Chapter VIII: Preface (8)

Ah, I too loitering on an eve of June
Where one wan narciss leaned above a pool,
While overhead Queen Dian rose too soon,
And through the Tyrian clematis the cool
Night avis came wandering wearily, I too,
Beholding that pale flower, beheld Life’s key at last, and knew

That love of one’s fair self were but indeed
Just worship of pure Beauty; and I gave
One sweet sad sigh, then bade my fond eyes feed
Upon the mirrored treasure of the wave,
Like that lithe beauteous boy in Tempe’s vale,
Whom hapless Echo loved――thou knowest the Heliconian tale!

And while heaven’s harmony in lake and gold
Changed to a faint nocturne in silvern gray,
Like rising sea-mists from my spirit rolled
The grievous vapors of this Age of Clay,
Beholding Beauty’s re-arisen Shrine,
And the white glory of this precious loveliness of mine!

* * * * *

Haply in the far, the orient future,
In the dawn we herald like the birds,
Men shall read the legend of our meeting,
Linger o’er the music of our words;
Haply coming poets shall compare me
Then to Milton in his lovely youth,
Sitting in the cell of Galileo,
Learning at his elder’s lips the truth.
Haply they shall liken these dear moments,
Safely held in History’s amber clear,
Unto Dante’s converse bland with Virgil,
On the margin of that gloomy mere!

_Paumanokides._

Do not be deceived, dear son;
Amid the chorusses of the morn of progress, roaring, hilarious, those
names will be heard no longer.
Galileo was admirable once, Milton was admirable,
Dante the _I_-talian was a cute man in his way,
But he was not the maker of poems, the answerer!
I, Paumanokides, am the maker of poems, the answerer,
And I calculate to chant as long as the earth revolves,
To an interminable audience of haughty, effusive, copious, gritty,
and chipper Americanos!

_Narcissus._

What more is left to say or do?
Our minds have met; our hands must part.
I go to plant in pastures new
The love of Beauty and of Art,
I’ll shortly start.
One town is rather small for two
Like me and you!

_Paumanokides._

So long!

――――

_Punch_ also had a very funny burlesque description of

“OSCAR INTERVIEWED.

“_New York, Jan._, 1882.

“Determined to anticipate the rabble of penny-a-liners ready
to pounce upon any distinguished foreigner who approaches
our shores, and eager to assist a sensitive Poet in avoiding
the impertinent curiosity and ill-bred insolence of the
Professional Reporter, I took the fastest pilot-boat on the
station, and boarded the splendid Cunard steamer, _The
Boshnia_, in the shucking of a pea-nut.

“HIS ÆSTHETIC APPEARANCE.

“He stood, with his large hand passed through his long hair,
against a high chimney-piece――which had been painted
pea-green, with panels of peacock blue pottery let in at
uneven intervals――one elbow on the high ledge, the other
hand on his hip. He was dressed in a long, snuff-coloured,
single-breasted coat, which reached to his heels, and was
relieved with a seal-skin collar and cuffs rather the worse
for wear. Frayed linen, and an orange silk handkerchief gave
a note to the generally artistic colouring of the
_ensemble_, while one small daisy drooped despondently in
his button-hole.

“HIS GLORIOUS PAST.

“Precisely――I took the Newdigate. Oh! no doubt, every year
some man gets the Newdigate; but not every year does
Newdigate get an Oscar. Since then――barely three years, but
centuries to such as I am――I have stood upon the steps of
London Palaces――in South Kensington――and preached Æsthetic
art. I have taught the wan beauty to wear nameless robes,
have guided her limp limbs into sightless knots and curving
festoons, while we sang of the sweet sad sin of Swinburne,
or the lone delight of soft communion with Burne-Jones.
Swinburne had made a name, and Burne-Jones had copied
illuminations e’er the first silky down had fringed my upper
lip, but the Trinity of Inner Brotherhood was not complete
till I came forward, like the Asphodel from the wilds of
Arcady, to join in sweet antiphonal counterchanges with the
Elder Seers. We are a Beautiful Family――we are, we are, we
are!”

“Yes; I expect my Lecture will be a success. So does Dollar
Carte――I mean D’Oyly Carte. Too-Toothless Senility may jeer,
and poor positive Propriety may shake her rusty curls; but I
am here, to pipe of Passion’s venturous Poesy, and reap the
scorching harvest of Self-Love! I am not quite sure what I
mean. The true Poet never is. In fact, true Poetry is
nothing if it is intelligible.

“HIS KOSMIC SOUL.

