Chapter XXXVI: Part I (16)

When I came back, I gazed about――I gazed on stool and chair,
I could not see that great big man――because he was not there!
I looked into the coal-box, and beneath the sofa too:
I said, “You great big vulgar man, why, what’s become of you?”

I put my glasses on my nose, and looked, but could not see
The rat-tailed spoons I’ve always used these sixty years at tea;
I could not see my sugar-tongs, my good gold watch――oh, dear!
I know ’twas on the mantelpiece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Inverness――it was not to be seen;
Nor yet my season ticket, with a strap and bound in green
My Gladstone bag! my “Tantalus”! my silver warming pan!
My devilled kidneys!――all are gone! and so’s that vulgar man!

I touched the bell for Mrs. Brown, for she was down below;
“Oh! Mrs. Brown! what do you think? ain’t this a pretty go?
That horrid great big vulgar man whom I brought here to-night,
He’s stolen my things and run away!”――Says she, “And serves you
right!”

* * * * *

Next morning I got up and wrote a letter to the _Times_,
The _Morning Post_, the _Daily News_, _The Globe_, and _Church Bell
Chimes_.
I asked if anybody knew the man who’d used me so,
And said “for information I would give a _quid pro quo_.”

I told the Margate bobbies all the trick I had been played;
And all of them distinctly winked and promised me their aid;
And when I go to them and ask, they’ve always “got a plan”――
But never to this day have got that great big vulgar man.

_The Globe._ January 1, 1887.

――――

THE LITTLE BULGAR BOY.
(_A woful ballad of the Balkans._)

Sorrowful Suzerain _loquitur_:――

It was at Philippopolis, in August of this year,
I saw a little Bulgar boy,――I said, “What do you _here_?”
The glow upon his youthful cheek, bespake exceeding joy.
I said, “What _is_ your little game, you little Bulgar boy?”

He sniffed, that little Bulgar boy, he seemed inclined to scoff;
My heart has been so often bruised, a little sets it off.
He put his finger to his―――― Well, my haughty bosom rose,
And I applied _my_――hem――my handkerchief unto _my_ nose.

“Hark! don’t you hear, my little man, your Suzerain speaks?” I said.
“How would you like a sack, a cord, the Bosphorus for a bed,
Run home to your Bulgarian home, or I shall scold, Oh, fie!
This is a most improper game for Bulgar Boys to try.”

The mockery in his little eye began again to spring;
His bosom shook with giggling strong――he laughed like anything!
I stooped, and, ’midst his chortling low, I heard him murmur “Bosh!
I haven’t got no Suzerain, so _that_ kibosh will not wash!

“If you into your Bosphorus, to your exceeding joy,
Can land me right, then blow me tight!” (A vulgar Bulgar Boy!)
“And now I’m here, old Pint o’ Beer, it is my fixed intent
To raise to diplomatic rot a lasting monument.”

“Tut! tut! my little man――tut! tut!” I genially said.
“You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head.
If you go breaking Treaties thus, as though they were but eggs,
Either we’ll have to stretch your neck, or you to stretch your legs!

“Go home at once, my little man, or scimetar and Krupp
Will have to take a turn at you――and won’t they keep it up?
Don’t pull the chestnuts from the fire for Mister Romanoff.
Cut home, you little Bulgar Boy! Skedaddle, slope, be off!”

“Home?” chuckled he. “Oh, certainly, with willingness and joy!
This _is_ my home, old Bubblyjock!”――a vulgar Bulgar Boy!
I said, “Remember Mrs. Bull, the kindest of her sex!
Will you snarl up her Berlin wool, and her kind bosom vex?”

But Mrs. Bull did _not_ seem cross, she made but little noise.
She said _she_ didn’t care to “sit on” little Bulgar Boys.
She said, “Old Turkey-Cock, ’tis time you were upon the shelf.
Spank him? Go to――Roumelia, and spank the Boy yourself!”

I went not to Roumelia――I didn’t like the job.
My purse was low; I scarce could raise what Cockneys call “a Bob.”
The Powers that be looked shy at me, they saw that I was riled,
But said, “We can’t have rows all round, so please to draw it mild!”

When I went back I gazed about――I hunted everywhere,
I could not see my little foe――because he was not there
I peeped at Philippopolis, and at Sofia too,
I cried, “You little Bulgar Boy, what _has_ become of you?”

I could not see my Tribute, no!――I looked, but could not see
The little fiddle-faddle sham they call my Suzerain_tee_.
I could not see my Treaty-rights――my Balkan-range――oh, dear!
The whole great Bizzy-Dizzy game was a great fraud, I fear!

I could not see my _status quo_――it was not to be seen!――
Nor yet my Pan-Islamic Flag, that flag――like me――so green.
My Carpet-bag, that held them all, my sole remaining joy,
Is gone, for ever gone!――and so’s that little Bulgar Boy!

I ran to Mrs. Bull――her Salisbury _once_ admired me so!――
“Oh, Mrs. Bull! what _do_ you think?――ain’t this a pretty go?――
That horrid little Bulgar Boy you thought we’d tied so tight,――
He’s stolen my things and run away!!!”――Says she,
“_And sarve you right!!!_”

_Punch._ October 17, 1885.

There was another political parody entitled “_The Boy and the Bear_, a ballad of Bulgaria” in _Punch_ September 24, 1887, but it was not so interesting, nor so close a parody as the above.

――――

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal’s chair!
Bishop and abbot, and prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,――
In sooth a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween,
Was a prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and out Through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there Like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cakes,
And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! he hopp’d upon all!
With saucy air,
He perch’d on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal’s great red hat;
And he peer’d in the face Of his Lordship’s Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
‘We two are the greatest folks here to-day!’
And the priests, with awe,
As such freaks they saw,
Said, ‘The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!’
The feast was over, the board was clear’d,
The flawns and the custards had all disappear’d,
And six little Singing-boys,――dear little souls!
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due,
Two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!

