Chapter XXV: Canto VI: ―― (10)

yron’s first published volume, entitled _Hours of Idleness_, contained few poems of note, or that gave promise of his future fame, although the greater number were far too good to justify the savage attack made on them in _The Edinburgh Review_. Only a few of these poems have been thought worthy of imitation, that entitled “_Maid of Athens_” apparently being the favourite theme chosen for parodies.

THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance;
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!

If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse,
And try the effect of the first kiss of love!

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art!
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove,
I court the effusions that spring from the heart
Which throb with delight to the first kiss of love!

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move.
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams:
What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?

Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove;
Some portion of paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past,
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove,
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.

BYRON.

――――

THE MAIDEN I LOVE.

Away with fictitious and flimsy expanse
Of those tresses of falsehood which folly has wove;
Give me the real hair, and unmedicalled glance
The beauties that dwell in the maiden I love.

Ye charmers whose bosoms with cosmetics glow
Whose passions are put on and off like a glove;
I’m blessed if your long studied acting can show,
With the natural charms of the maiden I love.

If Rachel should e’er her assistance refuse
Or her kin, for that lady has taken a move
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to your _ruses_
And copy the forms of the maiden I love.

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,
All young men despise ye, and old ones reprove
I court the emotions that spring from the heart
The unpractised charms of the maiden I love.

Your eyebrows, your locks, your fantastical dresses
Perhaps may amuse, but never can move;
The arcade exhibits a thousand such tresses
What are Mummies like these to the maiden I love?

Oh! cease to affirm that your sex since its birth
From Eve until now, has with coming age strove,
Some portion of nature still is on earth
In the delicate blush of the maiden I love.

When age chills your blood, and your pleasures are passed,
And your youth fled away on the wings of the dove;
Why caricature you, still to the last
_The natural_ bloom of the _maiden I love_.

P. F. T.

――――

WELL! THOU ART HAPPY.

Well! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband’s blest――and ’twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot;
But let them pass――Oh! how my heart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not!

When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break,
But when the unconscious infant smiled,
I kissed it for its mother’s sake.

I kissed it――and repressed my sighs,
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother’s eyes,
And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art blest I’ll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay;
My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem’d that time, I deem’d that pride
Had quenched at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all,――save hope,――the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look;
But now to tremble were a crime――
We met, and not a nerve was shook.

BYRON.

――――

TO MARY.

Well! thou art happy, and I say
That I should thus be happy too;
For still I hate to go away
As badly as I used to do.

Thy husband’s blest,――and ’twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot;
But let them pass,――O, how my heart
Would hate him, if he clothed thee not!

When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought, like Dutchmen, “I’d go dead,”
But when I saw its breakfast piled,
I thought how much ’t would take for bread.

I saw it, and repressed my groans,
Its father in its face to see,
Because I knew my scanty funds
Were scarce enough for you and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away;
While thou art blest, to grieve were sin;
But near thee I can never stay,
Because I’d get in love again.

I deemed that time, I deemed that pride,
My boyish feeling had subdued,
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
I’d try to get you if I could.

Yet was I calm: I recollect,
My hand had once sought yours again,
But now your husband might object,
And so I kept it on my cane.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with neither woe nor scoff;
One only feeling couldst thou trace,
A disposition to be off.

Away! away! my early dream,
Remembrance never must awake;
O, where is Mississippi’s stream?
My foolish heart, be still, or break!

From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, United
States, 1854.

――――:o:――――

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.

Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
_Zoe mou sas agapo_.[99]

By those tresses unconfined,
Woo’d by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge
By those wild eyes like the roe,
_Zoe mou sas agapo_.

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love’s alternate joy and woe
_Zoe mou sas agapo_.

Maid of Athens! I am gone.
Think of me, sweet! when alone,
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!
_Zoe mou sas agapo_.

The heroine of this poem died in London ten or twelve years ago. For some time previously she had been in poverty and when, about 1870, a subscription was started for her, Gounod composed an air to Byron’s “Maid of Athens” which produced about £20 towards the fund for the benefit of Mrs. Black, as she then was. It is said that Lord Byron wrote the poem in Athens, about 1810, when he was quite a young man, but I have never yet seen any mention made of the wonderful similarity between it, and the following ballad which appeared in _The Monthly Mirror_, November 1799:――

BALLAD.
_Addressed “to her_ I DEARLY LOVE.”

By those orbits which, oft, I enraptur’d survey,
Which, sparkling Content, the mind’s image pourtray,
While sweet Affability tempers their ray,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia!

By those features, which Grief of her tears can beguile,
Aid the gambols of Mirth, light the burthen of Toil,
Dispensing delight when bedeck’d with a smile,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia!

By thy tongue, which I ne’er have heard prattle amiss,
By thy teeth, snow-drop white, thy lips, teeming with bliss,
By the exquisite rapture you breathe in a kiss,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia!

By thy temper as gentle as Spring’s mildest shower,
By the accents so soft, which rob Grief of its power,
By the _form_ my eyes doat on, the _mind_ I adore,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia!

