Chapter V: Prologue: Act IV. 201 (2)

When you are seeing _Lalla Rookh_,
J. D., J. D.
Pray keep your eyes upon the book,
J. D., J. D.
For Kate’s fair face and lower lace
Have made you change your mind apace;
Ah, yours must be a dreadful case!
J. D., J. D.

_The Topical Times_, May 24, 1884.

SUGGESTED BY “THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.”
(_With Apologies to the Shade of Longfellow._)

Under Britannia’s spreading oak
The Grand Old Woodman stands;
A presentation axe he wields
With large and sinewy hands;
But the onslaught of his cruel arms
As yet the tree withstands.

His hair is white and dank and long
His collars none can span;
His brow is wet with honest sweat――
He chops down all he can;
He won’t look Duty in the face,
But he’ll talk with any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his speeches flow;
You can hear him wag his ceaseless tongue,
Dreary and loud and slow,
As the sexton’s song on the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

The children of his Rebel School
Crowd round his open door;
They love to watch his swelling gorge,
And hear his blatant roar,
And catch the myriad words that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach――
He hears his own loved voice,
Reading the daily lessons,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like an angel’s voice
Singing in Paradise!
Which reminds him he will talk no more
When in the grave he lies,
And with his collar end he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Talking――orating――promising,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Long years don’t see it close;
Too much attempted, nothing done,
How _can_ he seek repose?

Experience by thee, my friend,
Thy country has been taught;
Hadst though been doomed to silent life,
As reckless talkers ought,
Then had thy native land escaped
Much evil thou hast wrought.
SPHINX.
_The Globe_, September 10, 1884.

――――――――

THE LOW BOHEMIAN.

Before the _Cheshire Cheese’s_ bar
The low Bohemian stands;
A sallow, seedy man is he,
With dirty nails, and hands;
And ’tis in a gin-sodden voice
He “four of Cork” demands.

His nose is large and very red,
His mouth ’twere hard to span;
His daily work he likes to shirk,
He borrows when he can,
And he scans new comers anxiously,
For he owes to many a man.

Week in, week out, from morn to night,
He loiters bars before;
He knows the barmaids’ Christian names
(A fact they much deplore;)
Now here, now there, he, with a leer,
Slinks in at the swinging door!

He glories in the _Referee_,
And reads the _Weekly Times_,
In _Reynolds’_ finds congenial stuff,
And sends it jokes and rhymes;
For he’s a writer for the press,
When liquor duly primes.

Loafing――and loitering――liquoring――
Down to his grave he goes;
Each morning finds him “coppery,”
He’s “screw’d” ere night doth close;
Something attempted――some one “done,”
Whilst liquor always flows.

He dies at length, and round his grave
His boon companions tread,
Then go and drink at various bars
Till maudlin tears are shed――
Whilst their dead friend has left a wife
And children lacking bread!

But his lost life and early death,
Do they no sermon preach?
His doom, self-sought, has it no power
A lesson strong to teach?
No; his friends’ brains too sodden are,
The message them to reach.

_Truth_, Christmas Number, 1878.

――――――――

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLBOY.

Under the garden apple-tree
The village schoolboy stands;
The boy, a nasty boy is he,
With muddy, filthy hands;
And the mussel-shells he’s playing with
Are pick’d from dirty sands.

His hair is short, and red, and straight,
His face is like the tar;
He cries and bawls when mother calls,
You hear him near and far,
And when he gets a chance he steals
The sugar from the jar.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
He bellows and he cries,
And in the village there’s not one
So good at telling lies;
Big stones he throws at other boys,
And hits them in the eyes.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And every one annoys;
He pinches all the kids he’s near,
And asks them for their toys;
And when they sing up in the choir
He shouts out, “_Hold your noise!_”

His father smacks him in the face,
He pulls him by the nose,
The village schoolboy only cries,
And crying――off he goes;
His parents go to bed at night,
And THERE, they’ve no repose.
W. C. L.
_The Sporting Times_, July 5, 1884.

――――――――

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

Beside a dingy public-house, the village smithy stands,
The smith, a nasty man is he, with beastly dirty hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms a bruiser well might suit,
His face is void of any charm, he looks a nasty brute.
His brow is wet with beery sweat, he scarcely earns a bob;
But to drink up another’s drink he’s always on the job!

Week in, week out, from morn to night, he curses high and low.
You seldom hear his hammer’s beat, his step is dull and slow;
Communications from his mouth are seldom “yes” or “no.”
And children coming home from school run frightened past his door,
They fear to see the ugly beast, and shun his drunken roar,
They’d only catch a kick or blow, if they lingered near his door.

He never goes inside a church, and never sends his boys,
He never heard a parson preach, he hates his daughter’s voice,
Snarling over her kitchen work, it makes him swear like vice,
Reminding him of her mother’s voice――_that_ wasn’t over nice.
And when he thinks of her once more, how in the grave she lies,
He thinks in his heart that Providence is sometimes kind and wise,

Cursing, drinking, borrowing; onward through life he goes.
No morning sees good work begin, no evening sees its close.
Nothing attempted, nothing done, from gin he gets repose.

_The Topical Times_, September 13, 1884.

The parody of “A Psalm of Life,” entitled “The Maiden’s Dream of Life,” which was quoted on page 64, Part IV., of _Parodies_, was copied from a Washington (U.S.) newspaper, dated December, 1871. The idea of this parody had evidently been borrowed from one contained in a small volume by Phœbe Carey, entitled “Poems and Parodies.” The borrower made some verbal alterations, which were by no means improvements on Miss Carey’s parody, which is decidedly the better of the two:――

A PSALM OF LIFE.

(_What the Heart of the Young Woman
said to the Old Maid_).

Tell me not, in idle jingle,
Marriage is an empty dream,
For the girl is dead that’s single,
And things are not what they seem.

