Chapter XXIX: Part I (9)

As bould as any line
Came W. O’Brine
(A pathriot as eminent as ever Ireland bore),
To prache Home Rule Salvation
To this benighted nation
That grope in degradation by fair Ontario’s shore.

Tin gintlemen united
The orator invited
To meet Toronto citizens――some twenty bhoys or more――
To purge the foul pollution
Of the toirant Constitution
By a pathriot risolution from fair Ontario’s shore.

And the blaggart Lansdowne trimbled
At our gallant bhoys assimbled,
Though his craven crew dissimbled all the fears their bosoms tore,
When, Will Mulligan beside,
Did the bould O’Brine ride
With Dan Cahill and Kilbride to fair Ontario’s shore.

For the toirant thraithors knew
What the bould O’Brine could do:
So with rage and imulation in their black heart’s core,
They hired a howlin’, shrakin’,
Mob to interrupt the spakin’
That would else have bought true freedom to fair Ontario’s shore.

With an illoquence most takin’
O’Brine began the spakin’;
But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar
Of the ragamuffin rout
Began to yell and shout,
And frighten the propriety of fair Ontario’s shore.

W. O’Brine harangued;
But they battered and they banged,
And they stormed the pathriot’s platform and the pathriot’s breeches
tore.
Till through all the shout and shindy
He retreated by the windy
With an angry curse at parting upon fair Ontario’s shore.

That infuriated curse
Only made the thraithors worse
And the howling mob in hundreds after bould O’Brine did pour,
As with cat-calls, shrieks, and whistles,
And the most unginerous missiles――
Rotten eggs, sticks, stones and carrots――they disgraced Ontario’s
shore.

With throwing of brickbats,
Drowned puppies and dead cats,
These ruffian democrats themselves did lower.
“Och! a national disgrace,”
Cried O’Brine, and with quick pace
Boulted down into a friendly and convanient ’cycle “store.”

And there pale the bould O’Brine
Halted, raging like a line:
’Twould have done your sowl good to have heard how he swore!
Then he pinned up his trunk hose,
And, retreating from his foes,
By the back door, turned for ever from that tricherous thraithor
shore.

_The Globe._ May 21, 1887.

When Lord Lansdowne was appointed Governor General of Canada, Mr. W. O’Brien went over to the Dominion to expose the harsh manner in which the tenants were treated on the rack-rented estates of Lord Lansdowne in Ireland. Mobs of rioters attacked Mr. O’Brien, who was nearly killed, and the Canadian police proved utterly inefficient to cope with the disorder.

――――:o:――――

LOVE AT TWO SCORE.

Ho! pretty page, with dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber’s shear,
All your aim is woman to win.
This is the way that boys begin.
Wait till you’ve come to forty year!
Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
Billing and cooing is all your cheer,
Sighing and singing of midnight strains
Under Bonnybell’s window panes.
Wait till you’ve come to forty year!

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to forty year.
Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose beards are grey:
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome, ere
Ever a month was past away?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be missed,
Ere yet ever a month was gone.
Gillian’s dead, Heaven rest her bier,
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian’s married, but I sit here,
Alive and merry at forty year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

This poem first appeared in Thackeray’s burlesque of Sir Walter Scott’s _Ivanhoe_, entitled “Rebecca and Rowena.”

――――

LOVE AT SIXTEEN.
_In answer to W. M. Thackeray, Esq. By a Pretty Page._

The affections, when young, are more prone to unite,
As the flowers of the forest together entwine,
Than when age with her vigour has frozen our might,
And manhood has gone past the bounds of its prime.

Forty years――ah! why wait for enjoyment so long,
For a home with the heart and the hand of the fair?
Why cheat expectation while time circles on,
And marry a girl, in your fortieth year?

With no one to share life’s troubles and crosses,
Or cheer you with smiles when sickness is near,
Or console you amidst your privations and losses,
Would you wait for a bride till your fortieth year?

Why not taste of the fountain of pleasure while beauty,
Lends grace to the features now withered and sere?
Oh! lose not the chance, for numbers will suit ye,
Unless they’re put oft to the fortieth year.

To sweeten the cup of the bitter we’re drinking,
And mourn o’er the corpse when the spirit has gone,
To soften our fears when hope is fast sinking,
Are to woman allotted, sad tasks! to be done.

Oh! give me a home with a fair English maiden,
Who’ll beguile the dull days of my sojourning here;
While blest with a wife and two rosy young children,
I’ll leave others to wed in their fortieth year.

_Cheltenham._ January, 1850.

――――:o:――――

THE SNOB’S VERSION OF THE CANE-BOTTOM’D CHAIR.

(It is said that the Prince of Wales, being late for Church on the day of his arrival at Cannes, slipped in among the footmen and ladies’ maids. One of the latter marked the chair he occupied, and after evening service, her mistress, the wife of a Liverpool cotton-broker, was much disappointed at not being able to buy it from the sexton.)

Was ever a woman so wretched as I,
To long for a treasure that wealth cannot buy!
That sexton has surely the heart of a bear,
Or else he would sell me that cane-bottom’d chair.

’Tis nothing to look at, you crusty old man!
And no one would give you the price of a fan;
But since the fair evening when Albert sat there,
I yearn and I burn for that cane-bottom’d chair.

To think I have seen him as yet but in dreams,
And that he should sit between Mary and Jeames!
What rapture with Albert a prayer-book to share,
Had I been as close to that cane-bottom’d chair!

O sexton, how can you compel me to pine
For a seat that can never be chaste in design?
And yet could I win you, no Chippendale rare
Should wean my heart from you, my cane-bottom’d chair!

I’d work you a cushion; I’d dust you myself――
The shrine of my saint, and the throne of a Guelph!
No Liverpool rivals would dare to compare
Their stale bric-à-brac with my cane-bottom’d chair.

And oft in the twilight my fancy would see
My Prince in that seat sitting smiling at me!――
O sexton, kind sexton, give heed to my prayer,
And take all I have for that cane-bottom’d chair!

――――:o:――――

THE KING OF YVETOT.

