Chapter VII: Preface (7)

Deep the resources drained by him and me,
Deep as DISRAELI, or the deeper sea.
What wife could draw him thus for her and her’s?
What charm have made him more for me disburse?――
Ah! if his guardian had not caught me there
Kissing the Heir!

_The Hornet_, July 26, 1871.

――――

BEHOLD THE DEEDS!

(_Chant Royal._)
An American Parody.

[Being the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, Salesman of Fancy Notions, held in durance of his Landlady for a failure to connect on Saturday night.]

I.

I would that all men my hard case might know;
How grievously I suffer for no sin:
I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo!
I, of my landlady am locked in.
For being short on this sad Saturday,
Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay;
She has turned and is departed with my key;
Wherefore, not even as other boarders free,
I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stones
When for ten days they expiate a spree):
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

II.

One night and one day have I wept my woe;
Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin,
If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co.,
To pray them to advance the requisite tin
For ransom of their salesman, that he may
Go forth as other boarders go alway――――
As those I hear now flocking from their tea,
Led by the daughter of my landlady
Piano-ward. This day for all my moans,
Dry bread and water have been servéd me.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

III.

Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and so
The heart of the young he-boardér doth win,
Playing “The Maiden’s Prayer,” _adagio_――
That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skin
The innocent rustic. For my part, I pray:
That Badarjewska maid may wait for aye
Ere sits she with a lover, as did we
Once sit together, Amabel! Can it be
That all that arduous wooing not atones
For Saturday shortness of trade dollars three?
_Behold_ the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

IV.

Yea! she forgets the arm was wont to go
Around her waist. She wears a buckle whose pin
Galleth the crook of the young man’s elbow;
_I_ forget not, for I that youth have been.
Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay.
Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stay
Close in his room. Not calm, as I, was he;
But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily.
Small ease he gat of playing on the bones,
Or hammering on his stove-pipe, that I see.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

V.

Thou, for whose fear the figurative crow
I eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin!
Thee will I show up――yea, up will I shew
Thy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin.
Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray!
Thou dost _not_ “keep a first-class house,” I say!
It does not with the advertisements agree.
Thou lodgest a Briton with a puggaree,
And thou hast harboured Jacobses and Cohns,
Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee!
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

_Envoy._

Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye:
She hath stolen my trousers, that I may not flee
Privily by the window. Hence these groans,
There is no fleeing in a _robe de nuit_.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

H. C. BUNNER.

――――:o:――――

Poets of the Æsthetic School

About ten years ago London Society was divided into two hostile Camps, one known as the _Æsthetes_, the other as the _Philistines_. Neither title was correct, nor very expressive, but each conveyed a certain meaning which even now could not be briefly expressed in more simple language.

The _Æsthetes_ were originally a small body of artists and poets, belonging to what was called the Pre-Raphaelite school, who strove to educate the English people up to a certain standard in art and culture.

All the men who founded this school subsequently became eminent in their professions, but they were, for many years, subjected to the ridicule and criticisms of the Philistines.

Yet it is probable that most of this opposition was directed less against the men of genius who actually created Pre-Raphaelitism, than against those too ardent devotees of the new fashion, who carried all its dictates to the extreme, and frequently turned the true and the beautiful into the absurd and grotesque by their exaggerations in dress, language, and deportment.

On the other hand many of the opponents of Æstheticism were those who having seen Du Maurier’s caricatures in _Punch_, and witnessed Burnand’s vamped up old comedy _The Colonel_, or Gilbert & Sullivan’s _Patience_, thought themselves fully qualified to jeer at the “consummate” the “utter” and the “too-too,” without having either read a poem by Swinburne, or Morris, or having seen a painting by Burne-Jones or Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

This opposition did some good in its day, for although _Æstheticism_ eventually triumphed, only the beautiful that it created has survived, the lank and melancholy maidens, and the “Grosvenor-Gallery” young men, have departed, but the revival――the _Renaissance_ in fact――of British Art in Painting, poetry, dress, decoration, and even in house furniture, is an accomplished fact. Much has been written, and remains to be written, on this fascinating topic, but this collection cannot be made the medium for Lectures on Art.

At the risk of appearing egotistical the following little work can be mentioned as conveying useful information on a subject which is certainly worthy of some little study:――

“_The Æsthetic Movement in England_,” by Walter Hamilton. Third edition――London. Reeves and Turner, 1882.

Without further preface a selection of parodies will be given on the works of Rossetti, who was not only a founder of the school, but also one of its most eminent exponents.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

BORN May 12, 1828. | DIED April 9, 1882.

There was a particular metre much affected by this great artist and poet, of which perhaps the best example to be found is in his weird “Sister Helen,” which has been frequently parodied. It commences thus:――

“Why did you melt your waxen man,
Sister Helen?
To-day is the third since you began.”
“The time was long, yet the time ran,
Little brother.”
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!_)

“But if you have done your work aright,
Sister Helen,
You’ll let me play, for you said I might.”
“Be very still in your play to-night,
Little brother.”
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!_)

“Oh, the waxen knave was plump to-day,
Sister Helen;
How like dead folk he has dropped away!”
“Nay now, of the dead what can you say,
Little brother?”
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?_)

* * * * *

“Ah! what white thing at the door has cross’d,
Sister Helen?
Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?”
“A soul that’s lost as mine is lost,
Little brother!”
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!_)

This, and other poems by Rossetti, such as _Eden Bower_, and _Troy Town_, only revived a very old fashion――the ballad with a refrain or burden.

But when once it _was_ revived so many indifferent poets attempted to utter their little insipidities in the ballad style, that the parodists soon caught the infection. One gentleman furbished up a tremendous ballad which resembled nothing so much as the cry of a costermonger, for its burden, oft repeated, was――

“Apple, and orange, and nectarine,”

whilst one of the evening papers published the following satire on Rossetti’s style:――

AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI.