Married life is real, earnest,
Single blessedness a fib;
Taken from man, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Nearer brings the wedding day.

Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts, if there we search,
Still like steady drums are beating
Anxious marches to the Church.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a woman, be a wife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act――act in the living Present.
Heart within, and MAN ahead!

Lives of married folks remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And, departing, leave behind us
Such examples as will tell;――

Such examples, that another,
Sailing far from Hymen’s port,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing, shall take heart, and court.

Let us then be up and doing,
With the heart and head begin;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour, and to win!

Poems and Parodies_. By Phœbe Carey, Boston, 1854.

――――――――

The following is an amusing specimen of advertisement parodies. It was written by Mr. T. Thatcher, of College Green, Bristol:――

Tell me not in doleful murmurs
Ink is but a mouldy stream!
And the pen it rusts, and murders
Writing paper by the ream!

Thatcher’s Ink is Ink in earnest!
And to rust is not its goal;
Mud thou art, to mould returnest,
Was not spoken as its dole.

With enjoyment and not sorrow
Welcome thee in loudest lay:
Ink to write, that each to-morrow
Finds it blacker than to-day.

Blots begone! Vile ink be fleeting!
Penman, be no more a slave!
Let all other inks go beating
Funeral marches to their grave!

In the world’s wide field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Write not like dumb driven cattle!
Use this Ink and end thy strife!

Lines of this Ink all remind us
We may write with ease sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Words to live as long as time!

Pen marks, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck’d brother,
Reading, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,
Seize this Ink before too late,
Thatcher’s now at once securing,
Neither hesitate nor wait!
SHORTFELLOW.

――――――――

PLEASE BE CHEERFUL.
(_Advice to Modern Novelists._)

Tell us not, in mournful numbers,
Life is all a ghastly dream!
Such as those we have in slumbers,
When the nightmare makes us scream.

Life is dark enough in earnest,
Without bringing in the gaol;
Only readers of the sternest
Like their heroines out on bail.

Not to swindle, or to borrow,
Is the reputable way;
Not to marry, and to-morrow
Kill your bride, and run away.

Arson’s wrong, and poisoning dreary,
And our hearts, though pretty brave,
Now and then get rather weary
Of the gallows and the grave.

In the great domestic battle,
In the matrimonial strife,
Be not like those Mormon “cattle,”
Give your hero but one wife.

Wives and daughters should remind you
There are women without crime;
Draw them, and you’ll leave behind you
Fictions that may weather time;――

Fictions free from that Inspector
Who is sent by RICHARD MAYNE,
And finds footmarks that affect a
Solemn butler in the lane.

Let us, then, have no more trials,
No more tampering with Wills;
Leave the poisons in the phials――
And the money in the tills.

_Punch_, December 1, 1866.

――――――――

A PSALM OF FARMING.
_Bell’s Messenger, December 9th_, 1878.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG FARMER
SAID TO THE OLD ’UN.
(_After Wrongedfellar_).

Tell me not in cheerful numbers
You have known when times was wuss,
Kip on sowin’ wutts and barley,
And things will come right for us.

Rents are too much, labour’s heavy,
And our fair share’s not the goal,
Landlords take all they can gather,
Cow and calf, both mare and foal.

Not enjoyment and not profit
Seems our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Finds us poorer than to-day.

The world is big and steam is quick,
But our hearts, though stout and brave,
Do not like to leave the “dear” land,
’Cause our wives do look so grave!

With the world’s broad field for farming,
With the chance of a free life,
Be not like dumb, driven donkeys,
With such prospects have no strife.

Trust no landlord, howe’er pleasant;
Let the dead past bury its dead.
Act, act in the living present,
Heart within and God o’erhead.

Happy Colonists do teach us
We can go and be the same,
And, departing, leave behind us
Wiser landlords, much more tame.

Landlords, that perhaps another
Year or so might make so wise,
Might then know that ’tis quite certain
Rents must fall as well as rise.

Let us, then, be up and going,
With a heart for any fate,
Then succeeding, more persuading
That ’tis good to emigrate.

Reproduced in “Farming,” by Joseph Mangoldwurzel, London, W. Ridgway, 1879.

(A small pamphlet on Free Trade _versus_ Protection).

――――――――

A SONG OF ST. STEPHEN’S.

Tell me not in mocking numbers
We shall have to come to town,
And resume our wonted slumbers,
When the leaves are sere and brown.

* * * * *

Lives of patriots all remind us
We can show uncommon _nous_,
And, departing, leave behind us
Relays that shall “keep a House.”

Relays that perchance our Leaders
O’er that legislative main
May observe, while we are pleaders,
Autumn leisure to attain.

_Punch_, July 1, 1882.

――――――――

A PSALM OF BURIAL.

Tell me not with words inflated
Bodies were not meant to burn;
For the moo-cow when cremated
Doth to “frosted silver” turn.

Not the grave-yard, not interment
Is the cheapest, healthiest way;
But to rob the worm preferment
Finds with cultured men to-day.

Lights of learning all have told us
We can shunt the gloomy pall,
And, when churchyards will not hold us,
Roast our flesh for funeral.

Let us, then, keep time with culture:
“Earth to earth” is out of date――
Leave no carrion for the vulture,
Spurn the sexton, and cremate.

_Moonshine_, May 17, 1884.

――――――――

ON READING A LIFE AND LETTERS.

“Lives” of great men all remind us
Friends may after our last breath
Publish what we leave behind us,
Adding thus new fears to death.

Wives of rich men oft remind us,
We may make our wives sublime;
But ten pounds for a lady’s bonnet
Knocks a cheque-book out of time.

“THE DAY IS DONE.”

The day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather, is wafted downward,
From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper――
A good and regular meal――
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry bakers,
Not from the shops for cake;
I wouldn’t give a farthing
For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner,
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher,
Whose beef is fresh and nice,
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease.
For sad and desperate feelings,
Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the “finally, brethren,”
That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin
From off the bench or hook.
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.