A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss’d and fill’d with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more
A napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a Cardinal’s Hat mark’d in ‘permanent ink.’

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress’d all in white:
From his finger he draws
His costly turquoise;
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight
By the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till, when nobody’s dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

There’s a cry and a shout,
And a deuce of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they’re about,
But the monks have their pockets all turn’d inside out;
The friars are kneeling,
And hunting, and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew
Off each plum-colour’d shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps, and he feels,
In the toes and the heels;
They turn up the dishes,――they turn up the plates,――
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
――They turn up the rugs,
They examine the mugs:――
But, no!――no such thing;――
They can’t find THE RING!
And the Abbot declared that, ‘when nobody twigg’d it,
Some rascal or other had popp’d in, and prigg’d it!’

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He call’d for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger, and pious grief,
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright;
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,
He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!――
Never was heard such a terrible curse!
But what gave rise
To no little surprise,
Nobody seem’d one penny the worse!

The day was gone,
The night came on,
The Monks and the Friars they search’d till dawn:
When the Sacristan saw,
On crumpled claw,
Come limping a-poor little lame Jackdaw;
No longer gay,
As on yesterday;
His feathers all seem’d to be turn’d the wrong way;――
His pinions droop’d――he could hardly stand,――
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim,
So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, ‘THAT’S HIM!――
That’s the scamp that has done this scandalous thing!
That’s the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal’s Ring!’
The poor little Jackdaw,
When the monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turn’d his bald head, as much as to say,
‘Pray, be so good as to walk this way!’
Slower and slower, He limp’d on before,
’Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
Where the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal call’d for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression
Served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
――When those words were heard,
That poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, ’twas really absurd.
He grew sleek, and fat; In addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more
Even than before;
But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,
No longer he perch’d on the Cardinal’s chair.
He hopp’d now about
With a gait devout;
At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seem’d telling the Confessor’s beads.
If any one lied,――or if any one swore,――
Or slumber’d in prayer-time, and happen’d to snore,
That good Jackdaw
Would give a great ‘Caw,’
As much as to say, ‘Don’t do so any more!’
While many remark’d, as his manners they saw,
That they ‘never had known such a pious Jackdaw!’
He long lived the pride
Of that country side,
And at last in the odour of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint,
His merits to paint,
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint!
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It’s the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
So they canonised him by the name of Jim Crow!

R. H. BARHAM.

First published in _Bentley’s Miscellany_, 1837.

――――

THE STORY OF THE LATEST CURSE

The Pontiff sat in St. Peter’s Chair,
Cardinals, too, quite a host, were there,
Cardinal this and Cardinal that,
Cardinals lean and Cardinals fat,
Cardinals sitting in style and state,
Cardinals full of importance great,
With Cardinal Vicars of high degree,
In sooth, a goodly company;
And as they sat in full conclave thus
Momentous matters did they discuss;
And presented reports of a wide-spread scope
To their Holy Father and Sovereign Pope.

And chief of points to attention claim
The perennial Irish Question came,
With its _pros_ and _cons_, which no ending knew,
And the Tory Government’s biassed view.
And the Duke of Norfolk’s suggestions, too,
Of the course the Pope should henceforth pursue.
They quoted once more
All the legal lore
That, as they said, on the question bore.
They wrangled, too,
(Which was nothing new)
And made a fuss and a great to-do;
And argued, some for the twentieth time,
That to join in the “Plan” was a heinous crime,
And loudly declared, through thick and thin,
That “Boycotting” was a deadly sin;
Whilst others maintained
That no course remained
Save that to patriots gagged and chained!
But the Pope meanwhile
Gave a ghastly smile
As the Cardinals talked about Erin’s isle,
And exclaimed, “This matter must settled be,
Or else it will be the death of me!
Draw up a report without delay,
And present it to me this very day;
For I’ve promised the Duke
That I’ll rebuke
My Irish flock in a pastoral way!”

* * * * *

So the Cardinals did what the Pope demanded
And their Report to him duly handed,
Denouncing the “Plan” and those who used it,
And any Priest who at all excused it;
Condemning “Boycotting,” too, as wrong,
In Latin phrases extremely strong.
And having read it, the Pope made known
That its sentiments were, in good sooth, his own;
And heedless quite
Of the cause of right,
And grossly misled by party spite,
’Till he was moved to believe the worst
Of Ireland――libelled, maligned, aspersed――
The Pontiff published that famed “Decree,”
And filled the Unionist camp with glee.

Yes, it filled the Unionists’ hearts with hope,
For “Lo!” said they, “that obliging Pope
Has cursed with bell and with book and candle
The cause of Home Rule――that crying scandal!
In holy anger and pious grief
He’s solemnly cursed each Irish thief!
He has cursed Parnell and his plundering crew
In all they say or attempt to do.
He has cursed the League, he has cursed its chiefs,
And its helpless serfs, and its threatened fiefs.
He has cursed O’Brien and Dillon, John,
And his curse is O’Connor (Tay Pay) upon.
He has cursed McCarthy and T. M. Healy,
And all of the Irish leaders, really;
He’s cursed them abroad, and he’s cursed them at home,
With all the anathemas used at Rome;
He’s cursed them both in and out of gaol,
He’s cursed the few now at large on bail;
He’s cursed them in eating, he’s cursed them in drinking,
He’s cursed them in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
From the souls of their feet to the crowns of their heads,
He’s cursed them awake, and asleep in their beds;
He’s cursed them in standing, in sitting, in lying,
He’s cursed them in speaking, and selling, and buying;
He’s cursed the Gladstonian Party, too,
For daring to make that alliance new.
In short these Unionists all averred
So dreadful a curse had never been heard!