There was a King of Yvetot,
Of whom renown hath little said
Who let all thoughts of glory go,
And dawdled half his days in bed,
And every night as night came round,
By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned
Slept very sound:
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of King for me.

* * * * *

W. M. THACKERAY.

――――

THE GREAT NEWS-MAKER.

It was the “crack” news-maker,
The champion of the gang,
A knowing wide-a-waker,
Who would without a pang
Supply strange stories without stint,
Shoot emperors, blow up the Mint――
In print.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho, ho!
Where find the match of this hero?――
Ho, ho!

He every week discovers
Fresh dynamiters’ schemes,
And scores of sighing lovers
He’s drown’d in Lethean streams;
He knows the Ministerial mind,
Whispers that Gladstone has, we’ll find,
Resigned.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho, ho!
The whole world’s secrets he does know――
Ho, ho!

For lovers of sensations
Who like news dashed with “spice,”
He’ll hint at revelations,
Hatch scandals in a trice.
And when he sees the gaping crowd,
He’ll laugh――he’s of his wit so proud――
Aloud.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho, ho!
This is the age of shams, you know.
Ho, ho!

_Funny Folks._ June 5, 1886.

Thackeray’s translations, or imitations, of some of Beranger’s songs are well known, it is interesting to compare them with the versions written by _Father Prout_ (the Rev. Francis Mahony), who has not only followed the originals more closely, but seems also to have preserved more of their light-hearted gaiety, than did Thackeray. When Thackeray projected “_The Cornhill Magazine_” Father Prout sent an “Inaugurative Ode to the author of _Vanity Fair_.” Thackeray was too fastidious to allow it to appear exactly in the form in which it was written, but having considerably altered it, and added two stanzas, it was printed in the first number of the Cornhill, January, 1860. The two versions will be found in the appendix to _The Maclise Portrait Gallery_ by William Bates, B.A. (London Chatto and Windus, 1883.) The version given in _The Works of Father Prout_, published by Messrs. Routledge, London, is simply a reprint of the Ode as it appeared after it had been altered, and cut about, by Thackeray.

――――:o:――――

In his “Memoirs of C. Jeames de la Pluche, Esq.,” and “The Ballads of Policeman X” Thackeray allowed his fondness for eccentric orthography to become somewhat tedious, but they contain many gems of humour, such as the song of the love sick Jeames:――

When moonlike ore the hazure seas
In soft effulgence swells,
When silver jews and balmy breaze
Bend down the Lily’s bells;
When calm and deap, the rosy sleap
Has lapt your soal in dreems,
R Hangeline! R lady mine!
Dost thou remember Jeames?

I mark thee in the Marble All,
Where England’s lovliest shine――
I say the fairest of them hall
Is Lady Hangeline.
My soul, in desolate eclipse,
With recollection teems――
And then I hask, with weeping lips,
Dost thou remember Jeames?

* * * * *

Burlesque verses, such as these, may be imitated, but they cannot be parodied, and, indeed it must be admitted that few of the imitations are really humorous.

THE ARCANA OF CABINET-MAKING.
(_An Epistle from James de la Pluche, Jun., Esq._)

“Lady Frederick Cavendish’s house, Carlton House-terrace, and Devonshire House, the town residence of the Marquis of Hartington, were the centres of interest on the Opposition side. Mr. Gladstone, who is at present the guest of Lady Frederick, at half-past ten received a visit from Mr. Godley, a former private secretary. Lord Granville walked across from his residence about eleven o’clock, and had a long interview with Mr. Gladstone, Sir Henry James, ex-Attorney-General, also called on Mr. Gladstone, and remained with him for about half an hour. He was followed by Lord Hartington, who walked to Carlton House-terrace from the Reform Club. He and Mr. Gladstone remained in conversation for over an hour. At the close of the interview his lordship crossed the street to Lord Granville’s residence, and in a few minutes they came out together in earnest conversation. Lord Hartington left the leader of the House of Lords at the corner by the Athenæum, and strolled back in the direction of the Duke of York’s Steps, where he was shortly joined by Lord Rosebery, who had called on Mr. Gladstone in the meantime. Later in the afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone went for a drive in the Park, after which the former was again visited by Lord Granville and Lord Derby.”――_Times._ January 28, 1886.

You scribblin’ fellers makes a show
Of bein’ reg’lar “in the know,”
On pollytix an’ pollytishns
Haffectin’ habsoloot homnishns――
But wen there comes a cryziss, who’s
The whery fust as knows the knoos?
Who’s _hex hoffisho_ on the spot
To let you press-chaps know wot’s wot?
Who’s plaist by Fête in sich a stashn
As quite commands the sitiwashn?
Who tells you penyalinin’ lyres
The hins an’ houts of wot perspires?
In short, who knows the time of day,
Is hup to snough, hall there, _ho fay_?
Who ’olds the pulse of Isterry?
I hansers ortily, Y, ME!――
Me, an’ a few _kongfrares_ as well
Wot waits upon the Front Door Bell.

The wuld is pantin’ for to know
The goins on of WEG. an’ Co.――
His bedtime an’ the time he riz,
His hegsits an’ his hentrances,
His hax each minnit of the day,
Who cawld on ’im, who stade awhey,
Wen Herbert wisited the Guv,
An’ wen he wawkt, an’ wen he druv,
An’, most of hall, wot lucky feller
He last took hunder his humbreller,
Did Granwill pop across the streat?
Did ’im an’ Wernon Arkrt meat?
Were it at arf past twelve or wun
The Gee Ho Hem sor ’Artington?
He stayed――’ow long? An’ who come nex?
Wot other bigwhigs paid respex?
Who were it wrang the hairey bell
An’ slipt in privit?――Not P――rn――ll?
Wen came the darlin’ of the Corcus.
His butnole gorjus with a horchus?
Wile he enjyd a _tateytate_,
Were Rowsberry ablidjed to wate?
Who was eggscited? Who was carm?
An’ who with who went harm-in-harm?
For tips on sich pints Kings an’ Doox
An’ Hurls is on the tenteroox――
From Galway to Hafganistan
Hall Ize is on the Grand Old Man;
The Zar’s gone oph his sleap at night,
Prints Bizmark’s lost his happytight,
The Greax for hinfamashn long――
An’ who, pray, keaps ’em _ho koorong_?
Who plays, in langwitch mettyforacle,
The mitey roll of Yewrup’s Horacle?
Who lets you scribblers suck his branes
An’ gits a quid, praps, for his panes?
R! Sich the lot (’ow ’ard it seams!)
The loly, lophty lot of JEAMES.