_Poems and Parodies._ By Phœbe Carey, Boston, United States, 1854.

The three parodies following are imitations of Longfellow’s

THE ARROW AND THE SONG.

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in his flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterwards, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

――――――――

THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT.

I shot a partridge in the air,
It fell in turnips, “Don,” knew where;
For just as it dropped, with my right
I stopped another in its flight.

I killed a pheasant in the copse,
It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;
For though a pheasant’s flight is strong,
A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.

Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,
I found the birds in jelly lie;
And the pheasant, at a fortnight’s end,
I found again in the _carte_ of a friend.

_Punch_, October 12, 1867.

――――――――

BALLAD. THE EX-PREMIER.
(_Mr. Gladstone_).

I wrote a pamphlet t’other day;
It fell still-born in the usual way;
For the public knew ’twas the old, old tale,
And they thought it just a wee bit stale.

I wrote an article in a “mag,”
And it made its circulation flag;
For the readers knew ’twas my only work
To speak about th’ unspeakable Turk!

Not long after my spirits sunk,
For I found the pamphlet lining a trunk;
And the article (degradation utter)
Was round a pat of the best salt butter.

_Truth_. Christmas Number, 1877.

――――――――

THE ARROW AND THE HOUND.

At Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight,
I shot an arrow such a height,
It fell to earth, I know not where,
And, sooth to say, I do not care.

A poem to a mag. I sent,
Receiving no acknowledgment;
The subject was, I know not what――
If e’er I knew I have forgot.

A traveller the arrow found
Half-buried in his faithful hound,
And what he said in his distress
I do not know――I dare not guess.

And soon, when reading in the train,
I found my poem once again;
But on the fire that in it burned,
A comic hydrant had been turned.

What verse with arrow had to do
I know not now――I never knew!
But that such things should hap no more
I called upon the editor.

I aimed an arrow with such care,
It hit I scarce remember where;
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
He turned, and called me with a sigh――

But what, to tell you were not right;
Besides, I have forgotten quite;
But arrow, editor, and hound,
Are famed to earth’s remotest bound.

EXCELSIOR JUNIOR.
_The Topical Times_, June 14, 1884.

――――――――

THE SOIRÉE.
(After “_The Arsenal at Springfield_.”)

This is the Soirée: from grate to entrance,
Like milliners’ figures, stand the lovely girls;
But from their silent lips no merry sentence
Disturbs the smoothness of their shining curls.

Ah! what will rise, how will they rally,
When shall arrive the “gentlemen of ease!”
What brilliant repartee, what witty sally,
Will mingle with their pleasant symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite sweet chorus,
The laugh of ecstacy, the merry tone,
That through the evenings that have gone before us
In long reverberations reach our own.

From round-faced Germans come the guttural voices,
Through curling _moustache_ steals the Italian clang,
And, loud amidst their universal noises,
From distant corners sounds the Yankee twang.

I hear the Editor, who from his office
Sends out his paper, filled with praise and puff,
And holy priests, who, when they warn the scoffers,
Beat the fine pulpit, lined with velvet stuff.

The tumult of each _saqued_, and charming maiden,
The idle talk that sense and reason drowns,
The ancient dames with jewelry o’erladen,
And trains depending from the brocade gowns――

The pleasant tone, whose sweetness makes us wonder,
The laugh of gentlemen, and ladies, too,
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of some lady blue,――

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With pastimes so ridiculous as these,
Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the wealth that fills the world with ladies,
Were half the time bestowed on caps and lace,
Given to the home, the husbands, and the babies,
There were no time to visit such a place.

_Poems and Parodies._ By Phœbe Carey (Ticknor, Reed, and Fields). Boston, United States, 1854.

The following old parody was written in imitation of the hexameters of _Evangeline_:――

DOLLARINE; A TALE OF CALIFORNIA.
A FRAGMENT IN HEXAMETERS.
BY PROFESSOR W. H. LONGANDSHORTFELLOW,
_Of Cambridge, Connecticut_.