Forsooth these Unionists talked away,
Of this Papal curse all the live-long-day,
And gloated with quite a savage glee
On what must come of the Pope’s “Decree.”
“They must be crushed, these vile Irishmen,”
They daily repeated with tongue and pen.
“No more shall we hear of Parnell’s fresh crimes!”
Exclaimed, in “leaded bourgeois,” the _Times_,
“Confusion has stricken the League’s curs’d host,”
Was the warning cry of the jubilant _Post_.
“There’s an end forthwith to the sorry set!”
Was the evening shriek of _St. James’s Gazette_.
But all the time they were writing thus,
And making this daily fame and fuss,
Declaring the Nationalist cause was done,
And the Parnellites doomed were every one.
Whilst still they were bidding the world to see
What ruin was wrought by the Pope’s “Decree,”
And everywhere stating, in prose and verse,
There never was heard such a terrible curse!
This fact gave rise
To no little surprise,
_Nobody seem’d one penny the worse!_

* * * * *

Stay! some one _seems_ a good deal the worse
For this much-debated Vatican curse;
And that is the Pope himself, for he,
By even the issue of his “Decree,”
Made public the fact, beyond recall,
That he knows of Ireland nothing at all.
The Irish Bishops ’tis true, have tried,
To soften the blow to their Pontiff’s pride;
While the Irish people have treated his curse
As a Papal weakness, and nothing worse.
So far, so good!
But the Pontiff should
Bear in mind in how false a place he’s stood;
He must ne’er again base denunciation
On false and on biassed information;
And certainly never give vent to a curse
For which _he_ only is any the worse!

__Truth._ June 7, 1888.

――――:o:――――

THE EXECUTION.
_A Sporting Anecdote._

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day:
It was half after two. He had nothing to do,
So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.

Tiger Tim Was clean of limb,
His boots were polish’d, his jacket was trim;
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,
He stood in his stockings just four foot ten;
And he ask’d, as he held the door on the swing,
“Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?”

My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said,
“Malibran’s dead, Duvernay’s fled,
Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead;
Tiger Tim, come, tell me true,
What may a Nobleman find to do?”――

Tim look’d up, and Tim look’d down,
He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown,
And he held up his hat, and he peep’d in the crown;
He bit his lip, and he scratch’d his head,
He let go the handle, and thus he said,
As the door released, behind him bang’d:
“An’t please you, my Lord, there’s a man to be hang’d.”

My Lord Tomnoddy jump’d up at the news,
“Run to M’Fuse. And Lieutenant Tregooze,
And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues.
Rope-dancers a score, I’ve seen before――
Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more;
But to see a man swing, at the end of a string,
With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing.”

* * * * *

R. H. BARHAM.

――――

THE FROLICS OF BOREAS.

Old Boreas sprung up one day――says he,
“_Blow_ me tight, but I’ll have a spree――
I must be very much missed, no doubt,
’Tis a long time since I had a _blow out_;
And as things in town are dreadfully dead,
I’ll stir them up, though as heavy as lead.
Yes, now for a rollicksome, frolicksome chase,
_I’ll raise the wind_ in every place.”
So away he went, through the Strand so gay,
_Blowing up_ everything in his way――
Upsetting dozens (in spite of their squalls,)
Of old women’s apple and lollipop stalls.

Never was heard such a terrible shout,
As the apples and brandy balls rolled about;
The old women swore, while the urchin shouts
After the stock, and runs off with the fruits.
On went Boreas playing his rigs,
Blowing off bonnets and ladies’ wigs――
Making their hairless heads apparent,
Which none would do but a rogue so arrant.
Puffing and blowing onwards he bounds,
Frisking the skirts of the ladies’ gowns――
Forming completely, as gentlemen say――
And ladies, sometimes, a _show leg day_.

Away he went blustering through Pall Mall,
To the discommotion of every swell――
Giving their stay-laced figures a twirl,
Blowing their whiskers quite out of curl――
Piercing their benjamin waterproofs,
Blowing their _tiles_ from off their _roofs_――
Whirling old bachelors into the mud,
And old maids upon them――oh, gemini, lud,
Knocks down of chimneys a terrific lot,
Sends a respectable family to pot;
Upsets a woman with flowers a growing,
Just as she squall’d out _all a blowing_!

On went Boreas, mighty and strong,
Puffing out lamps as he went along――
Patting a thief in the way of a job,
Of _dissecting_ a pocket, or lightening a fob:
Leaving the Peelers quite in the dark,
Doing a turn for an amorous spark;
Giving the drunkard a chance, at most,
Of running his cranium ’gainst a post.
Upon the Park he flies to attend,
And gives the boughs a bit of a bend――
The brave old oaks in the air he heaves,
Without so much as _axing_ their _leaves_.

Down he rushed to the river side,
Sunk the loose barges, and _blowed up_ the _tide_;
Led the wherries a wherry rum chase,
Gave Father Thames some _blows in the face_.
Among the rigging he played his _rigs_,
And capsized quite the captain’s gigs;
The fishes swore they were quite _dead bait_,
And rolled about in a _floundering_ state.
At last his frolics came to an end,
He couldn’t _raise wind_――he was _bellows to mend_,
So, as a _wind-up_, he, with all his might,
Blew himself to _Wind_――sor to spend the night.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

A PARLIAMENTARY LEGEND.

The Marquis Bobby sat down one day,
Feeling himself in a very bad way:
His was the delicate porcelain clay
Not made for _the shelf_, like mere common delf,
And he felt that the world wanted something――himself;
For he loved to stand in the light of day,
To have his own way, and to say his own say――
To slaughter and gibbet and mangle.
Now he thought to himself, here’s the devil to pay,
Never a chance of a row or a wrangle,
No Afghan affairs to get in a tangle.
Gladstone before and old Johnny behind;
With a wide-awake Postmaster, even if blind;
Everything bound to go to the bad:
_His place_, too, filled by a rascally “Rad.”
Things seemed to his lordship gloomy――very,
So he rose and rang for his Secretary.