_The Pall Mall Gazette._ January 30, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE BALLAD OF A RURAL PLECEMAN,
BY “WHACKERY.”

Tory gents of Lincoln county,
Lincoln famed for minster grand,
Whence a “party,” as is nameless,
Looks they say across the land.

I’m a bold and rural Pleceman
Keepin’, as in duty boun’,
Hi’s on all them poachin’ raskles
As infestes Spaldin’ town.

And my hobject is remonstransh
(Which I feel I’m to it drove)
With that ere ’Ome Secertary,
A most harbetary cove.

In this hex’lent town of Spaldin’
Lives a gent of whom I speak,
Most respectful,――as a Rev’rent,――
And a most intel’gent Beak.

And this Rev’rent Beak afore him
Had a gal――of crackter rum,
Caught most flagrant in the hact like
Priggin’ a Geraneum.

And her prevus hantecedants
(Which the law they couldn’t reach)
Bad they was,――I’d o’mmost warrent
She’d not heerd that Rev’rent preach.

Niver been to Skool and sich like,
Niver curtsy’d, I’ll be boun’,
When she met that Rev’rent party
Walkin’ meek in Spaldin’ town.

So his Rev’rent Washup hearin’
All the fax to which I speaks,
Sent that most owdacious huzzy
Into quod for several weeks.

When that wicked gal was quodded
(I wish more was, on my sowl)
All them penny Radikle papers
Made a most infunnil ’oul.

And they said as this ere Rev’rent,――
(Bless his gentle ’art――for years
I have heeard ’im for them ’ethens
Preach till every hi was tears).

Yes,――they said this pious gen’lm
(Which I knows the coals he give)
Was a cruel ’artless tyrant,
O’mmost ’ardly fit to live;

When they _know_ as ’e’s as kind like
As his little boys wot sings,
Allus gettin’ good old ladies
To be givin’ of ’im things.

Now no word was too revileful
’Cos o’ this gals “tender years”
(As they called ’em), and ’cos mostly
Of her Corkodilish tears.

Then this ere ’Ome Secertary
(Which of this I now complain)
Spoke quite stern-like to this Rev’rent,
And released that gal again.

And what’s wus,――another Conviction
Of this hex’lent J. P.,
Though not ’arf what I’d ’a given,
Was just squashed like, d’ye see.

And this Radikle ’Ome Secertary,
Speakin’ in a public place,
Hinted as this Rev’rent party
Worn’t quite fitted for his place.

This I call a most etroceous,
And a hins’lent thing to speak;
Who is ’e I’d like to know now,
To hinsult a Rev’rent Beak?

I on’y wish that Rev’rent had _’im_
Afore him with a fairish tale,
I don’t think that cheeky party
Would too easily get bale.

And I call on all them ladies
Which his church and sich-like give,
All them gents upon his Boards like,
And them lawyers, _as must live_,

Now to jine in this remonstransh
At the truth which now I told,
And in gen’ral hindignation,
With a rural Pleceman bold.

From _Grins and Groans_, 1882.

――――:o:――――

OLD FASHIONED FUN.

When that old joke was new,
It was not hard to joke,
And puns we now pooh-pooh,
Great laughter would provoke
True wit was seldom heard,
And humour shown by few,
When reign’d King George the Third,
And that old joke was new.

It passed indeed for wit,
Did this achievement rare,
When down your friend would sit,
To steal away his chair;
You brought him to the floor,
You bruised him black and blue,
And this would cause a roar,
When your old joke was new.

W. M. THACKERAY.

The original of this parody will be found on p. 167 vol. iv., with two imitations.

In the fourth volume of this collection several parodies, written by Thackeray, were given, amongst them being two upon _Wapping Old Stairs_ “Untrue to my Ulric I never could be” and “The Almack’s Adieu,” also one, on page 173, commencing:――

“Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill,” and
“Larry O’Toole” on page 250.

In a future volume, devoted to prose parodies and burlesques, those written by Thackeray will be fully described.

Edward Bulwer Lytton.

BORN, May 25, 1805. DIED, January 18, 1873.

Lord Lytton’s poetry does not appear to have offered much temptation to the parodists, probably because none of it became truly popular. Many years ago the late Professor Aytoun wrote some satirical verses on Lytton, entitled _A Midnight Meditation_, but this, and Tennyson’s attack upon him in _Punch_, are the only important burlesques on his poetry.

Several of his plays have, however, been the subject of burlesques, and many prose parodies of his novels have been written.

A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION.

Fill me once more the foaming pewter up!
Another board of oysters, ladye mine!
To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup.
These mute inglorious Miltons are divine!
And as I here in slippered ease recline,
Quaffing of Perkins’ Entire my fill,
I sigh not for the nymph of Aganippe’s rill.

But these remarks are neither here nor there.
Where was I? Oh, I see――old Southey’s dead!
They’ll want some bard to fill the vacant chair,
And drain the annual butt――and oh, what head
More fit with laurel to be garlanded
Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil,
Breathes of Castalia’s streams, and best Macassar oil?

They throng around me now, those things of air
That from my fancy took their being’s stamp:
There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair,
There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp;
There pale Zanoni, bending o’er his lamp,
Roams through the starry wilderness of thought,
Where all is everything, and everything is nought.

Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won
The gentle ear of pensive Madeline!
How love and murder hand in hand may run,
Cemented by philosophy serene,
And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!
Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime,
And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed
Obscure philosophy’s enchanting light!
Until the public, ’wildered as they read,
Believed they saw that which was not in sight――
Of course, ’twas not for me to set them right;
For in my nether heart convinced I am,
Philosophy’s as good as any other bam.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed,
Battered and broken are their early lyres,
Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past,
Warmed his young hands at Smithfield’s martyr fires,
And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires.
But these are things would suit me to the letter,
For though the stout is good, old sherry’s greatly better.