“Why do you wear your hair like a man,
Sister Helen?
This week is the third since you began.”
“I’m writing a ballad; be still if you can,
Little brother,
(_O Mother Carey, mother!
What chickens are these between sea and heaven?_”)

“But why does your figure appear so lean,
Sister Helen?
And why do you dress in sage sage, green?”
“Children should never be heard, if seen,
Little brother!
(_O Mother Carey, mother!
What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!_”

“But why is your face so yellowy white,
Sister Helen?
And why are your skirts so funnily tight?”
“Be quiet you torment, or how can I write,
Little brother?
(_O Mother Carey, mother!
How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven._”)

“And who’s Mother Carey, and what is her train,
Sister Helen?
And why do you call her again and again?”
“You troublesome boy, why that’s the refrain,
Little brother!
_O Mother Carey, mother!
What work is toward in the startled heaven?_”)

“And what’s a refrain? What a curious word,
Sister Helen;
Is the ballad you’re writing about a sea-bird?”
“Not at all! why should it be? Don’t be absurd,
Little brother.
(_O Mother Carey, mother!
Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven._)”

(_A big brother speaketh_:)

“The refrain you’ve studied a meaning had,
Sister Helen!
It gave strange force to a weird ballàd.
But refrains have become a ridiculous ‘fad,’
Little brother.
And _Mother Carey, mother_,
Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.”

* * * * *

For the remainder of this exquisite parody, readers are referred to Mr. H. D. Traill’s _Recaptured Rhymes_ (London, W, Blackwood & Sons, 1882), in which work it was republished.

――――

EVE.
(_An Imitation._)

“Dasz ich genossen des Wissens Frucht,
Das kannst du nicht mehr aendern.”――[H. Heine.]

The serpent tempted thee to shame,
Mother Eve.
God’s direst vengeance on thee came,
Mother Eve.
And never may we hope to win
That golden garden close hedged in
From toil and tempest, strife and sin,
Mother Eve.

Before thy wondering, wakened eyes,
Mother Eve.
Clashed shut the gates of Paradise,
Mother Eve.
Thy wandering feet, thy hands were torn,
By briar, wayside weed and thorn,
Thy babes in anguish great were born,
Mother Eve.

And yet God’s vengeance knew no stay,
Mother Eve.
Thy first-born did his brother slay,
Mother Eve.
Died not thy heart for woe and dread,
When Abel in thine arms lay dead,
And Cain red-handed turned and fled,
Mother Eve?

Methinks I hear thee murmur “Nay,”
Mother Eve.
“Evil and bitter was my day,”
Mother Eve.
“Evil and full of pain, but still
I am Thy judge――work all Thy will――
I judge Thee knowing good from ill.”
Mother Eve.

“I stretched mine hand unto Thy tree――”
Mother Eve.
“Not as the sightless beasts are we――”
Mother Eve.
“The curse has fallen――let it bide――
I and my children open-eyed
Know Thee, and judge, whate’er betide,”
Mother Eve.

MABEL PEACOCK.

_Detroit Free Press_, December 5, 1885.

――――

THE POETS AT TEA.
_Rossetti, who took six cups of it._

The lilies lie in my lady’s bower,
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),
They faintly droop for a little hour;
My lady’s head droops like a flower.

She took the porcelain in her hand,
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),
She poured; I drank at her command;
Drank deep, and now-you understand!
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost).

* * * * *

_The Cambridge Fortnightly._ February, 1888.

――――

A TWILIGHT FANTASY.

A woman stood at a garden gate
(_Sing hey, for the distant spreading sail_!)
Sing hey, for the dog that hurried by
With a kettle tied to his tail.

My goodman skurried adown the road.
(_Sing hey, for the joyous drinking bout_!)
And after the ochre cur he sped
With many a gruesome shout.

“Now why this haste, good neighbour?” she cried;
“Why after the dog of the umber tint?”
But, waking the echoes with yells, he sped
Through the twilight’s gleam and glint.

A smug-face lad looked over the fence
(_Sing hey, where the birdlings sing and chirp_,)
“Why laughest, good mother!” “I laugh,” said she,
“To see yon _ecru_ purp.”

A smile then smilèd the smug-faced lad.
(_Sing lack-a-day, for the sunset red_,)
“Then laugh no more, good gossip, because
The kettle is your’n,” he said.

_The Shooting Times._ February 11, 1887.

――――

THE LAUNDRESS AND THE LAIDY.

All on a sofa fair Ada lay,
(_O, for a brandy and soda, she sighed_),
It was four in the afternoon, and gay
Was the outside world, but Ada must stay
In her room, and thus she cried,

“Could I but join the happy throng.”
(_And O, for a brandy and soda she sighed_),
“That under my windows pass along
To Short’s, or to Finch’s, I’d soon be gone,
Or to the Inventions glide.”

She took down an “afternoon tea-book” to read,
(_O, for a brandy and soda she sighed_),
But it interested her little indeed,
Such books are tame if you haven’t “teaed.”
And no one sat by her side.

She went to the window and gazed at the sky,
(_O, for a brandy and soda she sighed_),
Then she saw her particular mash pass by,
To attract his attention did she try,
But in vain, tho’ hard she tried.

Her chloral bottle she took in her hand,
(_O, for a brandy and soda she sighed_),
“To sleep till the evening will be grand;”
And she slept through the strains of a German band,
Which was playing in all its pride.

“Why didn’t she go for a stroll?” you say,
But, reader, I beg you pause;
Her friends on a visit were all away,
And her laundress forgot to send home that day
Her petticoats, stockings, and pockethandkerchiefs.

_The Sporting Times._ June 20, 1885.

The same paper, for May 23, 1885, contained another very funny parody of Rossetti; but unfortunately it was too suggestive to bear republication here.

It was reserved, however, for that prince of Parodists, Charles S. Calverley, to make the ballad with a refrain supremely ridiculous:――

The auld wife sat at her ivied door,
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)
A thing she had frequently done before;
And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees.