“Oh, yes! I speak most languages; in the sweet honey-tinted
brogue my own land lends me. _La bella Donna della mia
Mente_ exists, but she is not the Jersey Lily, though I have
grovelled at her feet; she is not the Juno Countess, though
I have twisted my limbs all over her sofas; she is not the
Polish Actress, though I have sighed and wept over all the
boxes of the Court Theatre; she is not the diaphanous Sarah,
though I have crawled after her footsteps through the heavy
fields of scentless Asphodel; she is not the golden haired
Ellen, more fair than any woman Veronesé looked upon, though
I have left my _Impressions_ on many and many a seat in the
Lyceum Temple, where she is High Priestess; nor is she one
of the little Nameless Naiads I have met in Lotus-haunts,
who, with longing eyes, watch the sweet bubble of the
frenzied grape. No, Sir, my real Love is my own Kosmic Soul,
enthroned in its flawless essence; and when America can
grasp the supreme whole I sing in too-too utterance for
vulgar lips, then soul and body will blend in mystic
symphonies; then, crowned with bellamours and wanton
flower-de-luce, I shall be hailed Lord of a new Empery, and
as I stain my lips in the bleeding wounds of the
Pomegranate, and wreathe my o’ergrown limbs with the
burnished disk of the Sunflower, Apollo will turn pale and
lashing the restive horses of the Sun, the tamer chariot of
a forgotten god will make way for the glorious zenith of the
one Oscar Wilde.”

Since his return from America Mr. Oscar Wilde has settled in London, and is known in society as a genial and witty gentleman, and a particularly graceful after-dinner speaker. He is the Editor of _The Woman’s World_, a very high class magazine, published by Cassell and Co., in which he has ample opportunities of advocating his favourite _cult_, the worship of the beautiful in Nature and in Art.

――――

SAINTE MARGÉRIE.
_An Imitation._

Slim feet than lilies tenderer,――
_Margérie!_
That scarce upbore the body of her,
Naked upon the stones they were;――
_C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

White as a shroud the silken gown,――
_Margérie!_
That flowed from shoulder to ankle down,
With clear blue shadows along it thrown;
_C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

On back and bosom withouten braid,――
_Margérie!_
In crisped glory of darkling red,
Round creamy temples her hair was shed;――
_C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

Eyes like a dim sea, viewed from far,――
_Margérie!_
Lips that no earthly love shall mar,
More sweet than lips of mortals are;――
_C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

The chamber walls are cracked and bare;――
_Margérie!_
Without the gossips stood astare
At men her bed away that bare;――
_C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

Five pennies lay her hand within,――
_Margérie!_
So she her fair soul’s weal might win,
Little she recked of dule or teen;――
_C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

Dank straw from dunghill gathered,
_Margérie!_
Where fragrant swine have made their bed,
Thereon her body shall be laid;――
_C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

Three pennies to the poor in dole,――
_Margérie!_
One to the clerk her knell shall toll,
And one to masses for her soul;――
_C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_

From _Poems and Parodies_. By Two Undergrads. Oxford. B. H. Blackwell, 1880.

(This little paper-covered pamphlet was originally published at the price of one shilling; it was withdrawn from circulation, and is consequently very scarce.)

――――

SITTING UP ALL NIGHT WITH A LILY.

Oh, fulsome the joy of the fading light!
_Oh, fainting of lilies with broken stem!_
When you feel too utterly almost quite,
_The sunflowers love, yet love not them_!
Oh, weird is the feeling of thoughtsome doubt
When candles, and lamps, and gas are out,
And burglarious Philistines prowl about,
_Chill is the air at four a.m._!

Oh, mystic the eyelids all drowsy grown!
_Oh, fainting of lilies with broken stem!_
Oh, twitching of limbs that are scarce your own,
_The sunflowers love, yet love not them_!
Oh, baleful blessing, the wistful wist
Of matters that have not, nor can exist!
Oh, say, have you noticed the gladsome list?
_Chill is the air at four a.m.!_

You think of your bed with remorseful tears,
_Oh, fainting of lilies with broken stem_!
While sounds of the silence attack your ears,
_The sunflowers love, yet love not them_!
Oh, mythic deeds by the sightless seen!
Oh, lovely past of the has not been!
Oh, what in the world do I chance to mean?
_Chill is the air at four a.m.!_

_Fun’s Academy Skits_. 1882.

――――

AN UTTER PASSION UTTERED UTTERLY.

Meseem’d that Love, with swifter feet than fire,
Brought me my Lady crown’d with amorous burs,
And drapen in tear-collar’d minivers,
Sloped saltire wise in token of desire;
My heart she soak’d in tears, and on a pyre
Laid, for Love’s sake, in folds of fragrant perse,
The while her face, more fair than sunflowers,
She gave mine eyes for pasture most entire.
Sicklike she seem’d, as with wan-carven smiles
Some deal she moved anear, and thereunto
Thrice paler wox, and weaker than blown sand
Upon the passioning ocean’s beached miles;
And as her motion’s music nearer drew
My starved lips play’d the vampyre with her hand.

JOHN TODHUNTER.

_Kottabos._ Dublin, William McGee. 1882.

――――

AN ÆSTHETE’S RHAPSODY.

Consummate Dish! full many an ancient crack
Is seamed across thy venerable back;
And even through to thine æsthetic face
Cracks run to lend a more enchanting grace!
What matter though the epicure now loses
The juice which through thy gaping fissures oozes?
Thrice happy Table-cloth, thou knowest not
The too-_too_ beauty of yon greasy spot,
To think that with a little vulgar butter,
This High Art Dish can make thee look so utter.

_Harper’s Bazaar._

――――

In 1881 and 1882 _Punch_ teemed with parodies on Oscar Wilde, one of the best appeared May 28, 1881:――

MORE IMPRESSIONS.

(_By Oscuro Wildegoose._)
_La Fuite des Oies._

To outer senses they are geese,
Dull drowsing by a weedy pool;
But try the impression trick, Cool! Cool!
Snow-slumbering sentinels of Peace!

Deep silence on the shadowy flood
Save rare sharp stridence (_that means “quack”_).
Low amber light in Ariel track
Athwart the dun (_that means the mud_).

And suddenly subsides the sun,
Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom
(_That means the white geese waddling home_),
And darkness reigns! (_See how it’s done?_)

The titles of some others are;――

April 9, 1881. _A Maudle-in Ballad to his Lily._
June 23, 1881. _Maunderings at Marlow._
October 1, 1881. _The Æsthete to the Rose._
November 26, 1881. _The Downfall of the Dado._
January 14, 1882. _Murder made Easy._
March 31, 1883. _Sage Green, by a Fading-out Æsthete._

this latter contained the following verses:――

My love is as fair as a lily flower.
(_The Peacock Hue has a sacred sheen!_)
Oh, bright are the blooms in her maiden bower.
(_Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!_)

Her face is as wan as the water white.
(_The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!_)
Her eyes are as stars on a moonlit night.
(_Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!_)

The China plate it is pure on the wall.
(_The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!_)
Alack! she heedeth it never at all.
(_Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!_)

* * * * *

――――

THE PUBLIC HOUSE.
(_With apologies to Oscar Wilde’s “The Harlot’s House.”_)

We wandered home with weary feet,
We lumbered down the lamp-lit street,
And stopped beneath a public-house.

Outside, in just the usual way,
We heard the grand old cornet play
A carol to the _wild_ carouse.

Like smell of spirits came the blast
Of heated air that streetward passed,
As “Out yer go” were shoved “the blind.”

We watched the reeling roysterers spin
From scene of revelry within,
Like those who’d left their legs behind.

Like idiots they, of foolish face,
With grinning, ghastly-pale grimace,
They looked so very, very ill!

They took each other by the arm,
As if in that there were a charm,
In short they had had quite their fill.

Sometimes a man who out was set
Went through the swearing alphabet.
Or p’r’aps he’d homeward start and sing.

Then turning round to go, I said,
“It’s after hours, I’ll home to bed,
I will not wait the outward rush!”

Just then the Bobby heard the din,
And after knocking, entered in,
Law passed into the House of Sin.

Then suddenly the cornet stopped,
The thrumming harp’s drear music dropped,
The house it seemed its sails to furl.

And down the long and noisy street
The staggering legs of “whisky neat”
Crawled headlong in a whirl.

TRAMWAY TAME.

_The Sporting Times._ June 13, 1885.

――――

A “ROSE” BALL.

A Rose, or Maidens’ Ball took place, in July 1885, at Hyde Park House, which was lent for the occasion by Mrs. Naylor-Leyland. It was a complete success, in spite of the absence of Royalty. As a social gathering, it was the smartest dance of the season, while, from a girl’s point of view, there has been no ball in London to equal it for many a day. Each fair donor paid five pounds, for which she was allowed to ask five men, and in almost every case the favoured five put in an appearance; so instead of the dancing-rooms being filled with girls anxiously looking for partners, the tables were turned, and the black coats had to take their turn at playing wallflowers――an amusement, to judge from some of their remarks, that they did not all appreciate. Each maiden carried a bouquet of roses, and almost all the floral decorations were confined to various varieties of the same flower.

Five-and-seventy maidens, free,
Bent on dancing, one and all,
Did some weeks ago decree
They, themselves, would give a ball.
Each, they said, would ask five men
Who at waltzing were _au fait_.
Settled was their project then,
They had even fixed the day!
Ah, miserie!

For these dancing maidens found
That a certain potent Prince,
When he heard their details, frowned,
His displeasure to evince.
“This,” said he, “must not be so!”
“That,” he quoth, “should not be thus!”
Till the maidens’ tears did flow,
As they murmured “Woe to us!
Ah, miserie!”

These same maidens, though, were wise,
And soon ceased to weep or wince;
Nor would they their plans revise,
E’en to please a potent Prince,
But resolved to merry be,
Even though he would not come,
Much enjoyed their dance, whilst he
Had to moan in accents glum――
“Ah, miserie!”

_Truth._ July 16, 1885.

――――

AN UN-ÆSTHETIC LOVE SONG.

A barrel of beer and a glass of gin hot
Are goodly gifts for me;
For my own true love a half-gallon pot
Filled to the brim with tea.

For thee a bloater from Yarmouth town
(Fresh, O fresh, is a fish of the sea!);
For me some beef, and, to wash it down,
A pint of porter (ah me! ah me!).

Sherbet and zoedone for thee
(Teetotal drinks have taking names!);
A cup of claret and pink for me
(O! men are stronger than dames!)

From _Ballades of a Country Bookworm_, by Thomas Hutchinson. London, Stanesby & Co. 1888.

――――

QUITE THE CHEESE.
_By a Wilde Æsthete._

There once was a maiden who loved a cheese
_Sing, hey! potatoes and paint!_
She could eat a pound and a half with ease!
_O the odorous air was faint!_

What was the cheese that she loved the best?
_Sing, hey! red pepper and rags!_
You will find it out if you read the rest;
_Oh, the horror of frowning crags!_

Came lovers to woo her from ev’ry land――
_Sing, hey! fried bacon and files!_
They asked for her heart, but they meant her hand,
_O the joy of the Happy Isles._

A haughty old Don from Oporto came;
_Sing, hey! new carrots and nails!_
The Duke GORGONZOLA his famous name
_O the lusciously-scented gales!_

LORD STILTON belonged to a mighty line!
_Sing, hey! salt herrings and stones!_
He was “Blue” as china――his taste divine!
_O the sweetness of dulcet tones._

Came stout DOUBLE GLO’STER――a man and wife
_Sing, hey! post pillars and pies!_
And the son was SINGLE, and fair as fate;
_O the purple of sunset skies!_

DE CAMEMBERT came from his sunny France
_Sing, hey! pork cutlets and pearls!_
He would talk sweet nothings, and sing and dance
_O the sighs of the soft sweet girls._

Came GRUYERE so pale! a most hole-y-man!
_Sing, hey! red sandstone and rice!_
But the world saw through him as worldlings can
_O the breezes from Isles of Spice._

But the maiden fair loved no cheese but one
_Sing, hey! acrostics and ale!_
Save for single Glo’ster she love had none!
_O the roses on fair cheeks pale!_

He was fair and single――and so was she!
_Sing hey! tomatoes and tar!_
And so _now_ you know which it is to be!
_O the aid of a lucky star!_

They toasted the couple the livelong night
_Sing hey! cast-iron and carp!_
And engaged a poet this song to write.
_O the breathing Æolian harp!_

So he wrote this ballad at vast expense!
_Sing, hey! pump-handles and peas!_
And, though _you_ may think it devoid of sense,
O _he_ fancies it QUITE THE CHEESE!

H. C. WARING.

ARTHUR W. E. O’SHAUGHNESSY.

Was born in 1844, and at the age of twenty obtained a position in the Natural History Department of the British Museum. In 1873 he married Miss Eleanor Marston, who assisted her husband in some of his early works, especially in a volume entitled “Toyland,” published in 1875.

But Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and her two children all died in 1879, and the unfortunate young poet did not long survive them, he dying in London early in 1881.

His early books――“An Epic of Women” (1870); and “Lays of France” (1872), were successful, but “Music and Moonlight” (1874), was coldly received.

BLUE MOONSHINE.
_By O’pshawnessy._

Mingled aye with fragrant yearnings,
Throbbing in the mellow glow,
Glint the silvery spirit burnings,
Pearly blandishments of woe.

Ay! for ever and for ever,
Whilst the love-lorn censers sweep,
Whilst the jasper winds dissever,
Amber-like, the crystal deep;

Shall the soul’s delirious slumber,
Sea-green vengeance of a kiss,
Teach despairing crags to number
Blue infinities of bliss.

FRANCIS G. STOKES.

This parody originally appeared in _The Shotover Papers_, Oxford, May 1874.

――――

“FRANGIPANNI.”
_By O’Sh******sy._

Untwine those ringlets! Ev’ry dainty clasp
That shines like twisted sunlight in my eye
Is but the coiling of the jewelled asp
That smiles to see men die.

Oh, cobra-curlèd! Fierce-fanged fair one! Draw
Night’s curtain o’er the landscape of thy hair!
I yield! I kneel! I own, I bless thy law
That dooms me to despair.

I mark the crimson ruby of thy lips,
I feel the witching weirdness of thy breath!
I droop! I sink into my soul’s eclipse,――
I fall in love with death!

And yet, vouchsafe a moment! I would gaze
Once more into those sweetly-murderous eyes,
Soft glimmering athwart the pearly haze
That smites to dusk the skies!

Hast thou no pity? Must I darkly tread
The unknown paths that lead me wide from thee?
Hast though no garland for this aching head
That soon so low must be?

No sound? No sigh? No smile? Is _all_ forgot?
Then spin my shroud out of that golden skein
Thou call’st thy tresses! _I_ shall stay thee not――
My struggles were but vain!

But shall I see thee far beyond the sun,
When the new dawn lights empyrean scenes?
What matters now? I know the poem’s done,
And wonder what the dickens it all means!

_Judy._ July 21, 1880.

Here is another parody of Mr. C. S. Calverley’s style:――

ON THE RIVER.

It is sweet to sip the breezes
In September; and it pleases
Folks like me, whose work decreases
When its hot,
To depart from one’s landlady,
Very shortly after pay-day,
And to settle in some shady
Kind of spot.

In September I am lazy,
And my thoughts are rather mazy,
So I love the aspect hazy
Of some glade,
When the autumn moon uprises
O’er the hill, and me surprises,
Talking trash that full of sighs is,
To that maid.

She has eyes that seem to twinkle,
Like the pin-impaled winkle,
When the fish-wife dares to sprinkle
It with spice;
And her chestnut-tinted tresses,
That provoke a man’s caresses,
Haunt her swain till he confesses
She _is_ nice.

Sometimes, when the day has faded,
And the moonbeams have invaded
Every nook that is unshaded
From their gleam,
Chloe, who is very knowing
In the noble art of rowing,
Vaguely drops a hint of going
Down the stream.

’Neath the branches of a willow,
With the drifted sedge for pillow,
Cradled on the silver billow
Lies a boat,

Which I speedily untether,
And we drift away together,
Like two beetles on a feather
That’s afloat.

Couched in shadow that so still is,
Dreamy, large-eyed waterlilies
Stare astonished at us sillies
Up above:
Doubtless, with a timid flutter
Of propriety, they mutter
Sentiments I dare not utter,
About love.

Wretched things! with no affections,
And with very bad complexions;
We can suffer your objections
And your snubs;
By your taunts we won’t be maddened,
And shall be surprised and gladdened,
If our true love be not saddened
By worse rubs.

ANONYMOUS.

“GEORGY.”
(_After J. Ashby-Sterry._)

I know you, little winsome sweet,
You heroine of childish orgy;
What dance would ever be complete
Without our rosy, romping Georgy?

Straight as a dart, of which the sting
Lurks in a pair of pearl-gray eyes;
Slight, but the roundest lissome thing
As o’er the well-chalked floor she flies.

Nor can I say there is concealed
At ev’ry airy pirouette
The frill (not often so revealed!)
Of such a dainty pantalette!

Her little boots with silver heels
Ring on the boards as round she whirls――
I wonder if the darling feels
She cuts out all the other girls?

There is a saucy cock of chin,
A semblance of a conscious power
To stake (with ev’ry chance to win!)
The bud against the fallen flower.

Who knows these little maidens’ dreams?
Unsullied,――but with mischief fraught:
How like a woman Georgy seems,
Yet by what subtle instinct taught?

The question’s vague!――some day, perhaps,
She’ll find the answer, for the rogue is
A match, at twelve, for most young chaps,
And right away beyond us fogies.

For _me_,――I sit and watch her twirls,
Then wend me home and smoke my pipe,
That whispers “These delightful girls,
Thank goodness are in _Sterry-o-type_!”

R. REECE.

_Judy._ June 30, 1880.

It should be mentioned, in connection with Mr. J. Ashby-Sterry, that _The Muse in Manacles_, quoted on page 64, was from his pen.

FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.

It should have been mentioned, in connection with the poems of this gentleman, that illustrated articles concerning his life and works appeared in _Once a Week_, September 7, 1872, and _The Century_, February, 1883. Both contained portraits, the one in _The Century_ having been drawn by Mr. George Du Maurier. Mr. Locker’s poem “St. James’s Street,” (see page 56) originally appeared in _The Times_, in 1867.

BALLADES, RONDEAUS, AND VILLANELLES.