By thy wish to alleviate Misery’s smart,
By the genial solace that wish does impart,
By the fond heart you’ve won, and your own little heart,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia!

By those vows at the altar our souls did approve,
By that union so sacred recorded above,
A compact divine, which demands _love for love_!
I conjure thee _still_ love me Sophia!

BENEDICT.

――――

PRETTY POLKA.
The sentimental young lady at the close of the season 1844.

Darling Polka! ere we part,
Hear th’ outpourings of my heart!
Since the season now is o’er,
Wretched, I can Polk no more.
Hear my vow before I go
_Polka mou sas agapo_!

By those steps so unconfined,
By that neat kick-up behind,
COULON’S hop, and MICHAU’S slide,
Backward, forward, or aside,
By the alternate heel and toe
_Polka mou sas agapo_.

By the waltz’s giddy round,
By the galop’s maddening bound,
By the obsolete quadrille,
Polka mine! “I love thee still.”
Compared with thee each dance is slow
_Polka mou sas agapo_.

Happy season! thou art gone,
I, alas! must Polk alone!
Though the country now I roll to,
Almacks holds my heart and soul too.
Can I cease to love thee? No!
_Polka mou sas agapo_.

_Punch_, August, 1844.

――――

PAY, OH! PAY US WHAT YOU OWE.
_Song for the London Tradesmen._

Higher classes, ere we part,
For the country ere you start,
Let your tradespeople distress’d
Trouble you with one request:
Just a word before you go――
Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

By those orders unconfined,
Which for goods of every kind
You so readily did give,
Think, oh! think that we must live――
Just a word before you go――
Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

By those dresses of the best,
Silken robe and satin vest,
In whose splendour, by our aid,
You so gaily were arrayed:
Hear us cry before you go――
Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

By the Opera and the Rout,
Recollect who rigged you out;
By the drawing-room and ball,
Bear in mind who furnished all:
Just a word before you go――
Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

By the fête and the soirée,
And the costly déjeuner,
By your plate and ormulu,
Let your tradesmen get their due:
Just a word before you go――
Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

_Punch_, July 31, 1847.

――――

“The figure advances upon me, flourishing its umbrella in the most deadly manner.

I discover it to be a man――a creature with a long clerically-cut coat, a white linen stock――a creature with its hair parted down the middle to make the most of an inch-and-a-quarter of forehead――a young――a _very_ young ritualist priest.

He flourishes his umbrella in my face, and bursts out in the following alarming way”:――

AM I RIGHT FOR COLNEY HATCH?

I.

Man of Mammon, e’er we part
Read the words upon my heart;
Or, if that has left my breast,
Go to Rome and read the rest.
By my vesper-breathing watch
Am I right for Colney Hatch?

II.

By mine alb and stole and cope,
By my tonsured head and Pope,
By my banners’ silken flow,
By my chalice veil of snow,
By the laces that attach,
Am I right for Colney Hatch?

III.

By the chancel dossals hung,
By the incense burnt and swung,
By the candles lit at noon,
By the Sacramental spoon,
By my napkins, cutters, such,
Am I right for Colney Hatch?

IV.

By my chasuble and stool,
By Loyola’s holy rule,
By the font’s baptismal jugs,
By my maniples and mugs,
By my altar-cloths to match,
Am I right for Colney Hatch?

V.

By the acolytes that file
In procession down the aisle,
By the silken flags they bear,
By the holy Cross that’s there,
By my vigil, fast, and watch,
Am I right for Colney Hatch?

VI.

By my piping treble tones,
By my loved Gregorian groans,
By the priest’s Confessional,
By man’s faults transgressional;
Ah! that whispered word I catch――
Yes, I’m right for Colney Hatch.

BENJAMIN D――――. _His Little Dinner._ 1876.

――――

MR. GLADSTONE AND THE “DAILY TELEGRAPH.”

(_The hour of midnight strikes._)
MR. GLADSTONE (_at his casement._)

This is the hour when churchyards yawn, they say;
I wish that I could do the same. All day
I’ve worked right hard, yet sleep I cannot woo;
Oh! how I wish the weary night were through.

_As he speaks, a form clad in large sheets of newspaper is seen stealing from the neighbouring copse, and sinking on its knees on the gravel before Mr. Gladstone’s window, plaintively sings_:――

People’s William, do not start,
Nor reply in accents tart;
See thy “Telly” kneel in pain,
Vowing thee to serve again;
See, and say before I go――
Is it all made up or no?

True it is I turned on thee;
Fate for this has punished me.
For, despite my subtle art,
Joseph M. is not a Bart.
Pity, then, thou’lt surely show!――
Is it all made up or no?

Should’st thou come again to pow’r,
William, recollect this hour!
That thy “Telly” on the stones
Knelt and prayed in piteous tones,
That thou should’st not be its foe――
Is it all made up or no?

Ere thou seek’st thy night’s repose,
Tell me, are we friends or foes?
Wilt thou in our interests work,
If I drop the wicked Turk?
Tell me quickly ere I go,
Is it all made up or no?

_Duo._――WILLIE AND HIS TELLY.