Mr. Sec.――was a gentleman born
Who hated a “Cad” with a noble scorn:
He had learned at the best of public schools,
To sneer at snobs, and the wretched fools,
Who earned bread and cheese upon office stools,
And his clothes were got on credit from Poole’s;
He knew men were fools who trusted _two_ stools,
So wisely followed _her Ladyship’s_ rules.
He entered in haste, tho’ with dignified gait
(It _wasn’t allowed_ for Lord Bobby to wait).

The noble Marquis raised his head,
And to his underling he said:
“Beaconsfield’s dead, and Northcote is led
By the nose, and whatever the last man has said,
Richmond’s a donkey; Cairns is a parson;
Who but myself can carry this farce on?
People agree that there must be a head;
And there’s only myself in the old man’s stead;
Tell me, Sir Secretary, what think you,
What can a born statesman find to do?”
He paused, and the gentleman scratched his head,
“There’s only the Land Bill, my lord,” he said,
And the news of the evening, as you will see,
Is that the Commons will not agree.”

Then the Marquis Bobby jumped up in haste,
And he muttered a something that sounded like “baste.”
And something resembling “bate ’em;”
He felt that the fun wasn’t yet quite done,
Though he’d issued his “ultimatum.”
“Enough――call it done, my son of a gun――
I’ll show ’em a game ere with me they’ve done:
Go call my henchmen liel and true:
Call Cranbrook, Carnarvon and ‘canny’ Buccleuch,
And call that fool of a Marlborough, too,
Fetch the rest of the noble crew,
With heads so thick and blood so blue;
And by way of a ‘rat’ and a tit for a tat,
Look up the Grey and the Fortescue;
And even Gladstone shall learn to rue
That with Irish landlords he’d aught to do;”
Then his lordship sighed as he thought of the grouse,
Put on his hat and went down to the “House.”

The clock strikes twelve, it is really midnight,――
But “their Lordships’ House” is a blaze of light;
The parties have met and been pretty hard set,
To amend the amendments and manage to get
A Bill which _looks_ something substantial――and yet
Isn’t the thing that is wanted quite
In this nice little island so bright and so tight.
The Marquis Bobby has had his fling――
Denounced the whole as a villainous thing,
A theft――a blunder――a sham――and a sin,
And sworn that the Lords will _never give in_.

Gad, ’tis a very fine sight to see
A very fine Aristocracy,
Proud of port and stern of eye,
With a look that says plainly――“Never say die,”
Stemming the tide of Democracy.
The clock strikes “one” and the thing isn’t done.
The Marquis Bobby has munched a bun,
Some aged nobles have “cut and run;”
But sternly arrayed, as to say, “Who’s afraid!”
The rest wait for the message too long delayed.

The clock strikes “four,” and at the door
Sounds a something that isn’t exactly a roar――
A sort of a scuffle and underbred shuffle,
As of Commons who wouldn’t their lordships ruffle;
Impatience just tempered with awe.
But the message is plain――as plain as the day,
“_My Lords, the Commons will not obey._”

Then the Marquis Bobby in wrath arose,
And he――well, I’m almost afraid to disclose;
Well――he took up his hat and he blew at his nose,
And――did as do Fakirs, or people called Quakers,
Or a gentleman namesake of his, “Bobby Acres,”
And exclaimed, “Why, hullo! here’s a rum go.
That fellow has made us do just what he chose.
We certainly might have saved all our jaws.
Thank God,” with a pause, “there’s _the wild duck clause_;
But they’ll laugh at and quiz us all over their town,
We’re all of us done so uncommonly brown.”

What act could be done? Well, it wouldn’t surprise one
To know that they did a very unwise one,
But now in their favour, there’s this to be said,
They thought better of it, and you may have read,
That my Lords and Lord Bobby――_went home to bed_.

From _Grins and Groans_, Social and Political. Published by W. Swan Sonnenschein & Co., about 1882.

――――

THE LORD OF INTRIGUE.

Pollaky sat in his oaken chair,
_Carte de visite_ and letter lay there,
Princely coronet, lordly crest,
Many a mystery, many a quest,
With missive and _billet_ of lesser degree,
In sooth an extraordinary company;
And they seemed to ask, “Oh! unravel me,”
Never, I ween,
Was a subtler seen,
Concerned in divorce, or elopement, or league,
Than love’s autocrat, Pollaky, lord of intrigue.
In and out
Through the motley rout,
The Lord of Intrigue goes hunting about,
Here and there,
Like a dog in a fair,
Through flights and divorces,
Elopements and curses,
Through a lady’s love and a husband’s grudge,
Proud as a Cardinal, sharp as a Judge;
And he smiles in the face
Of the scrawl of his Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
“Oh, the duchess must fall in our trap to-day.”
While his clients with awe
As such schemes they saw,
Said, “Pollaky’s sharper than Hades, you know.”
Never, I ween,
Was a subtler seen,
Concerned in divorce, or elopement, or league,
Than love’s autocrat, Pollaky, lord of intrigue.

From Benjamin D――――. _His Little Dinner._ 1876.

――――

THE DEVIL’S BILLIARD MATCH.