A fico for your small poetic ravers,
Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these!
Shall they compete with him who wrote “Maltravers”?
Prologue to “Alice, or the Mysteries”?
No! even now my glance prophetic sees
My own high brow girt with the bays about,
What ho! within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!

(_Several verses omitted._)

WILLIAM E. AYTOUN.

But this prophecy was not to be fulfilled, for on the death of Wordsworth, in 1850, Tennyson obtained the office and pension of Poet Laureate. Some years before that event Tennyson had also received a grant from the Government, which aroused the jealousy of his brother poets.

――――:o:――――

In 1846 Mr. Henry Colburn, of London, published an anonymous satirical poem, entitled _The New Timon_, which soon became known as the work of Lytton. It contained the following passage:――

“I seek no purfled prettiness of phrase,
A soul in earnest scorns the tricks for praise.
If to my verse denied the Poet’s fame,
This merit, rare to verse that wins, I claim;
No tawdry grace shall womanize my pen!
Ev’n in a love-song, man should write for men!
Not mine, not mine, (O Muse forbid!) the boon
Of borrowed notes, the mock-bird’s modish tune,
The Jingling medley of purloin’d conceits
Out babying Wordsworth, and outglittering Keates (_sic_)
Where all the airs of patchwork-pastoral chime
To drowsy ears in Tennysonian rhyme!
Am I enthrall’d but by the sterile rule,
The formal pupil of a frigid school,
If to old laws my Spartan tastes adhere,
If the old vigorous music charms my ear,
Where sense with sound, and ease with weight combine,
In the pure silver of Pope’s ringing line;
Or where the pulse of man beats loud and strong
In the frank flow of Dryden’s lusty song?
Let School-Miss Alfred vent her chaste delight
On “darling little rooms so warm and bright!”[124]
Chaunt, “I’m a-weary,” in infectious strain,
And catch her “Blue fly singing i’ the pane,”
Tho’ praised by Critics, tho’ adored by Blues,
Tho’ Peel with pudding plump the Puling Muse,
Tho’ Theban taste the Saxon’s purse controuls,
And pensions Tennyson, while starves a Knowles.

――――

THE NEW TIMON, AND THE POETS.

We know him, out of _Shakespeare’s_ art,
And those fine curses which he spoke;
The old _Timon_, with his noble heart,
That, strongly loathing, greatly broke.

So died the Old: here comes the New,
Regard him: a familiar face:
I _thought_ we knew him. What! it’s you,
The padded man――that wears the stays――

Who kill’d the girls and thrill’d the boys
With dandy pathos when you wrote,
A Lion, you, that made a noise,
And shook a mane en papillotes.

And once you tried the Muses, too;
You fail’d Sir: therefore now you turn,
You fall on those who are to you,
As Captain is to Subaltern.

But men of long-enduring hopes,
And careless what this hour may bring,
Can pardon little would-be _Popes_
And _Brummels_, when they try to sting.

An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art,
And waive a little of his claim,
To have the deep Poetic heart
Is more than all poetic fame.

But you, Sir, you are hard to please;
You never look but half content:
Nor like a gentleman at ease,
With moral breadth of temperament.

And what with spites and what with fears,
You cannot let a body be:
It’s always ringing in your ears,
“They call this man as good as _me_.”

What profits now to understand
The merits of a spotless shirt――
A dapper boot――a little hand――
If half the little soul is dirt?

_You_ talk of tinsel! why we see
The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks,
_You_ prate of Nature! you are he
That spilt his life about the cliques.

A _Timon_ you! Nay, nay, for shame:
It looks too arrogant a jest――
The fierce old man――to take _his_ name
You bandbox. Off, and let him rest.

ALCIBIADES.

_Punch._ February 28, 1846.

There is little reason to doubt that Tennyson wrote these lines, although they are not included in his works. Lady Lytton’s description of her future husband, as he first appeared to her, justifies this charge of foppery brought against him.

“He had” she wrote, “just returned from Paris, and was resplendent with French polish, so far as boots went. His cobweb cambric shirt-front was a triumph of lace and embroidery, a combination never seen in this country till six or seven years later, except on babies’ frocks. Studs, too, except in racing stables, were then _non est_, but a perfect galaxy glittered along the milky way down the centre of this fairy-like _lingerie_. Poor D’Orsay’s linen gauntlets had not yet burst upon the London world, but like the little source of a mighty river, Mr. Lytton Bulwer had three inches of cambric encircling his coat cuffs, and fastened with jewelled sleeve-links. And though it then wanted full five years till every man in society was caned, he also dangled from his ungloved and glittering right hand, a somewhat gorgeously jewelled-headed ebony cane, and the dangling was of the scientific kind that had evidently been ‘learnt, marked, and inwardly digested.’ Miss Landon and I both laughed as I exclaimed:

‘Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain,
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane.’”

――――:o:――――

Lord Lytton’s most successful drama “_The Lady of Lyons_, or Love and Pride,” was produced at Covent Garden Theatre, London, on February 15, 1838, when Mr. Macready played _Claude Melnotte_, and _Pauline_ was impersonated by Miss Helen Faucit, now Lady Theodore Martin. The plot of the play is absurd and preposterous in the highest degree, yet Lytton acknowledged that, such as it was, it had been suggested to him by a pretty little tale called “The Bellows Mender.” Possibly the success of Lytton’s play put others on the scent of his original, for on February 7, 1842, a domestic drama in three acts, entitled “_Perourou_, the Bellows Mender, and the Beauty of Lyons,” by W. T. Moncrieff, was produced at Sadler’s Wells Theatre. Stilted in language, full of clap-trap sentiment, and utterly destitute of poetry, it is still easy to see that it had a common origin with _The Lady of Lyons_, from which it differed in many respects, and was inferior in all.