_Willie_: Telly, Telly, like a jelly, shiver I at what you’ve said,
_Telly_: Gladdie, Gladdie, lowland laddie, pardon here to seek I’ve
sped,
_Willie_: Telly, Telly, quite _Pall-Mally_, have you been in all you
wrote,
_Telly_: Willie, Willie, I was silly; on the Turk no more I’ll dote.
_Willie_: You I’ll pardon, ere you harden! Go, and don’t your word
forget.
_Telly_: Joseph Moses, too, supposes he may be Sir Joseph yet, If
right gaily, we now daily, puff the Muscovs up, and you?
_Willie_: You will see, T., how ’twill be, T.; trust, meantime, in
what I do!

_Solo._――TELLY.
Fare thee well, and if for ever,
Thou can’st say I’ve not been clever;
But remember, please, this hour,
When thou com’st again to pow’r.

[_Exit_ Telly, _dancing, and_ Mr. Gladstone _retires to rest_.]
――_Truth_. October, 1877

(At one time _The Daily Telegraph_ (London), was very strong in its support of Mr. Gladstone’s policy, but it afterwards completely veered round, and whilst Lord Beaconsfield was in power, he became the God of its idolatry. This change of front was popularly supposed to arise from the fact that the proprietor of the paper was very anxious to obtain a baronetcy.)

――――

MAID OF ATHENS.
JOHN BULL _loquitur_.――

Maid of Athens, ere we start,
Take my arm――I’ll take your part.
Be my partner. All the rest
Have paired off as suits them best.
Hear me swear, before we go,
_Zoe mou sas agapo_.

Bismarck’s bland, but over-kind;
Gortschakoff would Argus blind;
Coy Andrassy’s coldly cute.
No: such partners will not suit.
You are small, but safe, I trow.
_Zoe mou sas agapo._

Hobson’s Choice? Oh, not at all!
I’ve my business at the ball:
What it is I need not tell;
Attic nous should guess right well.
Come! together let us go!
_Zoe mou sas agapo._

Maid of Athens! though alone,
Think not, dear, that I’ll be “done.”
They’ve an eye to Istambol,
Fain would leave me in the hole――
Do I mean to let them? No!
_Zoe mou sas agapo._

_Punch_, March 23, 1878.

――――

THE MAID OF CLAPHAM.

Maid of Clapham! ere I part,
Tell me if thou hast a heart!
For, so padded is thy breast,
I begin to doubt the rest!
Tell me now before I go――
Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?

Are those tresses thickly twined,
Only hair-pinned on behind!
Is thy blush which roses mocks,
Bought at three-and-six per box?
Tell me, for I ask in woe――
Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?

And those lips I seem to taste,
Are they pink with cherry-paste?
Gladly I’d the notion, scout,
But do those white teeth take out?
Answer me, it is not so――
Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?

Maid of Clapham! come, no larks!
For thy shoulders leave white marks――
Tell me! quickly tell to me
What is really real in thee?
Tell me, or at once I go――
Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?

_Jon Duan._

――――

MADE OF SOMETHING.

Made of Something! ere we part,
Tell me, truly, what thou art!
For, it needs must be confessed,
There is mystery at best
Lurking in thine amber glow――
Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ!

Tell me, doth the glucose shine
In this chalky foam of thine?
Is it malt of barley true,
Mingled in thy cheery brew?
Hops, not drugs, thy tincture? O
Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ!

Howsoe’er it be, I fear,
Made of Something, you are queer!
For you make my head to ache,
And my stomach cause to quake,
After twenty Drinks or so――
Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ!

_Free Press Flashes_, 1882.

――――

ZOEDONE.

“Zoedone is a tonic, no doubt about it; but being rather sweetish, it must be thoroughly iced; then――put a liqueur glass of brandy into a small tumbler of Zoe, and, if you like shandygaffian sort of drinking, you will find this, what the leading Counsel finds his occasional fifty guineas, a gentle and agreeable Refresher. _Solvitur drink-no-endo. Verb. sap._ We dedicate to Zoedone this Byronic verse”:――

Made of something, ere we part,
Tell me, tell me what thou art?
If the truth must be confest,
With a nip thou goest best.
With liqueur, one little “go,”
Ζώη-δῶν σάς ἀγαπῶ.

_Punch_, September 18, 1880.

――――

CALF’S HEART.

Maid of all work as a part
Of my dinner, cook a heart;
Or, since such a dish is best,
Give me that, and leave the rest,
Take my orders, ere I go;
Heart of calf we’ll cook thee so.

Buy, to price you’re not confined――
Such a heart as suits your mind;
Buy some suet――and enough
Of the herbs required to stuff,
Buy some lemon――peel――and, oh!
Heart of calf, we’ll fill thee so.

Buy some onions――just a taste――
Buy enough, but not to waste;
Buy two eggs of slender shell,
Mix, and stir the mixture well;
Crumbs of bread among it throw;
Heart of calf we’ll roast thee so.

Maid of all work, when ’tis done,
Serve it up to me alone:
Rich brown gravy round it roll,
Marred by no intruding coal;
Currant jelly add――and lo!
Heart of calf, I’ll eat thee so.

_Punch_, January 1852.