Mr. Peeler was known to be one of the milliards
Who go in for spending their talents on billiards;
And by diligent training,
And careful abstaining
From gin and tobacco, succeeded in gaining
Such skill at a hazard, a cannon, or “pot,”
And was voted so “hot”
When he got “on the spot,”
That no one would play him, not e’en the great Cooker,
(Who some people say is a bit of a fluker).
He gave points to Jobenit, Bobs, and Michelli,
And knocked the whole lot of ’em into a jelly;
He often would make
A two-thousand break,
And only left off when he found his arm ache,
Such a wonderful use did he make of his “stick,”
That everyone thought he was leagued with Old Nick;
And they went down to see this most wonderful “coon,”
Evening and noon,
In December or June,
At the Royal Aquarium Billiard Saloon.
And some time ago,
As perhaps you may know,
A match was arranged, and this time Peeler’s foe
Was Signor Michelli, who often made lots
Of very good shots
And consecutive “spots,”
And the odds Peeler gave to this man of such fame
Were five hundred points in a one thousand game.
Now Signor Michelli, though very much saner
Than many, was far from a total abstainer;
And whether the cheer of the festival season
Or hard mental work had deprived him of reason
I cannot affirm, but I’m positive quite,
That he _looked_ to be tight,
On the advertised night,
In spite of his tie and his linen so white;
For when he came in he walked up to the slate,
And proceeded at once in a manner sedate,
To rub out the figures just under his name,
And said that he “Wanted no pointsh in thish game,”
And would play “the young d――――l,”
A thousand up level;
After making which modest and courteous remarks,
He proceeded at once to be up to his larks;
Made a very bad shot
To screw in off the spot,
(Instead of just giving the usual miss)
Which was baulked by his making the two balls to kiss,
And left a good cannon
For Peeler, who ran on
Ran off, and ran out, and finished the game,
Amidst a loud cheering and general acclaim;
Whilst Michelli, who’d wanted to shine as a hero,
Stared aghast at his chalks, which were standing at zero.
At this point a gentleman stepped forth from the audience,
Who’d apparently tried
All colour to hide,
And to drive from his raiment all tints that were _gaudy_ hence;
His clothes were all black,
At the front and the back,
His handkerchief, watch-chain, and locket, and tie,
His shirt and his studs, and his collar so high,
His boots and his buttons, his hat and his rings――
In short, every one of his visible things
Was as black as a crow, and――keep down your sniggers――
_His face and his hands were as black as a nigger’s!_
He took his hat off
And uttered a cough;
Then with cynical satire, and many a scoff,
He called Mr. Peeler
A “ginger-pop dealer,”
And snapped out “Nicolo Scratchini’s my name,
And I’ll play Mr. Peeler a ten-thousand game;
And these points I will my opponent assign――
_Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety and nine!_
And the stakes――――” here he whispered in Peeler’s left ear,
And that eminent cueist turned giddy with fear;
But covered the tip of his cue well with chalk,
And led off the game with a miss into baulk.

But his sable opponent then smirked a queer smirk,
And flourished his cue as he’d flourish a dirk,
Put his ball in the D, and aimed right at the red;
And with such awful twist on his flying ball sped,
That it screwed into baulk in the right corner pocket;
As a ruby gleam flashed from the Stranger’s black locket,
Then he got “on the spot” and made three thousand hazards;
Whilst the audience stared as if knocked on the mazzards;
Then made scores of cannons――the kind known as “nursery”――
Whilst Peeler was making remarks that were curse-ory;
And at last, being “cushioned” or “under the bank,”
Fetched his ball such a twank,
Such a terrible spank,
That it gave to the red a most thundering clank,
And both smashed to bits,
And knocked into fits
The marker who sat where he commonly sits;
And the audience yelled, when they saw all this steam on,
“My! ain’t he a scorcher! O, ain’t he a demon!”
Then Signor Scratchini, as meek as a lamb,
Looked up, and most quaintly remarked, “Yes, I am!”
And his polished black boots turned to black hoofs with corns,
And his black curly hair to a black pair of horns,
His cue to a pitchfork, his black eyes to coals,
His fingers to claws, and his studs into holes
From whence there came out such a fire and a smoke
That everyone felt just as though they would choke;
And he grabbed hold of Peeler, with eyes darting flame,
But Peeler had presence of mind to exclaim――
“You’ve not won me yet, you old cheat! fie for shame!
Fair play’s a jewel, Nick! Finish the game.”

Nick let go his hold, for though only a curs’t ’un
He felt he was bound, by the framed rules of Thurston,
Since he’d broken the balls, to be honest and plain,
And call upon Peeler to “break them” again.
So P. in a stew
Took up his cue
And aimed at the red in a manner so true,
And put on his ball such a _quantum_ of screw,
That without more ado
It vanished from view
In the top corner bag――and the red went in too.
Old Scratch gave a scream
That curdled the cream,
And was gone from their gaze like a horrible dream,
(Which is not an original line, by the way,
Though where I have read it I really can’t say.)
And then Mr, Peeler
Called a four-wheeler,
And drove home at once without any delay,
And never played billiards again from that day,
But turned to a rigidly moral and _mental_ man,
And was troubled no more by the black-dressed Old Gentleman.

MORAL.

Don’t think that a man who’s a total abstainer
Is therefore as good as a saint――to be plainer,
Don’t be sure that a chap who’ll not drink, smoke, or marry
May not all the same be in league with Old Harry.

You’ll get much more good from Æneids and Iliads
Than by wasting your time and your money on billiards,
For take it as true, be you sage or buffoon,
You are sure to find Nick in a billiard saloon.

One word more,
If a score
Will make the game o’er,
Just “shop” your opponent, and bolt through the door.

From _Rare Bits_, in which paper several other imitations of the Ingoldsby Legends have appeared.

――――

A ROW IN THE UPPER CIRCLES.
_A Legend of the Haymarket._

Bancroft the manager sits in his chair,
With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air,
And he says as he slaps his hand on his knee,
“I mean to abolish the P. I. T.
The P. I. T. of the Hay-mar-ket,
When turned into stalls, will be nightly let
For a sum that I own will be pleasant to get;
And all will agree
’Twould be ruin to me
To keep on the Haymarket P. I. T.”