The piper he piped on the hill-top high,
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)
Till the cow said “I die,” and the goose ask’d “Why?”
And the dog said nothing, but search’d for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farm-yard;
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)
His last brew of ale was a trifle hard――
The connexion of which with the plot one sees.

The farmer’s daughter hath frank blue eyes;
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)
She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,
As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer’s daughter hath ripe red lips;
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)
If you try to approach her, away she skips
Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer’s daughter hath soft brown hair;
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)
And I met with a ballad, I can’t say where,
Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

In the second part of this pathetic composition the poet thus describes the melancholy sequel:――

She sat with her hands ’neath her burning cheeks,
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)
And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;
Then she follow’d him out o’er the misty leas.

Her sheep follow’d her, as their tails did them,
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)
And this song is consider’d a perfect gem,
And as to the meaning, it’s what you please.

When Mr. Calverley composed this burlesque Ballad (which is to be found in full in his _Fly Leaves_, published by G. Bell & Sons), it is probable that he was thinking of one by Mr. Morris, entitled “Two Red Roses across the Moon” commencing “There was a lady liv’d in a hall,” and ending with the refrain which forms the title.

Having once shown how it could be done, other comic writers followed suit, and the burlesque ballads in this style are almost too numerous to be quoted.

YOU, I, AND THE POST.

YOU,――_the British Public_; _I_,――_W. E. G._
_The Post_――_G. P. O._

A statesman sits at Hawarden gate,
(_Paper and pens and a bottle of ink_.)
A stalwart man with a shapely pate,
And brains to spare, as you rightly think.

The live-long day he’s been hacking down trees,
(_Paper and pens and two bottles of ink_.)
Toughish work, yet he does it with ease,
Nor e’en doth, as Milton would phrase it, “swink.”

Who is’t approacheth? ha! ha! The post!
(_Paper and pens and a pint of ink._)
Of letters and post-cards bearing a host――
Beneath the load he seems ready to sink.

The Statesman opens and reads them all,
(_Paper and pens and a quart of ink_.)
Quoth he, “I’ll answer them great and small,
This very night ere I sleep a wink.”

In he strides to his big bureau,
(_Paper and pens and a gallon of ink_.)
And answers fourscore letters or so――
(Fourscore’s the minimum number, I think);

Some answered by note, and some by card,
(_Paper and pens and a barrel of ink_.)
But when the question’s uncommonly hard,
The point of the query he’ll deftly shrink.

Oh, the postman puffs, and the postman swears,
(_Paper and pens and a sheet of stamps_.)
At the load of letters and cards he bears
To Hawarden gate in his daily tramps.

Oh, you who of letters and answers are fond,
(_Paper and pens and a grey goose quill_.)
Write to Hawarden, there beyond――
And an answer you’ll get from the People’s Will!

HUBERT JOHN DE BURGH.

(This talented young author died in 1877, at the early age of thirty-two. The above parody originally appeared in _Yorick_, to accompany a cartoon by Harry Furniss.)

――――

As recently as October 20, 1888, _Punch_ had a similar parody entitled

AGRICULTURE’S LATEST RÔLE.
(_A Bucolic Ballad, with a Borrowed Refrain, Dedicated
to the British Dairy Farmers’ Association_,)

“Where are you going to, my pretty Maid?”
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)
“I’m going a-milking, Sir;” she said;
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)
“For times are bad, and the farm don’t pay.
’Tis Pasture _v._ Arable so men say.
If still I’d be prosperous _this_ is the way.
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)

“I’m tired of corn-growing that brings little cash,
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)
The old business of Ceres seems going to smash.
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)
Free Trade and the Yankee have finished her clean.
From furrow and sheaf there seems little to glean,
From ploughed land to pasture I’m changing the scene.
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)

“I hope you’ll allow I look fetching like this,
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)
A Dairymaid’s dress suits me sweetly, I wis.
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)
Just twig my short petticoats, look at my pail!
The bards are all ready a Milkmaid to hail!
I mean making prettiness pay,――shall I fail?
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)

“You’ve been to the Dairy Show, Sir, have you not?
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)
Those churners competitive were a sweet lot.
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)
Miss HOLMES, and Miss KEEL, and Miss BARRON, who won,
Seemed not a bit fagged when the business was done.
I’m sure Butter-making _looks_ capital fun.
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!_)”

* * * * *

――――

A CHRISTMAS WAIL.
(_Not by Dante Gabriel Rossetti._)

On Christmas day I dined with Brown.
(_O the dinner was fine to see!_)
I drove to his house, right merrily down
To a western square of London town.
(_And I moan and I cry woe’s me!_)

We dined off turkey and Christmas beef;
(_O the dinner was fine to see!_)
My anguish is sore and my comfort brief,
And nought but blue pills can ease my grief,
(_As I moan and I cry woe’s me!_)

We gorged plum-pudding and hot mince pies,
(_O the dinner was fine to see!_)
And other nameless atrocities,
The weight of which on my――bosom lies.
(_And I moan and I cry woe’s me!_)

We drank dry Clicquot and rare old port,
(_O the dinner was fine to see!_)
And I pledged my host for a right good sort
In bumpers of both, for I never thought
(_I should moan and I cry woe’s me!_)

* * * * *

But I woke next day with a fearful head,
(_O that dinner so fine to see!_)
And on my chest is a weight like lead,
And I frequently wish that I were dead,
(_And I moan and I cry woe’s me!_)

And as for Brown――why the truth to tell――
(_O that dinner so fine to see!_)
I hate him now with the hate of hell,
Though before I loved him passing well,
(_And I moan and I cry woe’s me!_)

_Truth._ December 27, 1883.