A favourite piece of clap-trap in Lytton’s drama is

MELNOTTES VISIONARY HOME.

Nay, dearest, nay, if thou would’st have me paint,
The home to which, could love fulfil its prayers
This hand would lead thee, listen――a deep vale,
Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world,
Near a clear lake margined by fruits of gold
And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,
As I would have thy fate!
A palace lifting to eternal summer
Its marble walls from out a glossy bower
Of coolest foliage musical with birds,
Whose song should syllable thy name! At noon
We’d sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder
Why earth could be unhappy, while the heavens
Still left us youth and love! We’d have no friends
That were not lovers, no ambition, save
To excell them all in love; we’d read no books
That were not tales of love――that we might smile
To think how poorly eloquence of words
Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!
And when night came, amidst the breathless heavens
We’d guess what star should be our home when love
Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light
Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps,
And every air was heavy with the sighs
Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
I’ the midst of roses!――dost thou like the picture?

This has been frequently parodied. In “Cinderella,” by Albert Smith, the book of which is now exceedingly scarce, the following was spoken by Alfred Wigan, in the part of _Prince Rodolph_:

Say dearest, say, if thou wouldst have me paint
The lodging whither, but not till we are wed,
The bus shall take thee, listen,
A cottage making to external splendour
But small pretence, passed every half an hour
By omnibuses musical with cads
Who’d set us down at our own door. At noon
We’d dig our early brocoli, and wonder
How the slave trade could flourish, while the heavens
Send down such loads of blacks. We’d have no friends
That were not jolly, no ambition save
How to make both ends meet. We’d keep no book,
’Cause we’d pay ready cash that we might smile
To think how thoroughly long Christmas bills
Would take the poetry out of love like ours.
And when night came, beneath our pea-green arbour,
We’d guess whence came the earwigs that like friends
Drop into tea, while blazed the camphine light,
Or Vesta, or some other patent lamp,
And all the streets were echoing with the cries
Of orange girls, and music from cracked flutes
And murmurs of low organs that grind forth
One endless polka. Dost thou like the picture?

To which _Cinderella_ (Mrs. Keeley), replied:

Oh don’t I just, Lord, I could walk and walk,
For ever so long, to hear you talk and talk.

――――

“The _very_ latest edition of the Lady of Lyons,” a Burlesque Extravaganza, in one act, by H. J. Byron, was produced at the Strand Theatre, London, on July 11th, 1859, in which Miss M. Oliver, Miss Charlotte Saunders, and Messrs. H. J. Turner, James Rogers and J. Clarke took the leading parts. Miss C. Saunders, as _Claude Melnotte_, spoke the following parody:――

_Pauline._――Describe to me again, your highness, do
That Crystal Palace you would take me to.

_Claude._――If thou would’st have me paint――

_Pauline._――I would――be quick!

_Claude._――(_aside_) Then I must lay it on extremely thick,
(_aloud_) The home to which could love fulfil its prayers,
This hand would lead thee――(_aside_) up no end of stairs
A flight of beauty such as ne’er did man see――
(_aside_) But in this instance quite a flight of fancy;
A palace in the winter and the summer,
Open to every decently dressed comer,
Who with the humble shilling can come down;
(On Saturdays the charge is half a crown)
With marble halls――each end a glassy tower;
(The trains start every quarter of an hour);
At noon when cooler much the air becomes,
We’d sit amongst the megatheriums
And others with hard names――I scarce can tell ’em
One from the other――nobody can spell ’em;
We’d have no friend with us the live long day
Third parties, dear, are always in the way,
And when night came, down at the railway station
Mid’st hundreds in a state of agitation
We’d guess which carriage should convey us home
As to the platform’s side the train would come――
Say dost thou like the picture?

_Pauline._――As the bee
Upon the flower hangs――I hang on thee
Such honey have thy charmed accents got.

_Claude._――(_aside bitterly_) Alas! no _honey_ for it is _mel-not_.

――――

THE MODEL PALACE.

“When Lord Lytton wrote _The Lady of Lyons_ he was in profound ignorance of one of the blessings in store for the human race. Nothing had then been heard of health-towns or model houses, and when Claude Melnotte sought to dazzle the mind of Pauline with a picture of the retreat love would conjure up for her, he could think of nothing better than a ramshackle old palace by the Lake of Como.

Now, had Lord Lytton enjoyed the advantage of Dr. Richardson’s acquaintance, how much more sensibly he would have set to work. The most popular passage in the play would then, without a doubt, have run somewhat in this style:――

_Melnotte._――Nay, dearest, nay. If thou wouldst have me paint
The home to which――if paint were not unwholesome――
This hand would lead thee――listen. A clear space,
Guarded by sheltering hills from the east winds,
Laid out in geometrical designs,
Around a garden for the general use.
Planned to secure――on soundest principles――
Accord among the various families;
As cloudless――save for “tiffs” and passing shadows――
As I would have thy fate.

_Pauline._――My own Hygeia!

_Melnotte._――A mansion lifting from the triple arches
Its perforated walls, its staircase tower
Distinct, a ventilating shaft, a lift
For dust and other objects, and a roof
Of coolest foliage, musical with birds,
Whose songs should syllable MY name. At noon
We’d sit beneath the arching glass and wonder
What a photographer would pay per annum
For such a studio. We’d read no books
That did not treat of drainage――sing no songs
But sanitary lays, that we might smile
To think how poorly others felt the need
Of hygienic altitudes like ours;
And when night came, in tesselated rooms
We’d guess what style would be our home when means
Became unbounded, while the newest light
Stole through the patent economic lamps,
And every air-hole in the hollow bricks
Whistled and moaned in ghostly dissonance,
With coughing and the sneezes that gush forth
I’ the best o’ noses.――Dost thou like the picture?

_Funny Folks._ February 3, 1877.

Another burlesque was produced at the Gaiety Theatre, London, in October 1878, entitled _The Lady of Lyons Married and Settled_, by Herman C. Merivale, with Miss Nelly Farren, and Messrs. Edward Terry, Royce, Maclean and Squire, in the principal characters. In this, Claude Melnotte, instead of describing an imaginary palace, sings a patter song to his wife, _Pauline_, in praise of the Darwinian theory of the evolution of species. As might be expected, the humour of this is somewhat ponderous.