The green baize rose to the prompter’s bell,
But the hubbub that followed no words can tell;
Shriek and whistle and howl and yell,
Like fiends let loose from the nethermost ――――L.
“P. I. T! P. I. T!
That’s the place whence the play we’d see.
BAN-CROFT! BAN-CROFT!!”
(’Twas thus they shouted from high aloft)――
“Upper circles for _us_? Pooh! Bah!
Pish! Tush! Humbug and swindle――yah!
Manager Bancroft, don’t forget
We’ve been used to a pit at the Hay-mar-ket.”

Bancroft the manager rose from his chair,
And his brow was shaded by sorrow and care,
And he walked to the footlights, and made his bow,
As Manager Bancroft so well knows how:
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he did say,
“What may you please to want to-day?”
“P. I. T! P. I. T!
This is the thing we want to see;
These high upper boxes are fiddle-de-dee,
And we don’t care a snap for your piteous plea,
And there really must be
A nice P. I. T.”

Bancroft the manager tries to speak,
But his voice is drowned in a shout and a shriek.
“A P. I. T.
Won’t pay,” says he;
“There’s the company, scenery, taxes, and rent,
You don’t know the money already I’ve spent,
But, believe me, I grieve at your discontent,”

“P. I. T――P. I. T――
If we don’t have that we won’t come and see
The plays you produce if you let us in free.”
Manager Bancroft tries to be heard,
But the Public will listen to never a word,
Till, tired of shouting, they cry anon,
“You’d better go off, and the play go on!”

So this was the end of the flurry and fret
That marked the first night at the Hay-mar-ket,
So long live the manager, long live he,
Here’s success both to Mr. and Missis B.,
And may we all often go there to see
The plays they produce to delight you and me,
E’en though they’ve abolished the P. I. T.

_Judy._ February 11, 1880.

In the _old days_ of the Haymarket Theatre under the management of J. B. Buckstone, the pit was the most comfortable in London; but, Buckstone died in debt, whilst after abolishing the pit the Bancrofts made a fortune in a few years.

――――

_Mirth and Metre_, by Frank E. Smedley and Edmund H. Yates, published by G. Routledge & Co., 1855, was a small shilling book of poetry, written avowedly in imitation of Barham’s _Ingoldsby Legends_, besides containing several excellent parodies of other authors.

The following extracts from one of the imitations, written by F. E. Smedley, show that he had caught the knack of Barham’s versification. Unfortunately the poem is too long to quote in full:――

THE ENCHANTED NET.

There were sundry strange monsters existing of old,
Could we only give credit to half we are told,
As evinced (on the _ex pede_ Herculean plan,
Which from merely a footstep presumes the whole man)
By our _Savans_ disturbing those very large bones,
Which have turned (for the rhyme’s sake, perhaps) into stones,
And have chosen to wait a
Long while hid in _strata_,
While old Time has been dining on empires and thrones.
Old bones and dry bones,
Leg-bones and thigh-bones,
Bones of the vertebræ, bones of the tail,――
Very like, only more so, the bones of a whale;
Bones that were very long, bones that were very short
(They have never as yet found a real fossil merry-thought;
Perchance because mastodons, burly and big,
Considered all funny-bones quite _infra dig_.)
Skulls have they found in strange places imbedded,
Which, at least, prove their owners were very long-headed;
And other queer things――which ’tis not my intention,
Lest I weary your patience, at present to mention,――
As I think I can prove, without further apology,
What I said to be true, sans appeal to geology,
That there lived in the good old days gone by
Things unknown to our modern philosophy,
And a giant was then no more out of the way
Than a dwarf is now in the present day.

Sir Eppo of Epstein was young, brave, and fair;
Dark were the curls of his clustering hair,
Dark the moustache that o’ershadowed his lip,
And his glance was as keen as the sword at his hip;
Though the enemy’s charge was like lightning’s fierce shock,
His seat was as firm as the wave-beaten rock;
And woe to the foeman, whom pride or mischance
Opposed to the stroke of his conquering lance.
He carved at the board, and he danced in the hall,
And the ladies admired him, each one and all.
In a word, I should say, he appears to have been
As nice a young “ritter” as ever was seen.
He could not read nor write,
He could not spell his name.
Towards being a clerk, Sir Eppo, his (†) mark,
Was as near as he ever came.
He had felt no vexation
From multiplication;
Never puzzled was he
By the rule of three;
The practice he’d had
Did not drive him mad,
Because it all lay
Quite a different way.
The Asses’ Bridge, that Bridge of Sighs,
Had (lucky dog!) ne’er met his eyes.
In a very few words he expressed his intention
Once for all to decline every Latin declension,
When persuaded to add, by the good Father Herman,
That most classical tongue to his own native German.
And no doubt he was right in
Point of fact, for a knight in
Those days was supposed to like nothing but fighting;
And one who had learned any language that is hard
Would have stood a good chance of being burned for a wizard.
Education being then never pushed to the verge ye
Now see it, was chiefly confined to the clergy.

* * * * *

HANDY JACK.
(_A Lay of Alexandria._)

“The sailors, after proving themselves excellent gunners and most useful infantry, have to-day shone in the capacity of engineers.”――_The Standard._

Oh! for what are you _not_ good and game,
Handy Jack?
For what are you _not_ good and game?
Upon Egypt’s far strand
You seem turning your hand
To almost any job one can name,
Which same
Should resound, my dear Jack, to your fame!

You’re exceedingly good with a gun,
Handy Jack!
As we know from the deeds you have done.
At infantry duty,
A regular beauty,
On land and on water you’re one
Whose fun
Is to fight and do aught――except run.