――――

One of the most ridiculous features of the so-called Æsthetic movement was, that a number of brainless noodles set to work to write poetry in _serious_ imitation of Swinburne, Rossetti, and Oscar Wilde. The style was a mixture of mediæval Italian and middle English, and the one principle which guided the dolorous singers was, “We must not have any meaning, or, at any rate, the less the better.” “My lady” was addressed in all kinds of rhymes, “Love” was held responsible for legions of complicated woes, green eyes, golden eyes――even orbs “like a cat’s splendid circled eye” were quite in fashion. The recipe for this description of poetry was――Begin with an address to your lady; never mind if you have not one, for that is a mere detail. Represent her as bewitching you with the unutterably weary gaze of her eyes――or eyne――“eyne” is preferable; stick in an old word like “teen” or “drouth” or “wot” or “sooth” or “wearyhead” or “wanhope;” break out with “Lo!” and “Yea!” and “Nay!” and “Ah!” at brief intervals, and be sure to have a weird refrain. This humbug held its own for a while, but a few unsparing satirists dealt with this dreary small-fry of art, and the following, one of the most delightful modern jests was prompted by the school:――

MADONNA MIA.

I would I were a cigarette
Between my lady’s lithe sad lips
Where Death, like Love, divinely set,
With exquisite sighs and sips,
Feeds and is fed and is not fain,
And Memory married with Regret,
And Pleasure amorous of red Pain,
In moon-wise musing wax and wane;
That with the bitter sweetness of her breath
I might somewhile remember and forget
(For Life is Love, and Love is Death!)
It was my hap――ah well-a-way――
To burn my little hour away!

I would I were a gold jewèl
To fleck my lady’s soft lean throat,
Where Love, like Death, lies throned to swell
A strange and tremulous note
Of yearning vague and void and vain,
Delight on flame Desire to quell,
And Pleasure fearful of red Pain,
And dreams fall in to sear and stain;
That in the barren blossom of her breath
I might be glad we were not one, but twain
(For Love is Life, and Life is Death!)
And that without me, well-a-way,
She could not choose but pass away.

This masterly balderdash has imposed on many people; and the most comic thing in the world is to see an earnest person endeavouring to discover hidden meanings in it.

――――

“_John Bull_” (a London newspaper) for November 8, 1879, contained a long article from which only the following brief notes can be quoted:――

IMMORTAL PICTURES.

Mr. Rossetti has painted a picture, and in an unguarded moment permitted the _Athenæum_ to describe it in the following language.――[_Extract given in full._]

_Apropos_ of the above fragment of art-criticism, a correspondent sends us the following analysis (clipped from a rival journal) of another remarkable picture:――

“It is better to speak the truth at once, and to say that we
have in Mr. Symphony Priggins a master as great as the
greatest; and in this picture the master-piece of a master;
and in this episode of a picture the masterstroke of a
master’s master-piece. The sublimity of Buonaroti, the
poetic fervour of Raffaelle, the tremulous intensity of
Sandro Botticelli, the correggiosity of Correggio have never
raised these masters to higher heights than our own Priggins
has attained in this transcendent rendering of the Dish
running away with the Spoon.

“The artist, like some others of his craft, is, as is known,
a poet of no mean pretensions; and he has set forth the
inner meaning of his picture in the following lines, which
form the motto on its frame:――”

_A Ballad of High Endeavour._

Ah night! blind germ of days to be,
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
What wail of smitten strings hear we?
(Ah me; ah me!
_Hey diddle dee_!)

Ravished by clouds our Lady Moon,
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
Sinks swooning in a lady-swoon
(Ah me! ah me!
_Dum diddle dee_!)

What profits it to rise i’ the dark?
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
If love but over-soar its mark
(Ah me! ah me!
_Hey diddle dee_!)

What boots to fall again forlorn?
Ah me! ah me;
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
Scorned by the grinning hound of scorn,
(Ah me! ah me!
_Dum diddle dee_!)

Art thou not greater who art less?
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
Low love fulfilled of low success?
(Ah me! ah me!
_Hey diddle dee_!)

No one we imagine, would have been dull enough to have
missed the allegory of Mr. Priggins’ great picture even
without such exposition; but many, perhaps, will only feel
it after this its setting forth in “perfect music matched
with noble words.”

――――

SONG BY MR. JOSEPH HUBERT HILLYER.

Art is to me no intellectual fad;
(_A goodly balance is fair to see_!)
You don’t catch me o’er culture going mad.
(_The rarest of letters are £ s. d.!_)
As soon as I could paint I set my heart
On making money (else what good is Art?);
In painting show-bills ’twas I made my start.
(_O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!_)

I found the public vulgar scenes liked best,
(_A goodly balance is fair to see_!)
And so I painted my great “Crowner’s Quest;”
(_The rarest of letters are £ s. d._!)
And when its sordid realism took,
I gave them next my “Fair at Donnybrook.”
And “Tourists up the Rhine with Mr. Cook.”
(_O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!_)

These made my name, and then the Starch firm, Plums,
(_A goodly balance is fair to see_!)
To paint them posters gave me lordly sums;
(_The rarest of letters are £ s. d._!)
And there was not a hoarding but did bear
(Above my name, writ large,) a dainty pair
Of damsels, who starched collarettes did wear.
(_O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!_)

Since then I’ve turned my art to fresh accounts,
(_A goodly balance is fair to see_!)
And rival razors puffed for large amounts.
(_O, rarest of letters are £ s. d._!)
I’ve painted, too, with realistic tricks,
“The Penny Steamboat’s Progress” (set of six),
From Old Swan Pier, till at Vauxhall she sticks!
(_O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!_)

_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1882.

――――

LONDON TOWN.
_A Lyric à la Mode._

Kent-born HELEN, England’s pride,
(_O London Town_!)
Had a waist a world too wide
For the height of her heart’s desire.
Vinegar she in vain had tried.
(_O London Town!
Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire_!)

HELEN knelt at Fashion’s shrine,
(_O London Town_!)
Saying, “A little boon is mine,
A little boon, but my heart’s desire.
Here me speak, and make me a sign!
(_O London Town!
Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!_)

“Look! my waist is in excess,
(_O London Town_!)
I would die to have it less.
Shape it to my heart’s desire.
Fit for fashionable dress.
(_O London Town!
Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!_)

“It is moulded like a Greek’s,
(_O London Town_!)
One of Nature’s spiteful freaks.
Pinch it to my heart’s desire:
I am full of pains and piques.
(_O London Town!
Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!_)

“See BELL FANE’S, how slim it is!
(_O London Town_!)
Eighteen inches at most, I wis!
Poisons the cup of my heart’s desire.
O that _I_ should suffer this!
(_O London Town!
Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!_)

“Yea, for straitness here I sue!
(_O London Town!_)
Antifat I find won’t do;
Give me, give me, my heart’s desire,
Three inches less, or at least full two.”
(_O London Town!
Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!_)

(_Eight verses omitted._)

_Punch._ April 24, 1880.

――――

The following rather more serious imitation of Rossetti is from “_The Diversions of the Echo Club_” by Bayard Taylor. Mr. Taylor remarks that Rossetti’s poetry is encumbered with the burden of colour, sensuous expression, and mediæval imagery and drapery; but he forgot to mention that Rossetti wrote as an artist, and that some of his finest poems were written to accompany, and to elucidate, certain of his own pictures.

CIMABUELLA.

I.

Fair-tinted cheeks, clear eyelids drawn
In crescent curves above the light
Of eyes, whose dim, uncertain dawn
Becomes not day: a forehead white
Beneath long yellow heaps of hair:
She is so strange she must be fair.

II.

Had she sharp, slant-wise wings outspread,
She were an angel; but she stands
With flat dead gold behind her head,
And lilies in her long thin hands:
Her folded mantle, gathered in,
Falls to her feet as it were tin.

III.

Her nose is keen as pointed flame;
Her crimson lips no thing express;
And never dread of saintly blame
Held down her heavy eyelashes:
To guess what she were thinking of,
Precludeth any meaner love.

IV.

An azure carpet, fringed with gold,
Sprinkled with scarlet spots, I laid
Before her straight, cool feet unrolled:
But she nor sound nor movement made
(Albeit, I heard a soft, shy smile,
Printing her neck a moment’s while);

V.

And I was shamed through all my mind
For that she spake not, neither kissed,
But stared right past me. Lo! behind
Me stood, in pink and amethyst,
Sword-girt and velvet-doubleted,
A tall, gaunt youth, with frowzy head,

VI.

Wide nostrils in the air, dull eyes,
Thick lips that simpered, but, ah me!
I saw, with most forlorn surprise,
He was the Thirteenth Century,
I but the Nineteenth: then despair
Curdled beneath my curling hair.

VII.

O, Love and Fate! How could she choose
My rounded outlines, broader brain,
And my resuscitated Muse?
Some tears she shed, but whether pain
Or joy in him unlocked their source,
I could not fathom which, of course.

VIII.

But I from missals, quaintly bound,
With either and with clavichord
Will sing her songs of sovran sound:
Belike her pity will afford
Such faint return as suits a saint
So sweetly done in verse and paint.

――――:o:――――

THE LEAF.

Those who have read Rossetti’s lines, commencing

“Torn from your parent bough,
Poor leaf, all withered now,
Where go you?”

will remember that he gives them as translated from Leopardi. It is, however, rather curious that Rossetti does not seem to have noticed that Leopardi headed his little poem “Imitazione” thus distinctly disclaiming the authorship.

The following is Leopardi’s version:――

IMITAZIONE.

Lungi dal proprio ramo,
Povera foglia frale
Dove vai tu? Dal faggio
Là dov’ io nacqui, mi divise il vento.
Esso, tornando, a volo
Dal bosco alla campagna,
Dalla valle mi porta alla montagna
Seco perpetuamente;
Vo pellegrino, e tutto l’altro ignoro.
Vo dove ogni altra cosa
Dove naturalmente
Va la foglia di rosa
E la foglia d’alloro.

Leopardi translated these lines from a collection of fables by A. V. Arnault, Paris, 1826, where they are styled:――

DE LA TIGE DÉTACHÉE.

Pauvre feuille desséchée,
Ou vas-tu? Je n’en sais rien.
L’orage a brisé le chêne
Qui seul etait mon soutien.
De son inconstante haleine
Le zéphir ou l’acquilon
Depuis ce jour me promène
De la montagne à la plaine,
De la forêt au vallon,
Je vais où le vent me mène,
Hélas! sans trop m’effrayer;
Je vais où va toute chose,
Où va la feuille de rose,
Où va la feuille de laurier.

These lines had been previously translated into English, before Rossetti, by Macaulay, as follows:――

Thou poor leaf, so sear and frail,
Sport of every wanton gale,
Whence and whither dost thou fly
Through this bleak autumnal sky?
On a noble oak I grew,
Green and broad and fair to view;
But the monarch of the shade
By the tempest low was laid.
From that time I wandered o’er
Wood and valley, hill and moor;
Wheresoe’er the wind is blowing,
Nothing caring, nothing knowing.
Thither go I whither goes
Glory’s laurel, Beauty’s rose.

Before leaving Rossetti mention must be made of a singular series of illustrated parodies which appeared in _Punch_, March 3, 10, 17, 24 and 31, 1866. The illustrations, by Du Maurier, seem to have been intended partly to ridicule Burne Jones’s style, and partly that of Rossetti; as to the poem, it is of the ultra weird and sensational ballad form, with a slight dash of the “Lady of Shalott” thrown in, and the inevitable refrain, popularly supposed to be inseparable from Pre-raffaelite art.

A LEGEND OF CAMELOT.