――――:o:――――

THE SEA CAPTAIN;
OR, _The Birthright_.

A Drama in five Acts, by Sir E. L. Bulwer, was first performed at the Haymarket Theatre, London, October 31, 1839, with the following cast:――

Lord Ashdale Mr. J. Webster
Sir Maurice Beevor Mr. Strickland.
Norman Mr. Macready.
Falkner Mr. Howe.
Onslow Mr. Phelps.
Gaussen Mr. O. Smith.
Luke Mr. Gallott.
Lady Arundel Mrs. Warner.
Violet Miss Helen Faucit.
Mistress Prudence Mrs. Clifford.

Notwithstanding all the efforts of these famous actors and actresses the play had little success. When Sir E. L. Bulwer published it, he attempted to excuse its comparative failure by asserting that the critics had condemned the play from a dislike of his political opinions, with other equally weak statements, which Thackeray exposed and ridiculed in a humorous critique in _Fraser’s Magazine_. A few extracts only can be given of this epistle from

CH-S Y-LL WPL-SH, ESQ., TO SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BART.

_Mayfair_, _Nov._ 30, 1839. _Midnite._

HONRABBLE BARNET!――Retired from the littery world a year or moar, I didn’t think anything would injuice me to come forrards again; for I was content with my share of reputation, and propoas’d to add nothink to those immortial wux which have rendered this Magaseen so sallybrated.

Shall I tell you the reazn of my re-appearants?――a desire for the benefick of my fellow-creatures? Fiddlestick! A mighty truth with which my busm laboured, and which I must bring forth or die? Nonsince――stuff: money’s the secret, my dear Barnet――-money――_L’argong, gelt, spicunia_. Here’s quarter day coming, and I’m blest if I can pay my landlud, unless I can ad hartificially to my inkum.

This is, however, betwigst you and me. There’s no need to blacard the streets with it, or to tell the British public that Fitzroy Y-ll-wpl-sh is short of money, or that the sallybrated hauthor of the Y―――― Papers is in peskewniary difficklties, or is fiteagued by his shuperhuman littery labors or by his famly suckmstansies, or by any other pusnal matter: my maxim, dear B., is on these pints to be as quiet as posbile. What the juice does the public care for you or me? Why must we always, in prefizzes and what not, be a-talking about ourselves and our igstrodnary merrats, woas, and injaries? It is on this subjick that I porpies, my dear Barnet, to speak to you in a frendly way; and praps you’ll find my advise tolrabbly holesum.

We brew, and we love our own tap――amen; but the pint betwigst us is this stewpid, absudd way of crying out, because the public don’t like it too. Why shood they, my dear Barnet? You may vow that they are fools; or that the critix are your enemies; or that the wuld should judge your poams by your critticle rules, and not their own: yon may beat your breast, and vow you are a marter, and you won’t mend the matter. Take heart, man! you’re not so misrabble after all; your spirits need not be so _very_ cast down; you are not so _very_ badly paid. I’d lay a wager that you make, with one thing or another――plays, novvles, pamphlicks, and little odd jobs here and there――your three thowsnd a year. There’s many a man, dear Bullwig, that works for less, and lives content. Why should’nt you? Three thowsnd a year is no such bad thing――let alone the barnetcy: it must be a great comfort to have that bloody hand in your skitching.

Us littery men I take to be like a pack of schoolboys――childish, greedy, envius, holding by our friends and always ready to fight. What must be a man’s conduck among such? He must either take no notis, and pass on myjastick, or else turn round and pummle soundly――one, two, right and left, ding dong over the face and eyes; above all, never acknowledge that he is hurt. Years ago, for instans (we’ve no ill-blood, but only mention this by way of igsample), you began a sparring with this Magaseen. Law bless you, such a ridicklus gaym I never see: a man so belaybord, beflustered, bewolloped, was never known; it was the laff of the whole town. Your intelackshal natur, respected Barnet, is not fizzickly adapted, so to speak, for encounters of this sort. You must not indulge in combats with us course bullies of the press: you have not the _staminy_ for a reglar set-to. What, then, is your plan? In the midst of the mob to pass as quiet as you can: you won’t be undistubbed. Who is? Some stray kix and buffits will fall to you――mortial man is subjick to such; but if you begin to wins and cry out, and set up for a marter, wo betide you!

These remarks, pusnal as I confess them to be, are yet, I assure you, written in perfick good-natur, and have been inspired by your play of the _Sea Capting_, and prefiz to it; which latter is on matters intirely pusnal, and will, therefore, I trust, igscuse this kind of _ad hominam_ (as they say) diskcushion. I propose, honrabble Barnit, to cumsider calmly this play and prephiz, and to speak of both with that honisty which, in the pantry or studdy, I’ve been always phamous for. Let us, in the first place, listen to the opening of the “Preface to the Fourth Edition.”

Now, my dear sir, look what a pretty number of please you put forrards here, why your play should’nt be good.

First. Good plays are almost always written by actors.

Secknd. You are a novice to the style of composition.

Third. You _may_ be mistaken in your effects, being a novelist by trade, and not a play-writer.

Fourthly. Your in such bad helth and sperrits.

Fifthly. Your so afraid of the critix that they damp your arder.

For shame, for shame, man! What confeshns is these――what painful pewling and piping! Your not a babby. I take you to be some seven or eight and thutty years old――“in the morning of youth,” as the flosofer says. Don’t let any such nonsince take your reazn prisoner. What you, an old hand amongst us――an old soldier of our sovring quean the press――you, who have had the best pay, have held the topmost rank (ay, and _deserved_ them too!――I gif you leaf to quot me in sasiaty, and say, “I _am_ a man of genius: Y-ll-wpl-sh says so”)――you to lose heart and to cry pickavy, and begin to howl, because little boys fling stones at you! Fie, man! take courage; and, bearing the terrows of your blood-red hand, as the poet says, punish us, if we’ve ofended you; punish us like a man, or bear your own punishment like a man. Don’t try to come off with such misrabble lodgic as that above.