* * * * *

You are brave, and no end of a brick,
Handy Jack!
Jack-of-all-trades, as cheery as quick;
Amphibious of gift,
Ambidextrous and swift,
And as awkward to flummox as lick;
The pick
Of our Blues would not strike to Old Nick.

Here’s your jolly good health and good luck,
Handy Jack!
And the flag you so seldom have struck.
Ashore or afloat,
On a bridge, or a boat,
You’re a picture of _nous_ and of pluck
Never stuck.
They who say that Jack has altered talk muck!

_Punch._ August 19, 1882.

――――

THE CARDINAL’S HAT.

A tremendous outcry against the Roman Catholics was raised in 1850, when the Pope created Cardinal Nicholas Wiseman――Archbishop of Westminster, and divided all England into Romish dioceses. But the agitation ended in smoke, it is true the Ecclesiastical Titles Bill was passed in 1851, yet it has practically remained a dead letter, and it was wittily said of Lord John Russell that, after chalking up “No Popery” on Cardinal Wiseman’s door, and ringing the bell――he ran away.

Amongst the many pamphlets written on the topic was one published by Henry Beal, Shoe Lane, London, entitled “_The Cardinal’s Hat_: How, when, and where it was made, and what became of it.” By Ipsedixit. 1851. This is an imitation of the Ingoldsby Legends, and like them is very uncomplimentary to Roman Catholic priests, consequently, several passages have been omitted in the following reprint, as being not only offensive and ungenerous, but also untrue:――

We have all of us heard of the CITY OF ROME,
The fountain of Catholic blessings, and curses,
Where those who are lucky in having long purses
Go, to stare at the huge Coliseum and Dome
Of St. Peter’s, and bring curiosities home,――
Such as medals, and casts; and indeed, whate’er fixes
Their fancies,――rags――relics――beads――bones――crucifixes;
Grand portraits of Saints, who cured fearful disease
By the sufferer’s merely going down on his knees,
And telling some beads, and by offering some fees,
For Saints, like the men who take M.D. degrees,
Their practice conduct in an orthodox way,
And grant no relief to the souls who can’t pay.

Well――in this great and world-renowned City of Rome,
Within the broad shadow that’s cast by the dome
Of St. Peter’s aforesaid, is the Strada del Popolo,
In which stands the house of the famed St. Jacopolo;
And there reside thirty or forty stout monks, to see
Whom, much reminds one of Smithfield obesity.
All day long
Goes ding-dong
Their bells――and their song
Alarms you at eve as you’re walking along:
But at midnight, a wild and demoniac yelling
Is heard from within, of some mystery telling;
And I’ve heard
It averred,
That a vile brimstone smell in
The Strada del Popolo, oft causes those
Who’re passing――the orifice nasal to close;
And, like old Daniel Tucker, of whom, I dare say
You have heard――to make tracks “and git out of the way.”

Now――scorning the aid of that personage odious,
The two-sticked dark gentleman known as _Asmodeus_;
We have unroofed the house of these portly old men,
And gaze without obstacle into their den!
St. Peter’s great bell tells one more day is dead;
Respectable persons lie snugly in bed;
Only a beggar or woman with shrewd eye,
Is prowling about, to pick up a few _scudi_;
But Jacopolo’s altar is all in a blaze,
Ten thousand wax tapers emit their bright rays,
And at first you are almost struck blind as you gaze:
The Abbot is clad in his finest attire
Of satin and silk, at a price rather higher
Than an _un_-worldly man, one might think, would desire;
But what puzzled one most――and what seemed very queer,
Was――that all the fat Monks of Jacopolo there,
Instead of performing prescribed genuflexions,
Or praying to Saints, to forgive their defections:
Or joining (melodious old souls!) in the quire,
All stood in a circle around a huge fire,
Over which was a vessel of brass――yes, ’twas _that_ metal,
And in heretic lands ’twould be known as a HAT-KETTLE:

What are they doing?
Some mischief is brewing!
In the cauldron like that one in _Macbeth_, is stewing
Something I warrant for somebody’s ruin!
See how the burly monks plunge, each a fist
Into the kettle, from which goes a mist
Creeping and curling like snakes to the ceiling:――
For something right down at its bottom they’re feeling;
Now they have got it, and like Monks of mettle
They dab a wet mass on the rim of the kettle.
Shapeless and dark is it!――but with a shout
The Monks of Jacopolo maul it about;
Bow to it――pray to it;――each one caresses it,
E’en the Abbot himself lays his hand on, and blesses it:
They roll it, and wrinkle,
Punch it, and sprinkle:
A silver bell’s tinkle
Is heard――then the Abbot proceeds to un-padlock
A casket, and from it with prayers takes a hat-block.
[The last rhyme, dear reader, I very well know
Just as well as yourself, is not quite _comme il faut_,
But I’d rather make such a slight slip, than I’d fit a lie
For the sake of mere _sound_ to this true tale of Italy.]

Yes, the Abbot devout,
A HAT BLOCK took out,
And ’twas hailed by the Monks with a song and a shout:――
Not a block of the shape of a hat worn in town;
But much like a wide-a-wake’s――low in the crown,
Only not shaped like those of drab, white, green or brown,
But level as rail-road――in short, ’twas a flat
Block, such as is used for a milling cove’s hat.
Mr. Bendigo wears such a one――think of that,
And without further parley you have the thing pat.

“Hail Mary!” the Abbot cried――“Look upon that
I ne’er saw a handsomer CARDINAL’S HAT!
In England, I fancy――’twill rather surprise Man,
Woman, and Child, when ’tis worn by NICK WISEMAN.”
(And really, to give the old Abbot his due
The latter remark was undoubtedly true;)
“And,” he added, “Proceed, your good work and divine in,
As now ’tis our duty to put in the lining.”