――――

“BEAUTIFUL FOR EVER.”[100]

Madam Rachel, ere we smash,
Give, oh, give me back my cash;
Or, since that has left my chest,
Let me have a little rest.
Hear my vow before I go,――
Upon my life, I’ll sue you!

By these powdered tresses fine,
Falling from a brow divine;
By the beautiful gamboge;
By these soft cheeks’ blooming rouge;
By these eyes, so like the roe,――
It is――it is no go!

By this lip he longed to taste;
By this zone-encircled waist;
By “dear William’s” quenched love,
Which I never more can move;
Give me――solace in my woe――
All the cash, and let me go!

Madam Rachel, I’ll be gone:
Think of me sweet, when alone.
I will fly to Mr. Knox;
Every nerve this system shocks,
Can I cease to sue thee? No!
Madam Rachel, oh dear, no!

_Judy_, June 24. 1868.

――――

MAID OF ALL-WORK.
(To her Mistress.)

Unkind Missis, e’er the day
Speed my willing feet away,
Let my injured spirit speak,
Prick your conscience, tinge your cheek,
Hear my words before I go:
If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.

By my weary hours confined
To work and dirt and heat combined;
By my ever-lengthening day,
By my ever-shortening pay:
By these grievances you know――
If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.

By the joints I ne’er might taste,
By the rows about the waste;
By your harsh, discordant voice
Scolding with expletives choice!
By my lot of work, and woe,――
If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.

Cruel Missis! never more
Shall midnight find my toil scarce o’er――
Never more! And Missis, yet,
My parting words you’ll ne’er forget,
As changing slaveys come――and go:
_If they’re bad, you’ve made them so_!

From _Grins and Groans, Social and Political_.

――――

MAID OF GANGES.
By a Heart-broken Hindoo.

Maid of Ganges! thou that art
Maharanee of my heart,
Thou that fairest art in all
Rajpootana or Nepaul:
It were happiness to be
Syce or Ayah unto thee;――
Then one glance of pity fling
To Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.

Had I mines of gems and gold,
All Golconda’s wealth untold;
Myriads of precious stones,
Begum’s crowns and Nizam’s thrones;
Lakhs of annas, pies, rupees,――
These I’d bring and more than these.
I have them not: and so I bring
Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.

Maid of Ganges! thou shalt feast
On all the dainties of the east;
Curry will I bring to thee,
Chutnee, rice, and cadgeree,
All that can delight the sense――
Thy lover will not spare expense.
He will buy thee anything,
Will Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.

Maid of Ganges? thou shalt wear
A Tuggaree twined in thy hair.
And about thy head shall play
A sportive punkah all the day;
While the bulbul’s song by night
Shall fill thee with supreme delight,
And to the tomtom’s plaintive string
Shall Koot Nerbudda Chundra sing.

Maid of Ganges! dost thou love
To watch the smoke-rings curl above?
Dost thou smoke? Then so do I,
So lay thy proud demeanour by
And sit beneath yon banyan tree
And share a narghili with me,
Or hubble-bubble murmuring
With Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.

Maid of Ganges! thou dost lave
Thy houri form in Jumna’s wave;
Thou dost waste thy sunny smiles
On the sacred crocodiles,
As beneath thine eyes they bask
They have what I vainly ask.
Then one glance of kindness fling
To Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.

_The Etonian_, February 15, 1884.

――――

TO A SLAVEY.

Maid-of-all-work we must part,
You are not a pleasing tart,
Smashing things with such a zest,
You must surely need a rest.
Anyway, one thing I know:
Holy Moses! out you go!

[_Takes her by the birdcage and the chignon and hands her out
like a sack of coals._]

_The Topical Times_, March, 1886.

――――

The following verses were said to have been copied from an intercepted post card:――

Joe, my Joseph, ere we part,
Ere you break an old man’s heart,
You that hold the Rads in check,
Ere the Cabinet you wreck,
Pause, nor let Trevelyan go:
Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ

Leave, oh leave us not alone;
Hartington and James are gone;
Forster, Goschen, stand aside;
Bright (they say) to you’s allied;
But the world I fain would show,
Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ

Even those I reckon true:
Harcourt, heavy――Morley new――
Childers, blundering――Granville, old――
Some afraid, some rashly bold;
Wanting all, too much to know:
Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ

If with us you’ll only stay,
In aught else we’ll all give way;
Each shall have (if you’ll show how)
His three acres and a cow;
“Ransom” shall be all the “go:”
Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ

_St. James’s Gazette_, March 22, 1886.

(Mr. Joseph Chamberlain had just resigned his seat in the Cabinet.)

――――

I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD

I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll

Fortune! take back these cultured lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around.
Place me along the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar;
I ask but this――again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.

* * * * *

I loved――but those I loved are gone;
Had friends――my early friends are fled;
How cheerless feels the heart alone
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o’er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart――the heart――is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist’rous joy is but a name.
* * * * *

LORD BYRON.

――――

THE OLD FOGEY’S LAMENT.

I would I were a careless child,
Still knowing not how to behave,
With dirty face and hair all wild
And not a bit of need to shave.
The cumbrous ways of manhood’s day
Accord not with my boyish soul;
Again in dreams I “rounders” play,
The top I spin, the ball I roll.