Tall _Braunighrindas_ left her bed
At cock-crow with an aching head,
_O Miserie!_

“I yearn to suffer and to do,”
She cried, “ere sunset, something new!
_O Miserie!_

“To do and suffer, ere I die,
I care not what. I know not why.
_O Miserie!_

“Some quest I crave to undertake,
Or burden bear, or trouble make.”
_O Miserie!_

She shook her hair about her form
In waves of colour bright and warm.
_O Miserie!_

It rolled and writhed and reached the floor;
A silver wedding-ring she wore.
_O Miserie!_

She left her tower, and wandered down
Into the High street of the town.
_O Miserie!_

Her pale feet glimmered, in and out,
Like tombstones as she went about.
_O Miserie!_

From right to left, and left to right;
And blue veins streakt her insteps white;
_O Miserie!_

And folks did ask her in the street
“How fared it with her long pale feet?”
_O Miserie!_

And blinkt, as though ’twere hard to bear
The red-heat of her blazing hair!
_O Miserie!_

Sir Galahad and Sir Launcelot
Came hand in hand down Camelot;
_O Miserie!_

Sir Gauwaine followed close behind;
A weight hung heavy on his mind.
_O Miserie!_

“Who knows this damsel, burning bright,”
Quoth Launcelot “like a northern light?”
_O Miserie!_

Quoth Sir Gauwaine: “I know her not!”
“Who quoth you _did_?” Quoth Launcelot.
_O Miserie!_

Then quoth the pure Sir Galahad;
“She seems, methinks, but lightly clad!”
_O Miserie!_

“Ah me!” sighed Launcelot where he stood,
“I cannot fathom it!” … (Who could?)
_O Miserie!_

* * * * *

――――:o:――――

The following beautiful sonnet written by Miss Christina Rossetti, sister of D. G. Rossetti, appears in “_Goblin Market and other Poems_,” published by Macmillan & Co., 1879:

REMEMBER.

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for awhile
And afterwards remember, do not grieve;
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

This appears to be almost the only poem by Miss Rossetti which has tempted the mocking-bird to sing.

REMEMBER.

Remember it, although you’re far away――
Too far away more fivers yet to land,
When you no more can proffer notes of hand,
Nor I half yearn to change my yea to nay.
Remember, when no more in airy way,
You tell me of repayment sagely planned:
Only remember it, you understand!
It’s rather late to counsel you to pay;
Yet if you should remember for awhile,
And then forget it wholly, I should grieve;
For, though your light procrastinations leave
Small remnants of the hope that once I had,
Than that you should forget your debt and smile,
I’d rather you’d remember and be sad.

_Judy._ April 18, 1888.

――――

DING DONG.

_By Rosina Christelli._

Ding Dong, Ding Dong,
There goes the gong,
Dick, come along,
’Tis time for dinner.
Wash your face,
Take your place,
Where’s your grace
You little sinner?

“Like an apple?”
“Yes, I should.
Nice, nice, nicey!
Good, good, good!”

“Manners, Miss,
Please behave.
Those you ask
Shan’t have.”

“Those who don’t,
Don’t want.
I’ll eat it,
You shan’t.”

Baby cry,
Wipe his eye.
Baby good,
Give him food.
Baby sleepy,
Go to bed.
Baby naughty,
Smack his head!

Poor little thrush,
Found dead in a bush!
When did he die?
He is rather high.
Bury him deep,
He won’t keep.
Bury him well,
Or he’ll smell.

What have horns? Cows and moons.
What have crests? Cocks and spoons.
What are nice? Ducks and peas.
What are nasty? Bites of fleas.
What are fast? Tides and times.
What are slow? Nursery Rhymes.

From _The Light Green_. Cambridge, W. Metcalf and Sons, 1872.

WILLIAM MORRIS.

The author of “The Earthly Paradise” is much more than a mere poet, he is a thorough man of business, who works as an art designer, and lectures on the social improvement of the people. His poetry was thus amusingly criticised in _London_, 1877:――

RONDEL.

Behold the works of W. Morris,
Epics, and here and there wall-papery,
Mild, mooney, melancholy vapoury.
A sort of Chaucer _minus_ Horace.

Spun out like those of William Loris,
Who wrote of amourous red-tapery,
Behold the works of W. Morris,
Epics, and here and there wall-papery!

Long ladies, knights, and earles and choris-
ters in the most appropriate drapery,
Samite and silk and spotless napery,
Sunflowers and apple-blossoms and orris,
Behold the works of W. Morris!

――――

There are not many good parodies of Mr. Morris, the following is one of the best, though where it first appeared, or by whom it was written, cannot be stated:――

In the cushioned Abbey pew
There is space for Me and You.
Twine the blossoms in my hair;
Never mind if people stare――
Never mind, for none knowèth
If one flirteth after death!

Hark――the organ shakes the pew!
Would it were for Me and You!
Yea, I would indeed it were!
Are they staring? Let them stare!
Never mind, for none knowèth
If one laugheth after death!

We will slumber in the pew――
I am weary, so are you,
And the cushions in repair!
Let the British public stare!
Never mind, for none knowèth
If one sleepeth after death!

――――

ALL SIDES OF THE RIVER.

_The Maidens._

We, with distaste, across the water wan,
The broadcloth of our modern lovers scan;
We each prefer a mediæval man.

_The Youths._

We would not reach you, if we could dry-shod;
Not one of us would change, for even, his odd;
The Girl we like not of the Period.

_The Mothers._

O daughters! make your markets while you can,
For bloom soon groweth like the water wan;
The early bird picks up the marrying man.

_The Maidens._

Perhaps, O lovers, if we did our hair
_A la_ Medea, and if our garments were
Draped classically, we should seem more fair.

_The Youths._

By doing this ye would not us befool;
Medea! the idea makes our blood run cool,
Besides of classics we’d enough at school.

_The Boys._

Come, I say, now, the girls can darn, and hem,
And cook a chop, and clean a meerschaum-stem;
Our sisters take, we are so tired of them.

_The Maidens._

Perhaps if ruffs around our necks were tied,
Or you with idiotic stare we eyed
All angles, with our heads upon one side,
In short, the middle age style――

_The Widows._

Suitors! stay,
We are less far from middle age than they.