In St. Francisco located was NATHAN JEHOIAKIM BOWIE;
Down by the wharf on the harbour he traded in liquors and dry goods,
Darned hard knot at a deal, at Meetin’ a powerful elder.
There at his store, in the shade, they met, onbraced and enlightened
Traders and trappers and captings, and lawyers and editors also.
Freely they liquored and chewed, indulgin’ in expectoration,
Rockin’ with heels over heads, and whittling’, laborious, the counter.
Like dough-nut at a frolic, or yellow-pine stump in a clearin’,
Sharp as a backwoodsman’s axe, and cute as a bachelor beaver,
Glimmer’d, through clouds of Virginny, the cypherin’ mug of NATHANIEL.
Sweeter nor candy of maple, a’most too genteel to be raal,
Straight as a hickory sapling and clean as a Nar’ganset pacer
Tall _she_ moved through the bar, a-sarvin’ of juleps and cock-tails,
Sweetenin’ the cobblers with smiles, and firin’ Havannahs with
glances,
NATHAN J. BOWIE’S fair darter, splendiferous MISS DOLLARINA!
Tall she moved thro’ the bar, collectin’ the joes and the cents in:
Not that she needed to did it, but ’cause nigger helps there’s no
trustin’,
And she was too tender-hearted to get the black varmint cow-hided.
――There in pastoral peace, since first the location was ceded,
Dwelt the old man and his child, beneath their own vine and their
fig-tree,
Doin’ a good stroke of business, for cash or beaver-skins only.
On NAT’S. roof of split shingle, illustrious GOVERNOR TARBOX
Hoisted the Stars and the Stripes, representative there of the Mighty,
The Free, and the Fearless of airth, the Go-a-head ’Merican people;
Boarded there the great TARBOX, and took his horn like a mere man,
Paying four dollars _per diem_ for grub, grog, shake-down, and
washin’.
Then came down, like iled lightning, on St. Francisco a rumour――
Fame her brazen trump turned best mint metal to puff it――
How that the root of all evil was found growin’ wild up the country,
How gold stuck to folk’s fingers that washed in the St. Sacramento!
NAT. chawed two plugs extra to hear it; the editor swore he
Wished to be darned, if it wasn’t a caution how folks could be
gammoned.
“My!” sighed sweet DOLLARINA, and paused as she squoze a half lemon;
But the magnanimous TARBOX, he reckoned ’tmight be kinder likely,
Seein’ the States whipt the airth for men, and why not for metals?
Came from the diggins a straanger, with two carpet-bags full of goold
dust;
NATHAN diskivered the fact, as he traded a pinch for a gin-sling;
And as that straanger loafed, thro’ the bar, from parlor to bedroom,
Streams of the glorious sand oozed out through a hole in his trousers.
――Gathered the rumour and grew, and soon rose a sudden demand for
Calabash, can, keg, and kettle; and NATHAN’S prime lot of tin fixin’s,
Crockery, also, went off at figgers that beat to eternal
Smash all prices he’d thought, in dreams e’en, of e’er realisin’.
Soon the traders upped hook, and the editor talked edifyin’
All about lucre and dross; and the lawyer convened it was awful;
Till one mornin’ trampoused the lawyer and editor with him.
Off were the trappers for beaver, they said, but “it warn’t noways
likely,”
NATHAN remarked, “they would strike beaver-trail in them there
locations.”
Then the captings went too, they said, to bring back their sailors;
And as it stands to natur’, their customers followed the captings.
Next the Meetin’s they thinned――that’s a fact――till, down to the
elders,
Dropped, like leaves in the fall, congregations of e’en the awakened.
Ontil the deacon was forced to look arter the flock of backsliders,
Minister mizzlin’ himself, before long, to look arter the deacon.
Why should NATHAN hold on, with his bar of its customers empty,
Strawers unsucked in the cobblers, and mint unplucked in the garding,
Swopped his prime tin doin’s, or sold to the uttermost pipkin?
So he went――but before him the helps, black and Irish, had vanished.
Lone in the shanty she lingered, the fair and forlorn DOLLARINA――
Lone like a flower, in the face of great natur’, and GOVERNOR TARBOX!
Blushin’ she bowed to the governor’s snigger, when first to his
bed-room,
Bearin’ his boots and his breakfast, she came like a minist’rin’
angel――
Blushin’ she raised her bright face――and the Governor swore catawampus,
“Burn my old bree――that is, boots――gals like you didn’t ought for to
do it.”
――Soft was the heart of Great TARBOX, and most horrid hansum the
maiden,
Loftily spoke he of goold, and the tarnal low hitch of the humans,
Leavin’ such gals all alone, to go the whole hog at the washin’s.
Sweetly she’d set there beside him, the while with his governor’s
hands he
Washed his own dicky or fried his simple repast of pork fixins;
Sweetly she sot there beside him, and TARBOX a-slavin’ was happy!
Still now and then that bright eye from its tail would glance up
to the mountains,
And a faint sigh be the echo of TARBOXES glowin’ soft sawder;
Oft in her pail of ablution he’d catch her a rinsin’ the water;
And once she ventured to murmur, “I wonder what nateral goold’s like.”
――Down came the moment at last――set TARBOX a-mendin’ his shoe-sole,
Breathin’ his love in a Sonnet, and chawin’ a plug of tobaccer――
Entered the maiden so stately――and bowin’ her beauty before him,
Smilingly, sobbingly uttered, “Adoo――I am off for the diggins!”

* * * * *

Burst the full heart of Great TARBOX――――
(_Here the MSS., becomes illegible, apparently from tears_).

_Punch_, January 20, 1849.

――――――――

THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS.

High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover,
Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet,
She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr
Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts.
Vainly the Mænid and the Bassarid gambolled about her,
The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan――the renowned, the accomplished――
Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their gambols and dances!
High o’er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shepherdess,
wailing――

“Ai! for the fleecy flocks,――the meek-nosed, the passionless faces;
Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high-stepping;
Ai! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, sagacious,
Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion!”
Her then Zeus answered slow: “O daughter of song and sorrow,――
Hapless tender of sheep,――arise from thy long lamentation!
Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a Greek maiden,
Look and behold thy sheep.”――And lo! they returned to her tailless!

BRET HARTE.

――――――――

In 1856 a pamphlet was published (at the price of two shillings), by W. J. Golbourn, of Princes Street, Leicester Square, entitled: “MARKS AND REMARKS for the Catalogue of the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, MDCCCLVI. (after the manner of ――――) by A. E., to which is added a DIRGE (in imitation of another).” This very scarce pamphlet consists of thirty-two pages, mostly occupied by descriptions of the pictures in the Royal Academy for that year, and the author’s comments upon them, in the metre of _Hiawatha_, commencing thus:――

“Should you ask me whence the Stories?
Whence the legends and traditions’
That have furnished forth our Artists
With the most attractive subjects
For the present exhibition?”
“I should answer, I should tell you,
They have drawn them from the Poets,
From the Book-of-books have drawn them,
From the best Historic sources,
From the Mountains, Lakes, and Rivers,
From the Hills, the Lanes, the Meadows,
From the Highland and the Lowland,
And the mighty surging Ocean;
And the Portraits, large and little,
And the Portraits of all sizes,
With their frequent repetitions,
Pillars, table cloths and curtains,
From the Court, the Camp, the Senate,
And plain Gentlemen and Ladies.”
* * * * *

――――――――

A long political parody appeared in _Punch_, February 23, 1867, entitled “The Great Medicine-Man; a new Canto of Hiawatha.” This was _apropos_ of Mr. Disraeli’s Reform proposals, then submitted to the House of Commons in Thirteen Resolutions.