Fortune, take back my house and lands,
For nuisances I them have found;
I want a tipcat in my hands,
I want to make the football bound.
Give me again the “rock” I loved
(Ah, it was sold in penny sticks!)
Which, in my trousers’ pocket shoved,
With fluff and marbles used to mix.

I loved――but what I loved is gone.
Where are those soldiers made of lead
They could not leave my kite alone,
It now has altogether fled.
Let those who will seek Fortune’s track,
And to Ambition’s projects cling!
I only want my jew’s-harp back,
My hoop, my silkworms, and my string.

How dull to hear the voice of those
Whom rank or chance, or wealth or power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the present hour.
Give me again my faithful “chums,”
Who ate my cake and jam at school;
Who let me copy off their sums,
Then thrashed me ’cause I was a fool.

Oh, would my boyhood could return,
With all its appetite and joys!
Now doughy cake I’m bound to spurn,
And raspberry jam, by potfulls, cloys.
Life is a weariness, in fact;
And could I rid me of its pain,
With Fate I’d make a willing pact,
And gladly be a boy again.

_Funny Folks._

――――:o:――――

NAPOLEON’S FAREWELL.
_From the French._

Farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glory
Arose and o’ershadowed the earth with her name――
She abandons me now――but the page of her story,
The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame.
I have warr’d with a world which vanquished me only
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,
The last single Captive to millions in war.

Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown’d me,
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth――
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,
Decay’d in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won――
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted
Had still soar’d with eyes fixed on victory’s sun.

Farewell to thee France!――but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then――
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;
Though wither’d, thy tear will unfold it again――
Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice――
There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,
_Then_ turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!

LORD BYRON.

――――

THE BOHEMIAN’S FAREWELL.

Farewell to the Strand, and my uppermost story,
Which bore on the door in rude letters my name;
Whose shelter I’ve courted with countenance gory,
When street rows had soiled both my linen and fame!
I’ve warred with the landlord, who conquered me only
When liquor and love had allured me too far,
And the lodger made love to his fair daughter lonely,
While she giggled softly, and murmured “Ask ma!”

Farewell to the Strand! While the money had crown’d me,
Of coin for sprees I ne’er yet felt the dearth;
But Poverty says, I must leave as I found thee,
Decayed in my garments, and sunk in my worth!
Oh! for the numberless sov’reigns I’ve wasted
In strife with the p’lice ere my orgies were done!
Oh! for the numberless liquors I’ve tasted,
With blackened eyes fixed upon multiplied sun.

Farewell to thee, Strand! But when Bankruptcy rallies,
And calls me once more to thy regions, why then,
As the old well-known footstep recrosses thine alleys,
Welcome me back to Bohemia again!
E’en yet I may baffle the duns that surround me,
E’en yet may thy street be aroused by my voice;
And when for a spree you have gathered around me,
_Then_ turn, and call on the chief of your choice!

JOHN J. BOSWORTH.
_Worthy a Crown?_ 1876.

――――:o:――――

THE SPELL IS BROKEN.

The spell is broken when we own
The girl who made us feel love’s fever;
We madly smile, and wish we’d known
Her temper, ere too late to leave her.

Each curtain lecture brings the thought
Of all the woes of wedding’s charter;
And he who had an angel sought
But lives to find he’s caught a tartar.

_Judy_, December 29, 1880,

――――:o:――――

THE WAR SONG OF THE RADICAL PHILHELLENE.
(_After Lord Byron’s translation of a famous Greek War Song._)

Sons of the Greeks, our eyes
Are on your little State;
We view with pained surprise
The move you meditate.

_Chorus._
Sons of the Greeks! to go
In arms against the foe
Would be just now, you know,
Inopportune indeed.

Your glorious uprising,
Are you aware, my friends?
Is gravely jeopardizing
Your patrons private ends.

With Philhellenic fervour
He burns, and so do I,
As any close observer
May, if he can, descry.

Gladly would he, I take it,
Extend support to you,
If he could only make it
Convenient so to do.

But asking him to father
Your game, with _his_ to play,
Sons of the Greeks, is rather
A strongish order, eh?

_Chorus._
Sons of the Greeks, etc.

Yet, O ye patriots banded!
Sons of the Greeks, I own
There _has_ been, to be candid,
A certain change of tone.

I’ve not forgot full surely,
Nor shall I all my life,
How somewhat prematurely
I woke the Spartan fife.

I made a bold diversion,
Leonidas-like; but _he_――
He went in for coercion,
And left me up a tree.

And so amid back numbers,
From which I do not quote,
Now, hushed for ever, slumbers
That hasty battle-note.

_Chorus._
Sons of the Greeks, etc.

Well, to correct my blunder,
The least that I can do
Is just to preach knock-under
Perpetually to you.

And, after all, there’s reason
In a filibustering raid,
For which ’tis _not_ the season,
To seek our Gladstone’s aid.

He’s not at leisure, is he?
To cut up other Powers,
Just now when he’s so busy
Carving this realm of ours.

Though loath then, I assure you,
To stay the lifted cup,
I solemnly adjure you,
Sons of the Greeks, dry up!