* * * * *

All this being done――said the Lord Abbot――“That,
I fancy, completes our NEW CARDINAL’S HAT!”

Yes, the Cardinal’s Hat was completed at last,
And NICHOLAS WISEMAN went rather _too_ fast,
TO ROME where that feeble old Potentate PIUS,
Who, it seems, a fresh chance for our souls, won’t deny us,
Plac’d the hat on his cunning old pate, and said “Rise Man,
ARCHBISHOP OF WESTMINSTER――CARDINAL WISEMAN!”
And his newly-made Eminence rose from his knees
As proud and designing a Priest as you please!

But a very short time had passed by, and the HAT
Was dingy and shabby, and crushed almost flat:
For on it, John Bull, set his sturdy old heel,
Saying――“Pius, my Bishoprics _you_ shall not steal;”
And to Wiseman――“Old Craftyman――vanish from here――”
And he went with a Protestant flea in his ear!

But the CARDINAL’S HAT!
How fared it with that?

Why from Westminster it was sent into RAG FAIR!
But the Jews wouldn’t have the vile article there,
And the last time ’twas seen, it was kicked with disdain
From the filthiest old Clothes’ shop in Petticoat Lane!

――――:o:――――

TEMPTATION OF THE GOOD ST. GLADSTONE.

The good St. Gladstone sat on his stool,
A-reading a big black book,
With a steadfast patience, as was his rule,
For _he_ never frivolled or played the fool,
Like a wanton urchin a-weary of school;
But, though ’twas the rollicking season of Yule,
He studied in quiet, and kept himself cool,
On his stool of repentance――a hard-bottomed stool――
And ne’er from that sage
Constitutional page
His reverent gaze he took.

“We will woo,” cried Old Nick, “good St. Gladstone’s eyes
Off from that excellent book.
We will cluster around him in strange disguise,
And plague him with shindies and Party cries,
And bother his bosom with phantasies,
That he upon _us_ may look.”

So they came to the Saint in a motley crew
A heterogeneous rout.
There were imps of every shape and hue,
And some looked yellow, and some looked blue,
And they passed and varied before his view,
And twisted themselves about.
But the good St. Gladstone kept his eyes
Fixed on that excellent book.
From it they did not sink or rise,
Nor sights, nor laughter, nor shouts, nor cries
Could win away his look.

One black imp came in a masquerade
Most like a ghoul’s attire,
With a face like a skull in dried parchment arrayed,
And bat-wings dingy that fluttered and played
About St. Gladstone through light and through shade,
Till they made the Saint perspire.
And another one came apparalled
In silk and velvet stuff,
With a sort of tiara upon its head,
And a shadowy alb, and a ghostly cope,
And a scowl of anger, and fear, and hope
Upon a phiz that seemed carven from soap;
And the row _it_ raised,
As it blustered and blazed,
Was noisier than enough.
Another yet, of diminutive size,
And with hairy lip and with goggle eyes,
A winged weird creature, wee.
He pounced like a hawk, and he whisked like the wind,
And he whooped and hawed, and winked and grinned,
And his eyes stood out with glee;
And the more the Saint he deafened and dinned,
The more exulted he.

But the good St. Gladstone bent his eyes,
Upon that excellent book.
He heard the shout and the laugh arise,
But he knew that the imps had a naughty guise,
And he did not care to look.

* * * * *

Last comes an imp――how unlike the rest――
A beautiful female form!
With two dark Irish optics that ogle with zest,
With a blooming cheek and a buxom breast,
And a shamrock brooch in its snow doth rest,
And her lips are soft and warm.
As over his shoulder she bends the light
Of her dark eyes on the page,
She fires his heart with its ancient might,
With thoughts of old seasons of glorious fight,
’Neath the Shamrock Shield in the cause of right.
To aid hapless Beauty is still his delight,
Though he’s grey with the frosts of age.
So gentle she seems, so appealing, so sure
Of his help, as of old; ’tis a parlous lure!
Pride, pity, and promise of fame!――
What lurketh _behind_ it, that beautiful mask,
Will the good Saint see, will the good Saint ask?
Will he know that the Devil is at his old task?
Will he twig _this_ last form of his game?
Ha! the good St. Gladstone boggles his eyes
Over that excellent book,
Ho! ho! at the corners they seem to rise.
He feels that the thing hath a lovely guise,
And――_will_ he decline to look?

There are many devils that walk this world――
Devils large and devils small;
Devils saint-meagre, and sinner-stout;
Devils with cow-horns, and devils without;
’Cute devils that go with their tails upcurled,
Bold devils, that carry them bravely unfurled;
Meek devils, and devils that brawl;
Serious devils, and mocking devils;
Imps for churches, and atheist revels;
Devils cheeky, and devils polite;
Blue and buff, and black and white;
Devils that gossip, and devils that write;
Devils that slaver, and devils that bite;
Devils that posture as angels of light;
Devils that fill green youth with spite;
Devils that dim Old Age’s sight;
Devils foolish, and devils wise;
But a blarneying Colleen with two bright eyes
Is the temptingest devil of all!

_Punch._ January 9, 1886.

――――:o:――――

YE PAPYRUS ROLL-SCROLL OF YE SETTE OF ODD VOLUMES[138]

Mr. J. Brodie-Innes, Master of the Rolls of the Sette of _Odd Volumes_, has a great talent for Ingoldsby versification. On May 4, 1888, he read a paper at Willis’s Rooms bearing the above title, in which the peculiarities of the members were graphically, comically, but withal genially hit off. The opening lines ran thus:――

Some fifty centuries, more or less
Over this planet have pass’d, I guess,
Since a monarch there lived of wond’rous fame
In ancient Egypt, whose mighty name,
Known to all both near and far,
Was Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra.