackest tutor born,
In lecture-room forlorn,
Mongst horrid quizzes, bloods, and bucks unholy;
Find out some uncouth cell,
Where pallid study spreads his midnight wings,
And dismal ditties sings;
There, mid’st unhallow’d souls, with sapless brain,
Compose thy sober train,
And in the mind of READING Quizzes dwell

From _Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_, by a Brace of Cantabs, London, John Hearne, 1824.

――――:o:――――

A SEASIDE SONNET.
_After Milton-Oysters._

How jaunty the jelly-fish frolic and roar,
How wildly the winkles express their delight,
Though ROBINSON CRUSOE would frown in affright.
On the footprints, by ocean all foam fizzled o’er,
Of an amber-shod maiden who looks to the Nore,
And heeds not her havoc――for heaving in sight
Is a barque, and on board her belovèd,――but “tight”
As never was British belovèd before.’
Alas! for that maiden awaiting her mate――
She knew not the ways of the sons of the wave,
When she bade him go ride at a rollicking rate
O’er the billow that bounds; and she knows not her brave
Hath struggled with “swipes” and sea sickness and fate,
Till gone with his “grub” is the joy that she gave.

_Judy_, September 8, 1880.

JOHN DRYDEN’S EPIGRAM ON MILTON

Three Poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn:
The First in loftiness of thought surpassed;
The Next in majesty; in both the LAST.
The force of Nature could no farther go:
To make a third, she joined the former two.

――――:o:――――

The following parody is taken from “The Caricature History of the Four Georges,” p. 219, where a full account will be found of the characters referred to in it:

Three great wise men in the same era born,
Britannia’s happy island did adorn.
Henley in cure of souls displayed his skill,
Rock shone in physic, and in both John Hill;
The force of nature could no farther go,
To make a third she join’d the other two.

“Orator” Henley, and Rock, a noted quack doctor, were well known men, Dr. John Hill was a surgeon, a botanist, an unprincipled satirical writer, an actor, and finally a dramatic author, in which latter character his want of success caused Garrick to remark:――

“For physic and farces, his equal there scarce is:
His farces are physic, his physic a farce is.”

Hill was knighted through the favour of Lord Bute, and died in 1775.

――――:o:――――

On page 156, Parodies, the Shakespearian forgeries of W. H. Ireland were referred to, they gave rise to many bitter caricatures and satires. Amongst others appeared the following parody, by some ascribed to William Mason, by others to Steevens.

“Four forgers[53], born in one prolific age,
Much critical acumen did engage:
The first was soon by Doughty Douglas scar’d,
Tho’ Johnson would have screen’d him had he dar’d.
The next had all the cunning of a Scot,
The third, invention, genius――nay, what not?
Fraud now exhausted, only could dispense
To her fourth Son their threefold impudence.”

It is said that Ireland was so enraged at this publication that he broke the shop windows where it was exposed for sale.

――――:o:――――

In the days of Daniel O’Connell beards were not usually worn, and in the House of Commons, Col. Sibthorp, M.P. for Lincoln, was the only member who wore one. O’Connell, wishing to retort to some attacks made on him by Colonel Sibthorp, Col. Verner, M.P. for Armagh County, and Col. Gore, M.P. for Sligo county, composed the following parody:――

“Three colonels in three distant counties born,
Armagh, Sligo, and Lincoln did adorn;
The first in direct bigotry surpass’d,
The next in impudence, in both the last.
The force of nature could no farther go,
To beard the third she shaved the other two.”

This version is taken from “Notes and Queries” of February 24, 1883, but the Athenæum, in quoting the lines, said they referred to Cols. Verner, Percival, and Sibthorp, thus omitting Col. Gore; whilst another paper named three totally different constituencies:

“Three members, in three distant counties born,
Cork, Clare, and Tipperary did adorn:
The first in strength of impudence surpassed;
The next in lying; and in both the last.
The force of Nature could no further go――
To beard the third, she shaved the former two.”

――――:o:――――

A PEN-SIVE THOUGHT.

Three Pens for three essential virtues famed,
The _Pickwick_, _Owl_, and _Waverley_ were named,
The first in flexibility surpassed,
In ease the next, in elegance the last.
These points, united with attractions new,
Have yielded other boons, the _Phæton_ and _Hindoo_.

_Advertisement._

――――:o:――――

THE MEMORIAL FUNDS.
(_Mr. Punch’s Contribution._)

HEMANS. HALLAM. HOGG.

Three H’s, in three different countries born,
Hibernia, Albion, Caledon adorn.
The first in gentlest Poesy surpassed,
The next in Justice, Humour claims the last.
Send tribute to the Name most dear to you,
But, reader, don’t neglect the other two.

_Punch_, April 7, 1860.

――――:o:――――

The Editor of _Truth_ selected Dryden’s Epigram as the model for a parody competition, and the replies were published in that paper on March 27, 1884. They were very numerous, the following have been selected from amongst them, as being the best parodies, on the most interesting topics:――

Three brightest blessings of this thirsty race,
(Whence sprung and when I don’t propose to trace);
Pale brandy, potent spirit of the night,
Brisk soda, welcome when the morn is bright;
To make the third combine the other two,
The force of Nature can no further go.
SEXTON.

――――――――

Three wishes granted to a jolly tar,
Who east, and west, and south had travelled far.
First, “grog enough to float a fleet!” The next
Was, “all the baccy in the world!” Perplext,
Imagination could no further go;
“More grog and baccy!” was the final throw.
GUINEA PIG.

――――――――

Three Generals in three different counties born,
England, Madras, Suakin did adorn.
The first in science and success surpassed;
The next in timely dash; in all the last
The force of nature could no further go,
To frame[54] the third she joined the other two.
CAPTAIN ROCK.

――――――――

Athenian quidnuncs when they wished to fill
Their ears with gossip hastened to Mars’ Hill;
Whilst Romans (ever destitute of humour)
Denounced it as the lying tongues of Rumour.
Wiser than either, modern wit, forsooth,
Sells it for sixpence, and proclaims it TRUTH.
LONG LANE.

――――――――

Three coxcombs in three recent ages born,
France, Cambria, and England did adorn;
The first for cut and fit[55] was Fashion’s glass,
The next in mould of form[56] none could surpass;
Then Nature, travailing, with cunning tool,
Joined Form and Fashion[57] in the third, a fool.
OBSERVER.

――――――――

Three champion bats in distant counties born,
Kent, Nottingham, and Gloucester did adorn;
The first in strong defensive drives surpassed,
The next in grand leg-hits, in both the last.
Old England’s genius could no further go;
Australia boasts the champion batsman now.
HEGIRA.

――――――――

Three insects fell amid fair summer’s joy,
England and other countries do annoy;
The first is felt, alas! not seen nor heard;
The next seen, heard, and felt; but oh! the third!
Ferocious nature could no fiercer grow,
Joined midge and gnat to make the mosquito.
MORDECAI.

――――――――

Three nations’ emblems in one posy twined――
Shamrock and thistle with the rose combined!
One humour hath, one shrewdness for her dower;
The third with both endowed, plus wealth and power!
E’en Nature’s self, will own herself outdone
When (happy exploit!) all are blent in one!
THE WHITE LILY.

――――――――

Three “savants” in this nineteenth century born
Have racked our brains with ethics night and morn;
One tunes his harp to sound in many ears;[58]
The next knows all, yet knows not what he fears.[59]
Exhausted nature felt her forces sink――
To make a third she found the “Missing Link.”[60]
ROSBEG.

――――――――

Three young men in distant cities born,
Did Paris, London, and New York adorn;
The first, a beau, in manners far surpassed,
The dandy next, in dress outdid the last;
The force of nature could no further go,
To make a Masher joined the other two.
DEUX NIGAUDS.