_The Youths._

Maidens, we then to you would make our way.

_The Maidens_,

Cross ye the water wan, then,――

_Mr. Swinburne._

I demur
To “water wan,” it comes too often, sir;
Write next, as I should, rhyming, “wan water,”

_The Maidens._

Lovers, we pray you, gaining our consents,
Let us, too, have _our_ mediæval bents,
Give us, for cricket-matches, tournaments.

_The Widowers._

We are stout, nor will uncomfortably truss
Our arms and legs, like fowls; no jousts for us,
In armour we should look ridiculous.

_The Fathers._

Of money, tournaments would cost a heap:
Humour your sweethearts, sons, with something cheap
But look to settlements before you leap.

_The Youths._

O maidens! we in verse will call you queens,
And publicly extol your minds and miens,
Sending our poems to the magazines.

_The Maidens._

Sith of Life’s arches bloom hath shortest span,
We will give up our mediæval man,
And meet you half way in the water wan.

_The Editors._

Alas! the maidens have removed their ban,
We, vex’d with verses vile, e’en when they scan,
Shall very soon be as the water wan.

ANONYMOUS.

_Once a Week._ February 20, 1869.

――――

THE MONTHLY PARODIES.

AN APOLOGY.
_After William Morris’s “Earthly Paradise.”_

Of Love or War this is no hour to sing,
But I may ease the burden of your fears
(Lest you think death to mirth is happening),
And quote from wit of past and present years,
Till o’er these pages you forget your tears,
And smile again, as presently you say
Some idle jingle――or forgotten lay.

But when a-weary of the hunt for mirth
Thro’ comic journals, with a doleful sigh,
You feel unkindly unto all the earth,
And grudge the pennies that they cost to buy
These “weakly comics,” lingering like to die,
Remember, then, a little while, I pray,
The clever singers of a former day.

The pomp and power and grand majestic air
That marches thro’ their poems’ stately tread,
These idle verses may catch unaware,
And by burlesque call back remembered
Some rhymes “that living not can ne’er be dead,”
Though what is meant by that I cannot say――
But Mr. Morris wrote it one fine day.

Here grouped are strains of parody in rhyme,
Now classified and placed in order straight,
Let it suffice it for the present time
That some be old, while some are born but late,
A careful choice, from all the crowd that wait,
Of those that in forgotten serials stay,
Or are, in passing journals, tossed away.

Folks say a wizard to a common King,
One April-tide such wondrous jest did show
That in a mirror men beheld each thing,
Like, yet unlike, and saw the pale nose glow,
While rosy face looked white as fallen snow,
Each visage altered in such comic way
That those who came to court, remain’d to play.

So with these many Parodies it is,
If you will read aright and carefully,
Not scathing satire, nor malicious hiss
For lack of beauty in the themes to see;
Nor jeerings coarse, at what men prize, as we
But jest to make some little changeling play
Its pranks in classic robes, all crowned with bay.

GLEESON WHITE.

OSCAR WILDE.

It would be useless to attempt to give any parodies on the poems of Mr. Oscar Wilde without prefacing them with some account, however brief, of his career. In a few of the skits the allusions are already out of date, and in a short time the reasons will be quite forgotten that led to the silly ridicule and misrepresentations of which Mr. Oscar Wilde, as the Apostle of Æstheticism, was formerly the object.

Mr. Oscar O’Flahertie Wills Wilde was born in Dublin on October 15, 1856. His father, Sir William R. Wilde, was an eminent surgeon, and a man of literary tastes and great archæological learning.

In 1851 Sir William (then Mr.) Wilde married a granddaughter of Archdeacon Elgee, of Wexford, a lady well known in literary circles in Dublin as having written many poems which were published in the _Nation_ newspaper at the time of the political excitement in 1848. They appeared over the _nom de plume_ “Speranza,” and were afterwards published in a collected form, entitled “Poems by Speranza.”

Mr. Oscar Wilde early developed talents such as might have been expected in the son of highly gifted parents. Having spent about a year at Portora Royal School, Enniskillen, Mr. Wilde studied for a year at Trinity College, Dublin, where he obtained a classical scholarship at the early age of sixteen, and in 1874, won the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek, the topic selected for that year being the Greek Comic Poets. Thence he went to Magdalen College, Oxford, where he obtained a first scholarship.

He soon began to show his taste for art and china, and before he had been at Oxford very long, his rooms were the show of the college, and of the university too. He was fortunate enough to obtain the best situated rooms in the college, on what is called the kitchen staircase, having a lovely view over the river Cherwell and the beautiful Magdalen walks, and Magdalen bridge. His rooms were three in number, and the walls were entirely panelled. The two sitting rooms were connected by an arch, where folding doors had at one time stood. His blue china was supposed by connoisseurs to be very valuable and fine, and there was plenty of it. He was hospitable, and on Sunday nights after “Common Room,” his rooms were generally the scene of conviviality, where undergraduates of all descriptions and tastes were to be met, drinking punch, or a B. and S. with their cigars. It was at one of these entertainments that he made his well-known remark, “Oh, that I could live up to my blue china!”

Besides minor scholarships, he took the Newdigate, a prize for English verse, in 1878, and a first in _Literis Humanioribus_, after which he took his degree.

During this period he produced a number of poems, these were published, some in _The Month_, others in the _Catholic Monitor_, and the _Irish Monthly_. A number of his short poems also appeared in _Kottabos_, a small magazine written by members of Trinity College, Dublin.

The first number of Mr. Edmund Yates’s _Time_, April 1879, contained a short poem by Oscar Wilde, entitled “The Conqueror of Time,” and to the July number he contributed “The New Helen.” Some of the foregoing poems, with others not previously published, appeared in a volume, entitled “Poems” by Oscar Wilde, published in 1881 by David Bogue, which speedily ran through several editions.