On page 95, Part VI., a long extract was given from a parody of _Hiawatha_, entitled _The Song of Big Ben_, which appeared in _Truth_, February 15, 1877. It was descriptive of the opening of Parliament, and the subsequent proceedings in the Houses have since been related in the same metre, and under the same title, in many other numbers of _Truth_. On page 80 reference was made to a parody which appeared in _Tom Hood’s Comic Annual for_ 1877; unfortunately, it is much too long to give in full. The following short extract will, however, give an idea of its style:――

REVENGE. A RHYTHMIC RECOLLECTION.

If you ask me where I found it, found this very dreadful
legend, with its strange coincidences and its tragic
repetitions, I should answer, I should tell you, in the
columns of the “Pleecenoos,” in the pages of the “Standard,”
in the Organ of the Knife Board, in all sheets of published
scandal, published in the month of August, published in the
midst of Fleet Street, where the tide of life rolls onward,
whilst the modest newsman murmurs low amid the noise of
traffic, “Buy the ‘Hecker,’ fifth edition! Buy the
‘Standard,’ latest war news! Buy the Organ of the Knife
Board!”

’Twas the pleasant April weather, and a coach was bound for
Cambridge, and four youths alike in feature sat together in
the rumble; each alike was bound for Cambridge, each alike in
air was noble, each alike in hair was curly, each in speech
was Hebraistic, and they all were bound for Cambridge.

Never had they met before this, though their fathers in four
townships wide apart had heard the rumours of each other’s
great successes in the art of habit-making, famed for
thirteen-shilling trousers; and each parent, little recking
of the others’ great successes, said, “My son shall rise to
swelldom; he shall have his fling at college, and shall dwell
among the nobles who, by my fair art made nobler, wear my
thirteen-shilling trousers.”

As in April’s pleasant weather all the four rolled on to
Cambridge, did they swear eternal friendship; and alighting
from the rumble, pledged each other in great beakers, drank
each other’s healths in “dogsnose;” sought the portals of the
college where they had matriculated, crossed the sunny green
quadrangle, and betook them to their chambers; parted tearful
on the landing, and betook them to their chambers.

* * * * *

Then they severed at the doorway; but by devious ways
returning, met again before the doorway.

Then with scowling brows they entered; and the barmaid――most
impartial of the race of British barmaids――sweetly winked in
turn upon them till their hearts within them gladdened; and
they drank the luscious “dogsnose,” and their friendly vows
repeated, till with arm-in-arm close linking they once more
the dim quadrangle crossed, and all was wrapped in silence.

* * * * *

D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.

――――――――

THE SONG OF PROGRESS.

Should you ask me, “Why this hubbub?
Why this coming strife of parties?
Why the Hyde Park Demonstration?
Why the mighty northern meeting?
Why Conservatives take counsel
With their own selected members,
Each admitted with a ticket?”
I should answer you in this wise,
“Harken to the Song of Progress,
Listen to the din of warfare――
Listen for the coming triumph

Of the People o’er the Peerage.”
By the dark and murky waters,
Foul and dank with filth and sewage,
Waters which are not pellucid,
Of the noble river Isis,
Stands a large and stately Palace,
Where th’ elected of the people
Meet for work of legislation.
One a Party firm, united,
Loved and trusted by the People.
They the Party are of Progress――
Ever have been, ever must be;
They the champions who do battle
’Gainst hereditary privilege.

Their opponents are a Party
Smaller far and disunited.
Dwarfed in mind, with doings crooked,
Quick to “execute a sharp curve,”
With no Policy whatever,
Save to stop the work of Progress,
They the Party are of Privilege,
Who oppose, and ever have done,
Social progress of the masses.

Should you ask me why the Peerage
Rule responsible to no one,
What their deeds of wondrous valour,
What their wisdom unsurpassed,
What their nobleness of nature,
What their learning, power, or goodness,
That they thus should reign supreme there,
I should answer you, “I know not.”
This I know, that tho’ their country
Scarcely knows the names of any,
On the racecourse every welcher,
Every gambling scoundrel, blackleg,
Knows them there by tens and dozens.
I should answer ’tis a relic
Of the ignorant Middle Ages,
When the king held all the country,
Shared it with his greater barons,
And the toilers were in bondage.
One by one the links of thraldom
Have been rent and burst asunder;
Few the fetters that are left us
Of the hateful Feudal system;
But this one stands trembling, tottering,
Till the breath of further Freedom,
Strengthened by the voice of Gladstone,
Bright, and Chamberlain, and Picton,
Broadhurst, Illingworth, and Lawson,
Shall abolish it for ever.

_Funny Folks_, August 16, 1884.

――――――――

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
(_Continued from Part_ 13.)

There was a competition for Parodies on “Excelsior” in _Truth_, fourteen parodies appeared on November 11, 1880, and the following week nine more were published, each consisting of five verses. The parody with the refrain, “That Thirty-four,” which was selected as the prize winner, has already appeared in Part VI. of _Parodies_. A few of the others may be given here; the first evidently refers to Mr. Disraeli’s entry into political life, when he was not favorably received:――

The shades of night were falling fast,
When, through the House of Commons, passed
A youth, with curls not over nice,
Who bore as motto and device――
Excelsior!

His brow was dark, his eye beneath
Flashed from its eyelid’s dusky sheath,
And, with a nasal music, rung
The accents of his Hebrew tongue――
Excelsior!

“Thou offshoot of a withered branch!
Beware the scornful avalanche,
Which shall o’erwhelm thy speech to-night!”
A voice replied, in shame and spite,
Excelsior!

“Stay,” said the maiden Muse, “and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast;”
He either wept or winked his eye,
And said with simulated sigh,
Excelsior!

Now in life’s twilight, old and grey,
He seems to hear his rival say,
From his high place, serene and far,
“Ha, Lucifer! thou fallen star,”
Excelsior!
GOSSAMER.

――――――――

THE WORKHOUSE.

The shades of night were falling fast
As through a London alley passed
A woman, wan, with hands of ice,
The workhouse sought, from cold and vice――
Moritura!

In happy homes she saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the planets glittering shone,
From her pale lips escaped a groan――
Moritura!

“Try not to pass,” the porter said;
Dark lowers his visage overhead――
“No order; rules I must abide;”
And weak that weary voice replied,
Moritura!

“O stay,” a sister said, “and rest
Thy weary head upon my breast.”
A tear stood in her dull grey eye,
And still she answered with a sigh,
Moritura!

There, in the daybreak, cold and gray,
Lifeless, on workhouse steps she lay;
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Est Mortua!
BOB.

――――――――

THE GRIFFIN.

The tawny folds of London fog
Fell round the lamp-lit Court of Gog.
Clarions and toasts were loud within;
A weird cry mingled with the din――
“One blunder more!”

Forth from that glorified Guildhall
A griffin reeled with easy sprawl;
Through mire and midnight, floundering west
He hooted, like a brute possessed――
“One blunder more!”

“Halt!” cried the watchmen of St. Bride,
As hastily they edged aside.
“Try Scotland Yard!” a small boy said;
The answer came, from far ahead――
“One blunder more!”

A pilgrim, under Street’s new clock,
Beheld him climb the Temple block,
A chuckle through the darkness passed――
“This blessed night we’ve crowned at last
“One blunder more!”

And when the morn broke, soft and fair,
Lifeless he stood, erect in air;
A stark and startling beast of brass,
Completing, in the Fleet-street pass
One blunder more!
GLEN JUNE.

――――――――

THE COUNTRY FAIR.

Night was fast falling o’er the scene,
As through the crowd on village green,
There passed a youth, who once or twice
Said, as he stopped to eat an ice,
Excelsior!

“Climb not the pole,” an old man said,
“The grease will spoil your trousers, Ned;”
With upward glance the youth replied,
“The mutton at the top is tied.”
Excelsior!

“O stay,” a maiden said, and sighed,
“And take me for a donkey ride;”
He grasped the pole, and in reply,
He softly murmured with a sigh,
Excelsior

“Beware!” a withered crone cried out,
“Take care, take care what you’re about:”
Far up the pole they heard him pant,
As though his breath was rather scant,
Excelsior!

Just as he neared the prize he stopped,
Then quick as falling star he dropped,
He laid upon the ground and groaned,
Yet still in feeble accents moaned,
Excelsior!
MINNIE MUM.

――――――――

“Wheeling Annual” for 1885 contains many excellent parodies, relating principally, of course, to the joys and troubles of bicyclists.

WHAT ROADS!

At a recent sessions of the Uxbridge Court a gentleman pleaded guilty to riding on the footpath with a bi., and excused himself on the ground that the roads were very muddy. P.C. X. 20. proved the case, and a fine of 5s. was imposed.――_Uxbridge Gazette._

The shades of night were falling fast,
As thro’ a local village pass’d
A youth, who rode a Rudge, once bright,
He cried, as onward sped his flight,
“What roads!”

His brow was sad, the road beneath
Resembled much dull Hounslow Heath,
And in a voice, just tinged with ire,
Cried as he still rode through the mire,
“What roads!”

In happy “pubs.” he saw the light
Of _Argand_ burners very bright,
Said he, “I’ll stop and try a drink.”
Mine host replied with knowing wink,
“What roads!”

“Try on the path,” the landlord said,
“Our Robert’s ‘off,’ e’en gone to bed.”
“A good idea,” the youth replied,
“And one that shall be quickly tried,
“What roads!”

“Oh! stay,” the barmaid said, “and rest.”
The wheelman answered, “Pray don’t jest!”
_I’ll_ TRY the path, it _can’t_ be worse,
Which brings us to another verse.
What roads!

“Beware the stones that lie in heaps
“Beware the dog the farmer keeps.”
The wheelist mounted, sped away,
And hailed the light of breaking day.
What roads!

Just then, X 20, on his track,
Stopp’d short the youth’s career, alack!
In vain he pleads, “This isn’t fair!”
X 20 takes him _you know where_.
What roads!

There in the Court with face quite ruddy
He urges that, “The roads were muddy.”
Vain hope! The Chairman with a sob,
Murmur’d serenely, “_Fined Five Bob!_”
“What roads!”
W. F. FIELD.

――――――――

SLOPER.

The shades of night were falling fast,
As o’er a station platform passed
A youth, who bore, with step precise,
A paper with the strange device
Of SLOPER.

His coat was torn, his hair unkempt,
His face from water long exempt,
But quick his action, sharp his eye
As loud he shouted, “Who will buy
A SLOPER.”

“Stay!” said an old man, “stay, my boy,
Who ought to be your mother’s joy,
Linger a while, and give to me
(For I would wish amused to be)
A SLOPER.”

“Here!” said a maiden, sad yet “swell,”
In accents like a silver bell,
“Come here, my youth, and I will try
To drown my sorrow; _I_ will buy
A SLOPER.”

And soon from every side there came
The accents of that well-known name,
Until the little urchin stands,
And there’s not in his dirty hands
A SLOPER.

There in the gas-light, clearly seen,
The little boy stood “all serene;”
A smile lit up his bright blue eye,
He whistled loud, and ceased his cry
Of SLOPER.

THE WAR BLACKSMITH.

Under its sulphurous canopy
Old Vulcan’s smithy stands,
And Vulcan, grown a man-of-war,
Has so much on his hands,
That stocks run low, and files but show
War-orders and demands.