_Chorus._
Sons of the Greeks, etc.

_The Saturday Review_, April. 1886.

――――:o:――――

ENIGMA

’Twas whispered in heaven, ’twas muttered in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell:
On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed.
’Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder,
’Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death;
It presides o’er his happiness, honour, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
Without the soldier and seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home.
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.
’Twill not soften the heart, and tho’ deaf to the ear,
’Twill make it acutely and instantly hear,
But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower――
Oh! breathe on it softly――it dies in an hour.

LORD BYRON.

――――

A Parody on the above, by Henry Mayhew.

I dwells in the Herth, and I breathes in the Hair;
If you searches the Hocean, you’ll find that I’m there.
The first of all Hangels, in Holympus am Hi,
Yet I’m banished from ’Eaven, expelled from on ’Igh.
But though on this Horb I’m destined to grovel,
I’m ne’er seen in an ’Ouse, in an ’Ut, nor an ’Ovel;
Not an ’Oss nor an ’Unter e’er bears me, alas!
But often I’m found on the top of a Hass.
I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam,
And yet I’m invariably absent from ’Ome.
Tho’ ’ushed in the ’Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part,
I enters no ’Ed, I creeps into no ’Art;
Only look, and you’ll see in the Heye I appear,
Only ’ark, and you’ll ’ear me just breathe in the Hear.
Though in sex not an ’E, I am (strange paradox)
Not a bit of an ’Effer, but partly a Hox.
Of Heternity Hi’m the beginning! and mark,
Tho I goes not with Noar, I’m the first in the Hark.
I’m never in ’Ealth――have with Fysic no power;
I dies in a Month, but comes back in a Hour!

――――

THE LETTER H’S PETITION.

Whereas, I have by you been driven
From house, from home, from hope, from heaven,
And placed by your most learned society
In exile, anguish, and anxiety,
And used, without one just pretence,
With arrogance and insolence;
I here demand full restitution,
And beg you’ll mend your elocution.

ANSWER.

Whereas we’ve rescued you, Ingrate,
From handcuff, horror, and from hate,
From hell, from horse-pond, and from halter,
And consecrated you in altar;
And placed you where you ne’er should be,
In honour, and in honesty;――――
We deem your prayer a rude intrusion,
And will not mend our elocution.

――――

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE LETTER W TO THE
INHABITANTS OF LONDON.

Whereas by you I have been hurled
From the first station in the _w_orld,
Condemned in _v_ice to find a place,
And with the _v_ulgar show my face;
I humbly ask to be restored,
In all that’s proper, to a _w_ord.
But what I most complain of now,
Is that the _w_omen cut me so;
When any girl becomes a _w_ife,
I’m turned away for all her life――
And even in her _w_idowhood
I mayn’t return to her abode.
Therefore with reason I complain,
Oh! let me not be heard in _v_ain;
And born within the sound of Bo_w_,
I trust I’m not your care below:

ANSWER.

Your prayer is graciously received,
But you can never be believed;
With _v_’s you often spell your name――
Then is it just your dupes to blame?
As long as you act parts so _double_,
We cannot deem you worth our trouble;
But rest assured that nought will hurt you,
So long as you remain in _v_irtue.

DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

On the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement appeared in most of the daily papers:――

“_Rebuilding of Drury-Lane Theatre_.

“The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair
competition for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of
the Theatre, which will take place on the 10th of October
next. They have, therefore, thought fit to announce to the
public, that they will be glad to receive any such
compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the
Treasury-office, in Drury-Lane, on or before the 10th of
September, sealed up, with a distinguishing word, number, or
motto, on the cover, corresponding with the inscription on a
separate sealed paper, containing the name of the author,
which will not be opened unless containing the name of the
successful candidate.”

Many addresses were sent in, but the Committee rejected them all, much to the annoyance of the competitors, who, having expended their time and paper, by the implied engagement on the part of the committee that the best bidder should have the contract, had a right to protest against the injustice of this wholesale rejection. The committee made an absurd engagement; but surely they were bound to keep to it.

In the dilemma to which that learned body was reduced by the rejection of all the biddings, they put themselves under the care of Lord Byron, who produced the following:――

ADDRESS.

_Spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, Saturday,
October_ 10_th_, 1812.

In one dread night our city saw, and sighed,
Bow’d to the dust, the Drama’s tower of pride;
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakespere cease to reign.

Ye who beheld (oh! sight admir’d and mourn’d,
Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorn’d!)
Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven,
Like Israel’s pillar, chase the night from heaven;
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o’er the startled Thames,
While thousands, throng’d around the burning dome,
Shrank back appall’d, and trembled for their home,
As glared the volum’d blaze, and ghastly shone
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
Usurp’d the Muse’s realm, and mark’d her fall;
Say――shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Rear’d where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakspere――worthy him and _you_?

Yes――it shall be――the magic of that name
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame;
On the same spot still consecrates the scene,
And bids the Drama _be_ where she has _been_:
This fabric’s birth attests the potent spell――
Indulge our honest pride, and say, _How well_!

As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons’ thrilling art
O’erwhelmed the gentlest, storm’d the sternest heart
On Drury, Garrick’s latest laurels grew;
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sigh’d his last thanks, and wept his last adieu;
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom,
That only waste their odours o’er the tomb.
Such Drury claim’d and claims――nor you refuse
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse;
With garlands deck your own Menander’s head![101]
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of _our_ ancestry as they of _theirs_;
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo’s glass
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names emblazoned on our line,
Pause――ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Play
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject;
If e’er frivolity has led to fame,
And made us blush that you forbore to blame,
If e’er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama’s laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor’s powers,
And reason’s voice be echo’d back by ours.

This greeting o’er, the ancient rule obeyed,
The Drama’s homage by her herald paid,
Receive _our_ welcome too, whose every tone
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.
The curtain rises――may our stage unfold
Scenes not unworthy Drury’s days of old!
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,
Still may _we_ please――long, long may _you_ preside.

Hereon followed “The Rejected Addresses” by the brothers Horace and James Smith, published in 1812 by John Miller, 25, Bow Street, Covent Garden, London, and the wonderfully clever and amusing imitations and parodies contained in the book made it at once popular, and caused it to prominently attract the attention of the literati of the day. The imitation of Lord Byron is not perhaps so successful as some of the other poems. As Lord Jeffrey remarked in _The Edinburgh Review_. “The author has succeeded better in copying the melody and misanthropic sentiments of _Childe Harold_, than the nervous and impetuous diction in which his noble biographer has embodied them.” It is not to be expected that the burlesque address, by the brothers Smith, should present any resemblance to Lord Byron’s opening address at Drury Lane.

CUI BONO?
(_Ascribed to Lord Byron._)

I.

Sated with home, of wife, of children tired,
The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;[102]
Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired,
The restless soul is driven to ramble home;
Sated with both, beneath new Drury’s dome
The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine,
There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome,
Scorning to view fantastic Columbine,
Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine.

II.

Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way
To gaze on puppets in a painted dome,
Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,
Like falling stars in life’s eternal gloom,
What seek ye here? Joy’s evanescent bloom?
Woe’s me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave
Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb.
Man’s heart, the mournful urn o’er which they wave,
Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.

III.

Has life so little store of real woes,
That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?
Or is it that from truth such anguish flows,
Ye court the lying drama for relief?
Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief:
Or if one tolerable page appears
In folly’s volume, ’tis the actor’s leaf,
Who dries his own by drawing others’ tears,
And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.

IV.

Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee!
Light as the mote that daunceth in the beam,
He liveth only in man’s present e’e;
His life a flash, his memory a dream,
Oblivious down he drops in Lethe’s stream.
Yet what are they, the learned and the great?
Awhile of longer wonderment the theme!
Who shall presume to prophesy _their_ date,
Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate?

V.

This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt’s toil,
Perchance than Holland’s edifice[103] more fleet,
Again red Lemnos’ artisan may spoil;
The fire alarm and midnight drum may beat,
And all bestrewed ysmoking at your feet!
Start ye? perchance Death’s angel may be sent,
Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat;
And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent,
May find, in pleasure’s fane, your grave and monument.

VI.

Your debts mount high――ye plunge in deeper waste
The tradesman duns――no warning voice ye hear!
The plaintiff sues――to public shows ye haste;
The bailiff threats――ye feel no idle fear.
Who can arrest your prodigal career?
Who can keep down the levity of youth?
What sound can startle age’s stubborn ear?
Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth
Men true to falsehood’s voice, false to the voice of truth.

VII.

To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to make
The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy,
We dedicate the pile――arise! awake!――
Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy
Clear our new stage from reason’s dull alloy,
Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth
With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy;
While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth,[104]
Harps twang in Drury’s walls, and make her boards a booth.

VIII.

For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March?
And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl?
And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch,
Orlando’s helmet in Augustin’s cowl.
Shakespeare, how true thine adage, “fair is foul!”
To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,
The song of Braham is an Irish howl,
Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,
And nought is everything, and everything is nought.

IX.

Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above,
Not laurel-crown’d, but clad in rusty black;
Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè’s grove,
But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack;
What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack,
Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long,
Condemn’d to tread the bard’s time-sanction’d track,
Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng,
And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song,

X.

So fares the follower in the Muses’ train!
He toils to starve, and only lives in death!
We slight him, till our patronage is vain,
Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe,
And o’er his bones an empty requiem breathe――
Oh! with what tragic horror would he start,
(Could he be conjured from the grave beneath)
To find the stage again a Thespian cart,
And elephants and colts down-trampling Shakespeare’s art.

XI.

Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules!
Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface;
Back, sister Muses, to your native schools;
Here booted grooms usurp Apollo’s place,
Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace,
The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit,
Man yields the drama to the Hou’yn’m race,
His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit,
The stage a stable-yard,[105] a jockey-club the pit.

XII.

Is it for these ye rear this proud abode?
Is it for these your superstition seeks
To build a temple worthy of a god,
To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks!
Then be the stage to recompense your freaks,
A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks,
Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks,
And Wisdom weeps and Folly plays his pranks,
And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks.

From _The Rejected Addresses_.