――――:o:――――

POLITICAL.

Three party leaders――Gladstone, Stafford North-
Cote, and for third the leader of the “fourth;”
the first in majesty of speech surpassed,
The next in courtesy, in nil the last.
Exhausted nature could no further go,
She’d spent her powers on the other two.
MIGGLES.

――――:o:――――

Three members as three trusty Jingoes sworn,
Eye, Bridport town, and Woodstock did adorn;
The first in rabidness of talk surpassed,
The next in idiocy, in both the last.
The force of Madness could no further go――
To make a third she joined the other two.
ARAMIS.

――――――――

Three leaders ’mong the Opposition stand,
Two with a “dual control” do guide that band,
The first, a haughty lord with fire doth speak,
The next, less eloquent, is mild and meek.
For long the Tories could no better show,
But now the last[61] will oust the other two.
ALFRED.

――――――――

Three Statesmen in our happy island dwell,
S. N. and C.――their names I may not tell.
The first a nobleman of high degree;
The next a commoner; each chief would be.
The force of folly could no higher go
Than that the third should try to be it too.
DRYASDUST.

――――――――

Three statesmen from three different hamlets sent,
Eye, Woodstock, Bridport, fitly represent;
The first excels in universal lore,
The next in impudence, the last a bore.
The force of nature nothing more could do,
’Twould have been merciful to make but two.
NEDYRD.

――――――――

Three statesmen wish to lead the Tory crowd;
The first’s a gartered Marquis, thundering loud,
His temper fiery as the days in June;
Then comes a courteous, mild, old pantaloon;
The third’s too saucy, and too full of cheek.
Name thy successor――shade of Dizzy speak!
W. A. P.

――――――――

Three Statesmen with three different “fads,” were born,
Two still our blood-stained Cabinet adorn;
The first in felling trees and men surpassed,
The next in frothy speech, Caucus the last.
Britannia’s patience can no further go,
For Will, and Jack, are “not a patch” on Joe!
J. MCGRIGOR ALLAN.

――――――――

Three statesmen in the age now waning born,
France, Germany, and England did adorn;
The first in wit and eloquence surpassed,
The next in statesmanship, in all the last;
For Nature in her gifts had been so free,
To make a third she had to join the three.
H. MARSH GREEN.

――――――――

Three Statesmen, by three rival parties sent,
North Devon, Cork, Midlothian, represent;
The first on apathy his censure cast,
The next on energy――on both the last.
Now hot, now cold, in doubt Dame Nature ran,
And mixed the two to form the Grand Old Man.
BRUM ROGERS.

――――――――

Three Irishmen on England’s downfall bent,
Cork, Monaghan, and Cavan represent;
The first delights in treasonable word,
The next in spitefulness, in both the third;
Though first and second as big traitors figure,
Nature has made the last and least a Biggar.
INDICUS.

――――――――

Three statesmen now the Tory party head――
Salisbury and Stafford, Randolph, too, ’tis said.
The first in weak verbosity surpassed,
The next in nothing, in untruths the last.
Nature was “stumped,” for join them as she can,
Out of the three she’ll never make a man.
ACTION FRONT.

――――――――

Three statesmen in one lucky cycle born,
Bucks, Lothian, and Woodstock did adorn;
The first in epigram and schemes surpassed,
The next in home affairs, in both the last.
The force of nature could no further go,
To make a third she joined the other two.
TIMON.

――――――――

Three members, at three different moments born,
The British House of Commons now adorn;
The first in “impudence” none can surpass,
The next would rob us of a “friendly glass;”
The third, to many known as “faithless Jo,”
Is “Biggar” far than both the other two.
GUELDER ROSE.

――――――――

Three leaders, in the nineteenth century born,
The Tories of the present time adorn.
For flouts and sneers Lord Salisbury’s not surpassed;
But Stafford’s slow and cautious to the last.
The force of nature could no further go――
To Churchill make she joined the other two.
MERCURY MAKER.

――――――――

Three Tories in two neighbouring Chambers placed,
Lords, Commons, and a “Four-in-hand” team graced;
The first in fire of eloquence surpassed,
The next in doggedness, in both the last;[62]
But bigger bodies nature could not grow――
To make the third she dwarfed the other two.
F. A. SW.

――――――――

Three parties did our Parliament adorn,
Whigs, Parnellites, and Tories (bigots born!)
The first verbose exuberance ne’er lack’d,
The next, when noisy, by the third were sack’d;
The force of nature could yet further go,
And made a “Fourth,” frail, frivolous, and few.
BEAUTIFUL SAM.

――――――――

SIR WILFRID LAWSON.

Three noodles in two distant countries born,
Iberia and England did adorn;
In one Quixote the Don――consummate ass!
In t’other――Colonel Sibthorpe did surpass;
The force of folly could no further go,
To make a third, she join’d the other two.
GRACE.

――――:o:――――

PITT. FOX. GLADSTONE.

Three famous statesmen by our England bred,
In turn her senate’s van have ably led;
The first in wealth of eloquence did shine,
The next in lore, the third doth these combine;
Last in succession, foremost in degree,
The Premier of Prime Ministers is he.
IVY GREEN.

――――:o:――――

DRAMATIC.

IRVING, BANCROFT, AND TOOLE.

Three actors on three London stages play,
Who, by their art, wile many hours away;
The first in tragedy is unsurpassed;
The next in comedy; in farce the last.
Tho’ Nature _works_ by neither line nor rule,
Whene’er at _play_ she needs must have a Toole.
JACK.

――――――――

Three actors on three different stages known――
Toole, Sullivan, and Irving thus are shown.
The first in comedy, his “forte” was cast;
The next in tragedy; in both the last;
And captious critics, here and o’er the main,
Admire, condemn, then praise him up again.
CRYSTAL PALACE.

――――――――

Three players in the lap of Genius born,
France, Italy, and England each adorn,
The first in brilliancy of style surpassed;
The next in dignity――in power the last.
Dramatic Art, when pressed to further go,
To make an “Irving” joined the other two.
SIVA.

――――――――

Three managers, the glory of our age,
Delight the patrons of the British stage.
High art to scenic glory Irving marries,
Extravaganza finds her home with Harris.
Whilst Wilson Barrett――enterprising man――
Combines them both, and gives us Claudian.
LA NINA.

――――――――

Three lovely women grace the modern stage,
A perfect face and form make one[63] the rage;
And one,[64] depicting passions strong or sweet,
Brings thousands breathless, spell bound to her feet.
Nature, by stint, to mar perfection loth,
Upon the last[65] has showered the charms of both.

_Truth, March_ 27, 1884.

Matthew Arnold,
(_Born at Laleham, near Staines, December_ 24, 1822.)

――――――――

In 1879 the Editor of _The World_ commenced a series of Prize Parody Competitions, the sixth of which had for its subject “Mr. Charles Warner in _Drink_,” and the poem chosen as the model was Matthew Arnold’s Sonnet on George Cruikshank’s picture, “The Bottle.”

The first and second prizes were awarded to V.A.C.A. and FESS-GULES, and two other parodies were also printed.

Matthew Arnold’s original sonnet is here given, followed by the parodies, which appeared in _The World_, August 20, 1879.

TO GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
On seeing, in the Country, his Picture of “The Bottle.”

Artist, whose hand, with horror winged hath torn
From the rank life of towns this leaf! and flung
The prodigy of full-blown crime among
Valleys and men to middle fortune born,

Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn――
Say, what shall calm us, when such guests intrude,
Like comets on the heavenly solitude?
Shall breathless glades, cheered by shy Dian’s horn,

Cold-bubbling springs, or caves! Not so! The soul
Breasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says:
‘Why tremble? True, the nobleness of man
May be by man effaced; man can control
To pain, to death, the bent of his own days.
Know thou the worst! So much, not more, he _can_.’
MATTHEW ARNOLD.