When referring to this volume in “The Æsthetic Movement in England” mention was made of Mr. Wilde’s exquisite little poem

REQUIESCAT.

Tread lightly, she is near,
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daises grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair,
Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.

Coffin board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
SHE is at rest.

Peace, peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.

concerning which Mr. G. A. Sala wrote to the Editor (on August 17, 1882.) “I note your book for a proximate ‘Echo.’ I have not read Oscar Wilde’s poems, but in the very sweet stanzas (‘Requiescat’) which you quote, I mark a singular passage:――

“All her bright golden air,
Tarnished with rust.”

Golden hair (_experto crede_) does _not_ tarnish in the tomb. Read the last paragraph in Zola’s _Nana_, which physiologically, is astoundingly accurate.”

Faithfully always,
_George Augustus Sala_.

The passage relating to the death of _Nana_ runs thus:―― “Et, sur ce masque horrible et grotesque du néant, les cheveux, les beaux cheveux gardant leur flambée de soleil, coulaient en un ruissellement d’or, Vénus se décomposait.”

It is also necessary to refer, here to Mr. Wilde’s career in the two other capacities he has assumed of _Art Lecturer_, and _Dress Reformer_.

The interest in the Æsthetic School had sometime since spread to the United States, and when the opera of _Patience_ was produced it occurred to Mr. Wilde that a visit to the States to give some lectures, explanatory of _real Æstheticism_ as it exists amongst us, might interest and possibly instruct and elevate our transatlantic cousins.

In some of his early utterances he was unguarded; he admitted, for instance, that he was not strongly impressed with the mighty ocean, and great was the flow of wit from this small cause:――

“There’s _Oscar Wilde_, that gifted chylde,
Fair Poesie’s anointed,
Has, like a brick, the Atlantic
Crossed, to be disappointed.
Poor Oscar Wilde, æsthetic chylde;
The Atlantic ought to know it!
A fault so grave to misbehave,
And disappoint a poet!”

He went to Omaha, where, under the auspices of the Social Art Club, he delivered a lecture on “Decorative Art,” in the course of which he described his impressions of many American houses as being “illy designed, decorated shabbily, and in bad taste, and filled with furniture that was not honestly made, and was out of character.” This statement gave rise to the following verses:――

“What a shame and what a pity,
In the streets of London City
_Mr. Wilde_ is seen no more.
Far from Piccadilly banished,
He to Omaha has vanished,
Horrid place, which _swells_ ignore.

On his back a coat he beareth,
Such as Sir John Bennett weareth,
Made of velvet――strange array!
Legs _Apollo_ might have sighed for,
Or great _Hercules_ have died for,
His knee breeches now display.

Waving sunflower and lily,
He calls all the houses “illy”
Decorated and designed.
For of taste they’ve not a tittle;
They may chew and they may whittle;
But they are all born colour blind!”

From the States he went to Canada, and thence to Nova Scotia, the Halifax _Morning Herald_ of October 10, 1882, gave an amusing account of an interview held with him by their own “Interviewer.” “The apostle had no lily, nor yet a sunflower. He wore a velvet jacket which seemed to be a good jacket. He had an ordinary necktie and wore a linen collar about number eighteen on a neck half a dozen sizes smaller. His legs were in trousers, and his boots were apparently the product of New York art, judging by their pointed toes. His hair is the colour of straw, slightly leonine, and when not looked after, goes climbing all over his features. Mr. Wilde was communicative and genial; he said he found Canada pleasant, but in answer to a question as to whether European or American women were the more beautiful, he dexterously evaded his querist.”

The remainder of the conversation was devoted to poetry; he expressed his opinion that Poe was the greatest American poet, and that Walt Whitman, if not a poet, is a man who sounds a strong note, perhaps neither prose nor poetry, but something of his own that is grand, original and unique.

On this topic _The Century_, for November, 1882, contained an exquisitely humorous poem written by Helen Gray Cone, describing an imaginary interview between Oscar Wilde and the great poetical Egotist――Walt Whitman. The style and diction of both are admirably hit off. The parody of Whitman reads, indeed, like an excerpt from his works.

Unfortunately, as the poem is very long, only an extract can be given:――

NARCISSUS IN CAMDEN.

(“_In the course of his lecture, Mr. Wilde remarked that the most impressive room he had yet entered in America was the one in Camden Town, where he met Walt Whitman. It contained plenty of fresh air and sunlight. On the table was a simple cruse of water._”)

_Paumanokides. Narcissus._

_Paumanokides_:

Who may this be?
This young man clad unusually with loose locks, languorous, glidingly
toward me advancing,
Toward the ceiling of my chamber his orbic and expressive eyeballs
uprolling,
As I have seen the green-necked wild fowl, the mallard, in the
thunderings of the storm,
By the weedy shore of Paumanok my fish-shaped island,
Sit down, young man!
I do not know you, but I love you with burning intensity,
I am he that loves the young men, whosoever and wheresoever they are
or may be hereafter, or may have been any time in the past,
Loves the eye-glassed literat, loves also and probably more the
vendor of clams, raucous-throated, monotonous chanting,
Loves the elevated Railroad employée of Manahatta,
My city;
I suppress the rest of the list of the persons I love, solely because
I love you,
Sit down, _élève_, I receive you!

_Narcissus._

O clarion, from whose brazen throat
Strange sounds across the seas are blown,
Where England, girt as with a moat,
A strong sea-lion sits alone!

A pilgrim from that white-cliffed shore,
What joy, large flower of Western land!
To seek thy democratic door,
With eager hand to clasp thy hand!

_Paumanokides._

Right you are!
Take then the electric pressure of these fingers,
O my Comrade!

* * * * *

Dear son, I have learned the secret of the Universe,
I learned it from my original _bonne_, the white-capped ocean,
The secret of the Universe is not Beauty, dear son,
Nor is it Art, the perpetuator of Beauty,
The secret of the Universe is to admire one’s self.
Camerado, you hear me!

_Narcissus._