Since the last part was published several parodies on these exotics have been sent in by various correspondents, and it would be ungracious not to include them, indeed, the collection would be incomplete without them. The first humorous Ballade, aptly enough, is from the pen of Mr. Gleeson White, whose book on _Ballades and Rondeaus_ has already been alluded to:――

BALLADE OF A BALLADE MONGER.

You start ahead in splendid style,
No stint of rhymes appear in view,
With many a happy thought the while――
You dash away as though you knew
Enough to fill the thirty-two.
Those lines, that need such careful filling,
Yet you are lucky if you do――
For ballade-mongering is killing.

Now on your face may dawn a smile,
To think that rhymes both neat and new,
To end your stanzas will beguile
Your pen――till “envoy” you must brew;
But half the poem yet is due.
And though she ready be and willing,
To your shy muse you yet must sue――
For ballade-mongering is killing.

Here’s stanza three, and now they rile,
Those end words that of every hue
And form, all seem so poor and vile,
You, weary of the hackneyed crew
This one suggests the other’s cue.
As fresh as――twelve pence for a shilling,
No, never change can you renew,
For ballade-mongering is killing.

_Envoy._

Rhymesters! The Envoy you will rue,
Since it should be supreme and thrilling;
It’s ended, tamely it is true,
For ballade-mongering is killing.

GLEESON WHITE.

_Judy._ October 5, 1887.

――――

The following well known _Ballade_ originally appeared in Mr. Andrew Lang’s _Ballades in Blue China_, the first (1880) edition of which is so much prized by collectors.

BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN.

He lived in a cave by the seas,
He lived upon oysters and foes,
But his list of forbidden degrees
An extensive morality shows;
Geological evidence goes
To prove he had never a pan,
But he shaved with a shell when he chose,
’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

He worshipp’d the rain and the breeze,
He worshipped the river that flows,
And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees,
And bogies, and serpents, and crows;
He buried his dead with their toes
Tucked up, an original plan,
Till their knees came right under their nose,
’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

His communal wives, at his ease,
He would curb with occasional blows;
Or his State had a queen, like the bees
(As another philosopher trows):
When he spoke it was never in prose:
But he sang in a strain that would scan,
For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose)
’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

(_Three verses omitted._)

_Envoy._

Max, proudly your Aryans pose,
But their rigs they undoubtedly ran,
For, as every Darwinian knows,
’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

ANDREW LANG.

A BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE WOMAN.
_An American Parody._

She lived in a primitive way,
She lived in a hut made of trees,
With never a moving in May,
Unless when invaded by bees,
Her husband had never night keys,
Lodge nights were not then to deceive;
Nor was he addicted to sprees――
What a life led our relative, Eve!

He hadn’t for bonnets to pay,
Which accounts for his efforts to please;
Nor did he growl round every day,
O’er his trousers that bagged at the knees,
Unheard of were fashion’s decrees
Her dolmans she knew how to weave
From grape-leaves with greatest of ease,
What a life led our relative, Eve!

Her stew-pans she wrought out of clay
Her knives were the shells of the seas,
And she dined on a spicy _entrée_
Of grapes and some ape-fricassees.
To sleep with the toes to the breeze
Was considered the cheese, I believe,
Which was healthy, no one but agrees――
What a life lead our relative, Eve.

_Envoy._

Cast off fashions gay panoplies,
“Sassiety” maiden, retrieve;
Learn, while apeing our “first familees,”
What a life led our relative, Eve!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

_The Universal Review_, for December, 1888, contained a peculiar article by Mr. H. D. Traill, entitled “The Doom of the Muses,” in which he satirically describes the present position of the Fine Arts. Dealing with Poetry, he thus alludes to the present craze for the _Ballade_:――

This is the age of glorified jingle,
Honour is only to rhyming pranks;
Deftliest who their assonants mingle,
They shall walk first in Poesy’s ranks:
They shall recline upon Helicon’s banks,
Fountain of bards who have conquered Time;
(Others must do with inferior tanks)
This is the era of run-mad rhyme.

Cold though their verse as the sea-shore shingle,
Common and cheap as the nails in the planks,
Empty as frothiest blather of Fingal,
Pointless as ends of the cats of the Manx,
Still the mere fact that their lines are not “blanks”
Helps them the Mount of Parnassus to climb,
Strengthens their unwinged Pegase’s shanks:
This is the era of run-mad rhyme.

Who shall reign over us sole and single?
He who his rhyme-web’s intricate hanks
Wears like a collar of bells that tingle,
Not like the links of a chain that clanks:
He who his burden of quips and cranks
Bears with the step of a light-foot mime,
Figure erect and unwavering flanks,――
This is the era of run-mad rhyme.

Muse, I presume you object to “spanks,”
Word――I admit it――beneath the sublime.
Pray then excuse me the Envoi. Thanks!
This is the era of run-mad rhyme.