His Cyclops when he needed most,
Off every Cyclops ran;
For why should not a Cyclop do
As another working-man,
And take the time when trade is brisk
To insist on all he can?

So every day, and all day long
Poor Vulcan’s sweat must flow,
Toiling for Europe’s sovereigns,
And still the orders grow
For breech-loaders, and armour-plates,
Steel-shot and chilled also.

With Chassepots for the EMPEROR
(O’er Dreyses they’ve the pull);
With Remingtons for Austria,
And Sniders for JOHN BULL,
Balls, Cochranes, Mountstorms, Henries,
His hands may well be full.

Meanwhile the EMPEROR writes to us,
And bids us be good boys:
It does one good to hear him preach,
And see how he enjoys
The shift of weights that trim the POWERS
For Europe’s equipoise.

How glad he is that Prussia comes
So strong out of the row,
That Italy Venetia gains――
_Viâ_ France, as all allow:
Proving “whatever is, is best”――
At all events, _just now_.

And when France sulks that East and South
Her neighbours’ power increases,
He hints, ’tis not from _every_ smash
She can “pick up the pieces,”
While Peace is Peace, although it brings
No Savoys, and no Nices.

Some say ’tis like the voice that once
Wiled Eve in Paradise:
But it preaches so delightfully,
And gives such good advice,
Bidding France arm, because she’s sure
Of peace at any price.

So Vulcan all his toil and stock
Must on War’s task bestow,
And iron, good for spade and share
For sword and gun must go:
For before this the Emperor’s word
Has been a word and blow.

Then let us thank the Emperor
For the lesson he has taught,
That it is in the forge of War
The arms of Peace are wrought,
And if we haven’t breech-loaders,
Breech-loaders must be bought.

_Punch_, September 29, 1866.

It will be remembered that the Austrians had been completely defeated by the Prussians at Sadowa, on July 3, 1866, and that the Emperor Francis Joseph had ceded Venetia to Napoleon III., requesting his intervention with the King of Prussia to arrange the terms of peace. From that period until the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War, Napoleon was looked upon as the arbiter of Peace or War in Europe.

――――――――

Although the following parody is taken from an old Christmas annual, it is singularly _à propos_ at the present time, when disgust is universally expressed at the costliness and uncertainty of our Legal system. Recent scandals have also greatly detracted from the confidence and respect which should be felt for the administrators of Justice:――

THE LORD CHANCELLOR. (_Loq._)

“Were it once known that only right could win,
No villain then an action would begin;
Did rogues not know how equal was their chance
With honest men’s, false claims they’d not advance;
In short, were only simple justice done,
The special pleader’s course were well-nigh run.”

_Song_: The LORD CHANCELLOR.
_Tune_: “_The Village Blacksmith._”

Under a stunted black elm tree
The Q.C.’s chambers are;
Q.C., a leading silk is he,
With name known near and far;
And the practice he’s contrived to make
Is famous at the bar.

His wig is crisp, and soiled, and black――
That’s where the ink once ran――
His eye is bright, and apt to roll,
’Tis his most favourite plan;
And he looks a jury in the face
As very few men can.

Week in, week out, from ten till four,
You can hear his language flow;
You can see him hitch his gown and swing
His arm with motion slow,
Like a ranter beating the Holy Book
With a downright thumping blow!

And country people up in town
Look in at the Law-court’s door;
For they like to see the great Q.C.,
And hear his voice’s roar;
And ’tis thought a bit of luck to catch
Him standing on the floor.

He sits on Sundays in his rooms,
And “tots” up his week’s fees;
He thinks on those he hasn’t earned,
And had no right to seize:
And much it makes his heart rejoice
As he turns over these.

He thinks of verdicts he has won,
By torture and by lies;
Of verdicts lost through his default
Thoughts will unbidden rise:
Through one a widow lost her all,
He seems to hear her sighs.

Toiling――speechmaking――circuiting,
Onward through life he goes;
Each evening sees some briefs begun,
How many? goodness knows!
Something attempted, some one “done,”
He’s earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my legal friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
That fortune quickly comes to one
Who does what he “didn’t ought;”
And that taking fees for work not done
Is a very “happy thought.”

_Finis_ (Beeton’s Christmas Annual, 1877.)

In a recent trial for libel brought against the son of the Lord Chief Justice, the plaintiff had to conduct his case in person, and was subjected to continual interruptions, and hostile remarks from the bench. This conduct on the part of the judge, Mr. Justice Manisty, was even more noticeable than his contemptuous treatment of the verdict of the jury, and the following parody of a Law Report (which appeared in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, November 25, 1884)――is really but a mild exaggeration of the actual proceedings:――

TRIAL BY JURY IN 1884.

The libel case of ―――― _versus_ ―――― was tried in the Court
of ――――, before Mr. Justice Manifest. The plaintiff
conducted his own case; the defendant was represented by his
counsel, a great legal luminary, and several of the most
prominent names at the bar. The defendant is the son of a
person high placed in the legal world, and is himself a
barrister. The plaintiff is, vernacularly speaking, “the
deuce knows who.” The alleged libel is contained in a letter
written by the defendant to a widow lady (his great aunt by
marriage), who wished to ally herself by marriage to the
plaintiff.

The plaintiff was proceeding to open his own case, when the
judge asked him why he was not properly represented by
professional counsel, after the manner of a gentleman, and
warned him that such an omission was likely to tell against
him in the gravest manner.

Plaintiff: May it please your lordship, I am a poor man, and
cannot well afford――

Mr. Justice Manifest: The question of your means is wholly
irrelevant. I must request you to keep strictly to the
matter in hand.

Plaintiff: My other reason was that I feared no member of
your respected profession would be quite whole-hearted in
conducting my case, in view of who the defendant is. (Groans
from the members of the Bar present.)