Following close upon _The Rejected Addresses_, by J. and H. Smith, appeared a small volume entitled,

THE GENUINE REJECTED ADDRESSES,

_Presented to the Committee of Management for Drury-Lane Theatre, preceded by that written by Lord Byron, and adopted by the Committee._ London: B. McMillan, 1812.――This contained a collection of as many of the Addresses, sent in to the Committee for the competition, as the Editor could gather from the various authors. He admits that it is not a complete collection, nor do the authors’ real names appear with every poem.

Several of the addresses were really written by authors who had been parodied in _The Rejected Addresses_, notably W. T. Fitzgerald, and Dr. Busby.

――――:o:――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

LORD BYRON.

――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ALDERMEN.
_A Mansion House Melody._

Apoplexia came down on the Alderman fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming with jaundice like gold,
And the sheen of the spectres that own’d his behest
Glimmer’d bright as the gas at a new Lord Mayor’s feast.

Every fiend that humanity shrinks from was there,
Hepatitis, Lumbago, with hollow-eyed Care,
Hypochondria, and Gout, grinning ghastly with pain,
And of Incubi phantoms a horrible train.

* * * * *

Then he straightway amongst them his grisly form cast,
And breathed on each puffing red face as he pass’d;
And the eyes of the feasters wax’d deadly and chill,
And their stomachs once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And the turtle devourers were stretched on the floor――
Each cheek changed to purple――so crimson before!
Their dewlaps all dabbled with red wine and ale,
And extremities cold as a live fish’s tale!

And there lay the Liv’ryman, breathless and lorn,
With waistcoat and new inexpressibles torn;
And the Hall was all silent, the band having flown,
And the waiters stared wildly on, sweating and blown.

And Cripplegate windows are loud in their wail,
And Mary-Axe orphans all trembling and pale!
For the Alderman glory has melted away,
As mists are dispersed by the glad dawn of day.

_Punch_, November 13, 1841.

――――

A NEW SENNACHERIB.

Sir Robert came down on the Corn Laws so bold,
And his backers felt savage, and sorry, and sold;
But the Premier of votes had a majority,
Amounting, in all, to about ninety-three.

As sheep follow the wether, submissive and mean,
That host at the heels of their leader were seen;
As sheep scatter wide when you leave them alone,
That host, says the _Times_, are now broke and o’erthrown.

For the Iron Duke set his fate on the cast,
And nailed, for the Corn-laws, his flag to the mast;
And the Cabinet’s hopes felt a sensible chill,
When they thought of the Duke, and his potent “I will.”

And there sat the Premier, his head on one side;
His arguments pooh-poohed, his statements denied;
And tho’ he tried hard, he had need of his nerve,
A decent composure of face to preserve.

And there sat grim Grahame, so nervous and pale,
With his hat on his head, and his mouth to his nail;
And their measures were done for, their plans overthrown,
And Peel had to leave his own trumpet unblown.

And Conservative gentry are loud in their wail,
That the country is ruined if Peel should turn tail;
And repeal of the Corn-laws, we soon shall record,
Has been won, not by Peel, but a certain small lord.

_Punch_, on Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington in the
struggle for the repeal of the Corn-laws in 1846.

――――

THE DESTRUCTION OF NICHOLAS.

The Russian came down like a thief in the night,
And his legions were arm’d with all weapons, save Right;
And the sheen of their spears to the Turks seem’d afar
Like the passion that burn’d in the heart of the Czar.

Like the loaves of the baker, when breakfast is laid,
That host in their armour of “plate” were array’d;
Like the loaves of the baker, ere tea time next day,
That host lay all “cut up,” and crumbled away!

For the warcry of England is borne on the air,
And France sends her brave in the conflict to share;
And link’d with the Moslem, they shout as they go,
And all Europe is thrill’d with the groans of the foe.

And there lay the sea, but no more on its tide
_His_ vessels shall float in their strength and their pride;
And the foam of its billows shall dash o’er the graves
Of the serfs, who had come to make other men _slaves_.

And there lay the Czar, all dejected and pale,
With a frown on his brow, and his teeth at his nail;
His palace all silent, deserted, alone;
He trembled to think on his tottering throne!

And the widows of Russia are loud in their cries,
Though idle the tears that may flow from their eyes;
And the might of the tyrant, down-struck by the gun,
Hath melted, like butter when placed in the sun.

_Diogenes._ October, 1853.

――――

THE BLIZZARD.

The blizzard came down like a thousand of brick:
His breathings were cakes of ice four inches thick,
And his hair streamed far out in a stiffness that bent
With the swirl and the speed of the pathway he went.

His beard that found roots to the lids of his eyes
Hid his face in a hairy, unpierced disguise,
And spread out in ice-like rigidity far
From his one eye that flashed like a pivotal star.

Unseen was the rest of the demon-like form
Of the swift-moving blizzard, the god of the storm,
But the presence was felt of an unconquered will,
For the fast-running rivers stood suddenly still.

And the noses of people who travelled the street
Turned white with affright, and the hurrying feet
Were stung as with sting of a hundred bees,
While the blood crept away and allowed them to freeze.

_Columbus Dispatch._

――――

THE ROUT OF BELGRAVIA.