――――

AUSTIN DOBSON.――ANDREW LANG.

Ah me! how many Fate makes mourn
Unhonoured in our midst to dwell,
Tho’ Epics write they, and――in scorn,
Shun Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle;
Blank verse they scan――at times, as well,
In jolts and jingles harsh rhymes clang,
But fail to reach the pinnacle
Of Austin Dobson――Andrew Lang,

Dear brothers these, whose names adorn
Their roll, who spread Poesy’s spell,
Their sweetest strains heartward are borne
In Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle;
Yet did no rival e’er excel
Their efforts in the realms o’ sang;――
The Laureate’s self bears not the bell
From Austin Dobson――Andrew Lang.

Their’s not the heaviness men spurn,
Light as the breeze in fairy dell
The flights of fancy that they turn
To Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle;
From them we never flee pell mell,
Ne’er close their volumes with a bang;
O! naught our happiness can quell
With Austin Dobson――Andrew Lang.

_Envoy._

How soothed our souls――what words can tell?
With Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle,
How robbed of many a bitter pang
By Austin Dobson――Andrew Lang.

From _Ballades of a Country Bookworm_. By Thomas Hutchinson. London, Stanesby & Co. 1888.

――――

Some years ago Mr. Austin Dobson wrote a few comical _Triolets_, which appeared in “Hood’s Comic Annual.” These have not been included in recent English editions of his poems――which is to be regretted.

――――:o:――――

RONDEL.

You bet! you hear _me_. I tell _you_
I, Whistler, Sir, has fetched this town
Onto a copper, _a_ renown,
_He_ scratches in, Sir; yes a few!

Your critics they may hop the flue,
Your painting critturs, Sir, may frown,
I, Whistler, Sir! has fetched the town,
You bet you hear me, I tell you.

His bowie, Sir! is bright _and_ new,
He licks ’em up, he licks ’em down
I guess, he gives ’em _Fits in Brown_,
Yes, Sir! and plays _Old Hell in Blue_!
You bet! you hear me! I tell you!

RONDEL.

We have a most erotic bard,
His style and title Swinburne Charles,
Passion his frame contorts and gnarls,
The gods and women grip him hard.

Observe him bearded like a pard,
Furious and fair as northern jarls;
We have a most erotic bard,
His style and title Swinburne Charles.

He has a dungheap in his yard,
Mixed with the most offensive marls,
No wonder Mrs. Grundy snarls,
Faustine, Dolores, Chastelard,
We have a most erotic bard.

From _London_. 1877.

――――

THAT DEAR OLD TUNE.
(_A Rondeau written in a rage._)

That dear old tune I loved of yore!
Indeed I love it still;
But never save by this one Bore
(Who lives upon my basement floor)
Have heard it played so ill.

Alas, what penance for my sins.
I seek my desk, and soon
Once more the tootling Fiend begins
That dear old tune!

All vainly I expostulate;
He tries it morn and noon,
I vow in sheer distress of hate
To learn the ‘loud bassoon’
‘I rage――I burn’――I execrate;
That dear old tune!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

_Saturday Journal._ 1874.

IN RE RONDEAU.

In corsets laced, in high-heeled shoes,
Too fine a woodland way to choose,
With mincing step and studied strut,
Is this an English Goddess? Tut――
Some masker from the Parley-Voos!

O, Poet! thou of sinewy thews,
Wilt thou free ways and walks refuse,
To mince instead through paths close shut,
In corsets laced?

I cannot――for I’ve old-time views――
Follow the poet who pursues
The Rondeau, with its rabbit scut,
Or Triumphs in a Triolet, but――
There may be those who like the muse,
In corsets laced.

ROUNDEL.

The Cat that sings at dead of night
I pelt with bricks, and boots and things,
Oh, for the luck to kill outright
The Cat that sings!

It is as when at evening rings
Melodeon-music, only slight-
ly worse it tears your bosom-strings.

And if at last you chance to smite
Him over,――as to life he springs,
He simply screeches with delight――
The Cat that sings.

_The University News Sheet._ St. Andrew’s. March 3, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE VILLANELLE.

(For the original Villanelle, by Jean Passerat, see page 66.)

Jean Passerat, I like thee well――
Thou sang’st a song beyond compare――
But I’ve not lost a tourterelle:

Nor can I write a villanelle――
Thou did’st――and for that Jewel rare,
Jean Passerat, I like thee well.

Now many a twittering hirondelle
The plumes of thy lost dove would wear――
But I’ve not lost a tourterelle.

Could not, indeed, true turtle tell――
If real or mock I could not swear:
Jean Passerat, I like thee well.