FIRST PRIZE.

Actor, whose horror-moving power hath been
The wonder of the town this many a night――
A realistic prodigy, delight
Of those who from the upper galleries lean,
Eager to watch that dread delirium scene,――
Say, what exciting thing’s similitude
Upon our startled stage will next intrude,
And make us breathless? Dion’s fair Colleen,
Half-drowning in the cave? Not so; the gods
Now loudly clamour for some fiercer play
More horrors! True, the drama’s noble plan
May be by such defaced; but what’s the odds?
Let pain and death be mimicked, if they pay:
Degrade us more not even Zola can!

(V. AMCOTTS.) V.A.C.A.

――――――――

SECOND PRIZE.

Actor, whose art, with horror clothed, hath torn
From rank Parisian life this leaf, and flung
This portraiture of loathsome curse among
Women and men in calmer Britain born,

Not guiltless of excess, yet not quite lorn
Of decent instincts,――what shall calm us, say,
When ghastly sights like these brood o’er our way?
Shall _Corneville’s_ hackneyed chimes, or jokes well worn

From _Pinafore_? Not so! Each reasoning soul
Speaks for itself, and, fiercely shuddering, says,
‘Why nauseate us thus? The drama’s plan

May be to paint vice black; but, O, control
Of pain and death these sickening displays!
_Can_ they do good? We know that _harm_ they can.’
FESS-GULES.
(GOYMOUR CUTHBERT., A.R.I.B.A.)

――――――――

Artist in acting, who hast seized a part
From the black dens of Paris for your own,
Wherein the perfect work of drink is shown
To eager lookers shivering at heart――
Some drunken, none too brutalised to start,――
Can subtlest skill excuse the hideous tale,
And fine perception calm the inner wail,
In breathless watching of victorious art
And well-trained imitation? Nay, the soul
Is wroth at last, and, strained too greatly, cries,
‘Record it not! Man that was made so fair
Can sink below all apedom, till control
Of self is lost, and soul and body dies;
But mimicry of this we will not bear.’
NOCTURNE.

――――――――

Actor, whose art, like a fell grapnel, drags
Down on the bottom of the stream of crime,
Sinks and returns, producing every time
Some shape deform of misery and rags,
Steeped in pollution, overgrown with flags,
Weeds of debauchery,――let a drunkard’s cries
Grate on our ears no longer! Must our eyes
Gaze on his death pang? Hast no other gags
To move thy hearers’ laughter but his speech?
Stirs else no toothpick in their languid lips?
Else will no crutch be lifted to applaud?
Have they such souls no milder sight can teach,
Save glorious manhood’s absolute eclipse?
How foul is vice, how much to be abhorred!
CARAWAY.

TRACY TURNERELLI’S GOLDEN WREATH.

On page 188, _Parodies_, a history was given of the wreath which was offered to Lord Beaconsfield by Mr. Tracy Turnerelli, and some parodies of Shakespeare, and of Ben Jonson, descriptive of the circumstances which induced Lord Beaconsfield to refuse the offer.

The Editor of _The World_ selected the topic for a parody competition, entitled “Mr. Tracy Turnerelli in the Provinces,” the model proposed for imitation being Mr. Matthew Arnold’s beautiful poem, “The Forsaken Merman,” and the compositions were limited to forty lines.

A short extract is given below from the original poem:――

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.

Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers call from the day,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away!
This way, this way!

Call her once before you go――
Call once yet!
In a voice that she will know:
‘Margaret! Margaret!’
Children’s voices should be dear,
(Call once more) to a mother’s ear;
Children’s voices, wild with pain――
Surely she will come again!
Call her once and come away;
This way, this way!
Mother dear, we cannot stay!
The wild white horses foam and fret!
Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down;
Call no more!
One last look at the white-wall’d town,
And the little grey church on the windy shore;
Then come down!
She will not come though you call all day;
Come away, come away!

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