What do you? You give four satisfackary reazns that the play is bad (the secknd is naught――for your no such chicking at play-writing, this being the forth). You show that the play must be bad, and _then_ begin to deal with the critix for finding folt!

Was there ever wuss generalship? The play _is_ bad――your right――a wuss I never see or read. But why kneed _you_ say so? If it was so _very_ bad, why publish it? _Because you wish to serve the drama!_ O fie! don’t lay that flattering function to your sole, as Milton observes. _Do_ you believe that this _Sea Capting_ can serve the drama? Did you never intend that it should serve anything, or anybody _else_? Of cors you did! You wrote it for money――money from the maniger, money from bookseller――for the same reason that I write this. Sir, Shakespeare wrote for the very same reasons, and I never heard that he bragged about serving the drama. Away with this canting about great motifs! let us not be too prowd, my dear Barnet, and fansy ourselves marters of the truth, marters or apostels. We are but tradesmen, working for bread, and not for righteousness’ sake. Let’s try and work honestly; but don’t let us be prayting pompisly about our “sacred calling.” The taylor who makes your coats (and very well they are made too, with the best of velvit collars)――I say Stulze, or Nugee, might cry out that _their_ motifs were but to assert the eturnle truth of tayloring, with just as much reasn; and who would belive them?

Your apinion about the actors I shan’t here meddle with. They all acted exlently as far as my humbile judgment goes, and your write in giving them all possible prays. But let’s consider the last sentence of the prefiz, my dear Barnet, and see what a pretty set of apiniuns you lay down.

1. The critix are your inymies in this age.

2. In the nex, however, you hope to find newmrous frends.

3. And it’s a satisfackshn to think that, in spite of politticle diffrances, you have found frendly aujences here.

My dear Barnet, _do_ you suppose that _politticle diffrances_ prejudice pepple against _you_? What _are_ your politix! Wig, I presume――so are mine, _ontry noo_. And what if they _are_ Wig, or Raddiccle, or Cumsuvvative? Does any mortial man in England care a phig for your politix? Do you think yourself such a mity man in parlymint that critix are to be angry with you, and aujences to be cumsidered magnanamous because they treat you fairly? There, now, was Sherridn, he who roat the _Rifles_ and _School for Scandle_ ([ saw the _Rifles_ after your play, and O, Barnet, if you _knew_ what a relief it was!)――there, I say, was Sherridn――he _was_ a politticle character, if you please――he _could_ make a spitch or two――do you spose that Pitt, Purseyvall, Castlerag, old George the Third himself, wooden go and see the _Rivles_――ay, and clap hands too, and laff and ror, for all Sherry’s Wiggery? Do you spose the critix wouldn’t applaud to? For shame, Barnet! what ninnis, what hartless raskles, you must beleave them to be――in the fust plase, to fancy that you _are_ a politticle genus; in the secknd, to let your politix interfear with their notiums about littery merrits.

And then for the nex age. Respected sir, this is another diddlusion; a grose misteak on your part, or my name is not Y――sh. These plays immortial? Ah, _parry-sample_, as the French say, this _is_ too strong――the small beer of the _Sea Capting_, or of any suxessor of the _Sea Capting_, to keep sweet for sentries and sentries! Barnet, Barnet! do you know the natur of bear? Six weeks is not past, and here your last casque is sour――the public won’t even now drink it; and I lay a wager that, betwigst this day (the thuttieth November) and the end of the year, the barl will be off the stox altogether, never, never to return.

I’ve notted down a few frazes here and there, which you which you will do well to igsamin:

_Norman._

“The eternal Flora
Woos to her odorous haunts the western wind:
While circling round and upwards from the boughs,
Golden with fruits that lure the joyous birds,
Melody, like a happy soul released,
Hangs in the air, and from invisible plumes
Shakes sweetness down!”

_Norman._

“Hark! she has blessed her son! I bid ye witness,
Ye listening heavens――thou circumambient air:
The ocean sighs it back――and with the murmur
Rustle the happy leaves. All nature breathes
Aloud――aloft――to the Great Parent’s ear,
The blessing of the mother on her child.”

The fust spissymen has been going the round of all the papers, as real, reglar poatry. Those wicked critix! they must have been laffing in their sleafs when they quoted it. Malody, suckling round and uppards from the bows, like a happy soul released, hangs in the air, and from invizable plumes shakes sweetness down. Mighty fine, truly! but let mortial man tell the meanink of the passidge. Is it _musickle_ sweetniss that Malody shakes down from its plumes――its wings, that is, or tail――or some pekewliar scent that proceeds from happy souls released, and which they shake down from the trees when they are suckling round and uppards? _Is_ this poatry, Barnet? Is it poatry, or sheer windy humbugg, that sounds a little melojous, and won’t bear the commanest test of common sence?

In passidge number 2, the same bisniss is going on, though in a comprehensable way: the air, the leaves, the otion, are fild with emocean at Capting Norman’s happiness. Pore Nature is dragged in to partisapate in his joys, just as she has been before. Once in a poem, this universle simfithy is very well; but once is enuff, my dear Barnet, and that once should be in some great suckumstans, surely――such as the meeting of Adam and Eve, in “Paradice Lost,” or Jewpeter and Jewno, in Hoamer, where there seems, as it were, a reasn for it. But sea-captings should not be eternly spowting and invoking gods, hevns, starrs, angels, and other silestial influences. We can all do it, Barnet; nothing in life is easier. I can compare my livry buttons to the stars, or the clouds of my backopipe to the dark vollums that ishew from Mount Hetna; or I can say that angels are looking down from them, and the tobacco silf, like a happy sole released, is circling round and upwards, and shaking sweetness down. All this is as esy as drink; but it’s not poatry, Barnet, nor natural. People, when their mothers reckonize them, don’t howl about the suckumambint air, and paws to think of the happy leaves a-rustling――at least, one mistrusts them if they do. Take another instans out of your own play. (Capting Norman, with his eternll _slack-jaw_!) meets the gal of his art:

“Look up, look up, my Violet-weeping? fie!
And trembling too――yet leaning on my breast.
In truth, thou art too soft for such rude shelter.
Look up! I come to woo thee to the seas,
My sailor’s bride! Hast thou no voice but blushes?
Nay――from those roses, let me, like the bee,
Drag forth the secret sweetness!”