The great legal luminary: I protest against the plaintiff’s
speech as an insult to the entire profession, including your
lordship.

Mr. Justice Manifest condoled warmly with the outraged
feelings of the legal gentlemen present, but urged them to
allow the plaintiff to proceed; as by so doing he would best
reveal to the jury the manner of man he was.

Plaintiff: With the permission of the court, I will first
read the letter.

The great legal luminary objected to this, as unnecessarily
wounding to the feelings of the defendant’s eminent family.

Plaintiff humbly submitted to the court that unless he were
allowed to produce the letter it would be difficult for the
jury to decide whether it were a libel or not. Mr. Justice
Manifest begged the great legal luminary to allow the letter
to be read as a personal favour to himself. The great legal
luminary consenting, the plaintiff read the letter, which
was as follows:――“My dear Aunt,――It is with sincere regret
that I see myself forced to point out to you the true
character of the unprincipled scoundrel you are thinking of
marrying. Should you be surprised to hear that he is a
professed atheist? Should you be surprised to hear that he
has been three times married already, and that one of these
marriages took place while the former wife was still alive?
Should you be surprised to hear that many excellent people
suspect him of having made away with his last wife, though
the murder has never been brought home to him? Should you be
surprised to hear that he has on several occasions embezzled
large sums of money? Should you be surprised to hear that he
is a convicted felon? Should you be surprised to hear that
he has a daughter in the workhouse?”… At this point the
reading of the letter was interrupted by the great legal
luminary, who said that the remainder of it had no bearing
on the case.

The plaintiff said he thought he had read enough to give the
court some idea of the animus of the document. He would next
ask if the defendant denied having written it?

The great legal luminary said his client acknowledged having
written the letter.

Mr. Justice Manifest said this was one more instance of the
manly and straightforward manner in which the case for the
defendant was being carried on.

The plaintiff said he had given the defendant an opening to
withdraw his statements in presence of the defendant’s fa….

Mr. Justice Manifest (interrupting): “I must beg you not to
mention eminent people in no way connected with the case.”

The plaintiff apologised and continued: The defendant
refused either to withdraw or substantiate his charges.

Mr. Justice Manifest: Quite right too. (Loud cheering.)

The plaintiff next called witnesses to speak to his
character and disprove the charges contained in the letter
which the defendant acknowledged having written, and refused
to withdraw.

The Rev. Lord Bishop of ―――― was sworn, and in answer to
questions said he had known the plaintiff from a boy, and
that he had always borne the highest character.

Several other reverend gentlemen, of whose congregations the
plaintiff had at various times been a prominent member, were
called, and deposed to the same effect――namely, that he was
a man against whom there had never been a breath of even
ordinary scandal. Also that he was of a most edifying piety.

Plaintiff: Would it have been possible that such facts as my
having murdered my wife, embezzled money, been a convicted
felon, &c., could have remained unknown to you during the
time I was a member of your congregations?

The Reverend Gentlemen; “Quite impossible.” Plaintiff then
produced evidence that the period during which he had sat
under the various reverend gentlemen extended over his whole
life, from the age of eighteen to the present day.

Mr. Justice Manifest asked the great legal luminary if he
did not wish to cross-examine the witnesses.――Great legal
luminary: “No, my lord, I have no questions to ask.”

Mr. Justice Manifest thanked him for so considerately saving
the time of the court.

The plaintiff next called witnesses to prove that he had
only been once married, that he had lived in great peace and
harmony with his late wife, that she had died a natural
death, that he had sincerely mourned her, that he had always
supported his daughter honourably, and as well as his small
means would allow.

The great legal luminary scornfully refused to cross-examine
any of the witnesses.

The plaintiff then declared his case closed.

Mr. Justice Manifest: And high time too.

The great legal luminary then opened the case for the
defence: My lord I do not mean to waste the valuable time of
the court, already so mercilessly squandered by the
plaintiff. My client, acting on my advice, has considerately
refused to appear in the witness-box, or to call any
witnesses. I shall not soil myself by attempting to set
aside any of the evidence the plaintiff has thought fit so
tediously to inflict upon the patience of the court. The
fact that a man is obliged to call such evidence to his
personal character is, I should hope, sufficiently
significant to all right-thinking and unprejudiced minds.
The law of libel is happily clear and concise, and is known
to all. That the position occupied by the defendant’s family
could in any way influence the judgment of the court, which,
monstrous as it may seem, the plaintiff has not hesitated to
imply, is a supposition I need not even repudiate. My lord,
I have done.

Mr. Justice Manifest: I cannot sufficiently express my
admiration for the moderation with which the counsel for the
defence has expressed himself, or my regret that such a case
should have been brought into court at all. The jury must
now consider carefully whether such a letter, written
confidentially by one member of a family to another, can in
any sense of the word be rightly called a libel, or whether
the whole thing is not a base conspiracy to annoy a family
of high position, and degrade the law. For my own part my
mind is quite made up, and though I have the highest opinion
of juries and their decisions, I must warn the jury that in
the extremely improbable event of their disagreeing with me,
I shall reserve to myself the right of setting aside their
decision.

The jury, without retiring, consulted for a few moments,
when the foreman said, My lord, we are unanimously agreed.

Mr. Justice Manifest: I was sure you would be; and your
verdict is?

The Foreman: We find unhesitatingly for the plaintiff.

Mr. Justice Manifest (with withering sarcasm): Oh, do you?
Then may I ask at what you fix the damages?

The Foreman (after a brief consultation with the other
jurors): At £2,000, my lord.

Mr. Justice Manifest: I have no hesitation in overruling the
decision of the jury, and have much pleasure in deciding
that the court finds for the defendant with costs.

――――――――

THE VILLAGE PET.

Around their panting captain
The village clubmen stand;
A presentation “pot” he bears
In his large and sinewy hand;
For he just has won the mile “cham,”
To the music of the band!