_Violet._

“Oh what thoughts.
Were kept for _speech_ when we once more should meet,
Now blotted from the _page_; and all I feel
Is _thou_ art with me!”

Very right, Miss Violet――the scentiment is natral, affeckshnit, pleasing (it might have been in more grammaticle languidge, and no harm done); but never mind, the feeling is pritty, and I can fancy, my dear Barnet, a pritty, smiling, weeping lass, looking up in a man’s face and saying it. But the capting!――oh, this capting!-this windy, spouting captain, with his prittinesses, and conseated apollogies for the hardness of his busm, and his old, stale, vapid simalies, and his wishes to be a bee! Pish! _Men_ don’t make love in this finniking way. It’s the part of a sentymentle, poeticle taylor, not a galliant gentleman, in command of one of her Madjisty’s vessels of war.

Take my advise, honrabble sir――listen to a humble footmin; it’s generally best in poatry to understand puffickly what you mean yourself, and to igspress your meaning clearly afterwoods――in the simpler words the better, praps. You may, for instans, call a coronet a coronal, if you like, as you might call a hat a “swart sombrero,” “a glossy four-and-nine,” “a silken helm, to storm impermeable, and lightsome as the breezy gossamer;” but, in the long run, it’s as well to call it a hat. It _is_ a hat, and that name is quite as poetticle as another. I think it’s Playto, or els Harrystottle, who observes that what we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Confess, now, dear Barnet, don’t you long to call it a Polyanthus?

I never see a play more carelessly written. In such a hurry you seem to have bean, that you have actually in some sentences forgot to put in the sence. What is this, for instance?

“Girl beware,
“THE LOVE THAT TRIFLES ROUND THE CHARMS IT GILDS OFT RUINS WHILE IT
SHINES.”

Igsplain this, men and angels! I’ve tried every way; backards, forards, and in all sorts of trancepositions, as thus:

‘The love that ruins round the charms it shines,
Gilds while it trifles oft;’

Or,

‘The charm that gilds around the love it ruins,
Oft trifles while it shines;’

Or,

‘The ruins that love gilds and shines around,
Oft trifles where it charms,’

Or,

‘Love, while it charms, shines round, and ruins oft,
The trifles that it gilds;’

Or,

‘The love that trifles, gilds, and ruins oft,
While round the charms it shines.’

All which are as sensable as the fust passidge.”

――――

Probably no serious literary production had ever before received such a severe castigation as was contained in this burlesque of criticism, _mais c’est la ridicule qui tue_. Bulwer was a vain, sensitive man, keenly alive to hostile criticism, and morbidly afraid of being laughed at.

He tried, by every means in his power, to suppress the printed copies of _The Sea Captain_, it is now very scarce, and a single copy has been sold for as much as ten pounds.

Many years later Lord Lytton remodelled the play, and under the new title of _The Rightful Heir_ it was produced at the Lyceum Theatre, London, on October 3, 1868, but it was only moderately successful, and has never been since revived. The part of the hero, renamed _Vyvian_, was performed by Mr. Bandmann, an actor chiefly remarkable for his strong German accent, and for his great profusion of woolly-looking hair. The play was generally pronounced dreary and tedious, and the acting commonplace, with the one exception of the very fine impersonation of Sir Grey de Malpas by Mr. Hermann Vezin. A burlesque was inevitable, and seizing upon Mr. Bandmann’s personal peculiarity, it was christened _The Frightful Hair_; _or, Who Shot the Dog_? This was written by Mr. F. C. Burnand, and produced at the Haymarket Theatre, under the management of Mr. J. B. Buckstone, on December 26th, 1868, with the following strong cast:――

Vyvian (with a tremendous wig), Mr. Kendal.
Lord Beaufort Miss. F. Gwynn.
Sir Grey de Malpas Mr. Compton.
Wreckclyffe (a melodramatic scoundrel), Mr. Coe.
Falkner Mr. Weathersby.
Lady Montreville Miss Ione Burke.
Eveline Miss F. Wright.

Those who saw this humorous production will not have forgotten the dry, quiet drollery of the late Mr. Compton, or the admirable manner in which Mr. Kendal mimicked Bandmann.

Another burlesque was written by Mr. H. T. Arden, entitled “_The Right-Fall Heir_; or, the Sea-rover and the Fall over,” but the printed copy does not mention when, or at what theatre, this burlesque was produced.

――――

“The Very Last Days of Pompeii!” Being a complete _Bulwer-sement_ of the classic drama, by R. Reece, was produced at the Vaudeville Theatre, London, on February 13th, 1872, with Miss Nelly Power, David James, and Thomas Thorne in the leading parts. This, of course, was founded on Lytton’s novel “The Last Days of Pompeii,” but contains no passages which can be quoted as parodies of the original.

LYTTON.
_The “Last Days of Pompeii.”_

If ought so damping and so dull were
As these “last days” of Dandy Bulwer,
And had been cast upon the pluvious
Rockets that issued from Vesuvious
They would no more have reached Pompeii
Than Rome or Tusculum or Veii.

W. S. LANDOR.

Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

BORN March 4, 1809. DIED June 29, 1861.

HERE has lately been considerable controversy as to the date, and place of birth of Mrs. Browning.

Mrs. Richmond-Ritchie, in the “Dictionary of National Biography,” states that Mrs. Browning “was born at Burn Hall, _Durham_, on March 6, 1809,” whilst Mr. J. H. Ingram in a brief memoir prefixed to the “Poetical Works of E. B. Browning” (Ward, Lock and Co., London) asserts that Elizabeth Barrett Barrett was the eldest daughter of Edward Moulton Barrett, and was born in _London_ on Saturday, March 4, 1809, as shown by an announcement in a contemporary newspaper.