True heart that would go “après elle――”
And sure thy sentiment I’d share――
But I’ve not lost a tourterelle.

And am content on earth to dwell――
There are some men they cannot spare:
Jean Passerat, I like thee well,
But I’ve not lost a tourterelle!

CHARLES HENRY WEBB.

――――

VILLANELLE.

“How to compose a Villanelle, which is said to require an elaborate amount of care in production, which those who read only would hardly suspect existed.”

It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it,
As easy as reciting A. B. C.
You need not be an atom of a poet.

If you’ve a grain of wit and want to show it,
Writing a _Villanelle_――take this from me――
It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it.

You start a pair of “rimes” and then you “go it”
With rapid running pen and fancy free,
You need not be an atom of a poet.

Take any thought, write round it or below it,
Above or near it, as it liketh thee;
It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it.

Pursue your task, till, like a shrub, you grow it,
Up to the standard size it ought to be;
You need not be an atom of a poet.

Clear it of weeds, and water it, and hoe it,
Then watch it blossom with triumphant glee,
It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it,
You need not be an atom of a poet.

WALTER W. SKEAT.

_The Academy._ May 19, 1888.

――――:o:――――

THE WAIL OF THE “PERSONALLY CONDUCTED.”

Integral were we, in our old existence;
Separate beings, individually;
Now are our entities blended, fused, and foundered――
We are one Person.

We are not mortals, we are not celestials,
We are not birds, the upper ether clearing,
We are a retrogression toward the Monad:
We are Cook’s Tourists.

All ways we follow him who holds the Guide Book;
All things we look at, with bedazzled optics;
Sad are our hearts, because the vulgar rabble
Call us the Cookies.

Happy the man who, by his cheerful fireside,
Says to the partner of his joys and sorrows:
“Anna Maria, let us go to-morrow
Out for an airing.”

Him to Manhattan, or the beach of Brighton,
Gaily he hieth, or if, fate accurséd,
Lives he in Boston, still he may betake him
Down to Nantasket.

Happy the mortal, free and independent,
Master of the main spring of his own volition,
Look on us with the eye of sweet compassion,
We are Cook’s Tourists.

H. C. BUNNER.

_Scribner’s Monthly._ November, 1879.

――――:o:――――

AN OLD SONG BY NEW SINGERS.

_In the Original._

Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.

――――

_As Austin Dobson Writes It._

Triolet.

A little lamb had Mary, sweet,
With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.
Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet
(For a little lamb had Mary, sweet)
And it tagged her ’round with a pensive bleat,
And wherever she went it wanted to go――
A little lamb had Mary, sweet,
With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.

――――

_As Mr. Browning Has It._

You knew her?――Mary the small,
How of a summer――or, no, was it fall?
The latter, I think――a lamb she received?
You’d never have thought it――never believed,
But the girl owned a lamb last fall.

Its wool was subtly, silky white,
Color of lucent obliteration of night――
Like the shimmering snow or――our Clothild’s arm!――
You’ve seen her arm――her right, I mean――
The other she scalded a-washing, I ween――
How white it is and soft and warm?

Ah, there was soul’s heart-love, deep, true and tender,
Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender,
There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting,
That passionate lambkin――her soul’s heart delighting――
Ay, every place that Mary sought in
That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.

――――

_As Longfellow Might have Done It._

Fair the daughter known as Mary,
Fair and full of fun and laughter,
Owned a lamb, a little he-goat,
Owned him all herself and solely.
White the lamb’s wool as the Gotchi――
The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm.
Hither Mary went and thither,
But went with her to all places,
Sure as brook to run to river,
Her pet lambkin following with her.

――――

_How Andrew Lang Sings It._

Rondeau.

A wonderful lass was Marie, petite.
And she looked full fair and passing sweet――
And, oh! she owned――but cannot you guess
What pet _can_ a maiden so love and caress
As a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleat
And mud upon his dainty feet,
And a gentle veally odour of meat?
And a fleece to finger and kiss and press――
White as snow?

Wherever she wandered――in lane or street
As she sauntered on, there at her feet
She would find that lambkin――bless
The dear!――treading on her dainty dress,
Her dainty dress, fresh and neat――
White as snow.

――――

_Mr. Algernon C. Swinburne’s Idea._

Villanelle.

Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair,
Maiden and lamb were a sight to see,
For her pet was white as she was fair.

And its lovely fleece was beyond compare,
And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie,
Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair.

Its warped wool was an inwove snare
To tangle her fingers in, where they could be
(For her pet was white as she was fair)

Lost from sight, both so snow-white were,
And the lambkin adored the maiden wee――
Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair.

Th’ impassioned incarnation of rare,
Of limpid-eyed, luscious lipped, loved beauty――
And her pet was white as she was fair.

Wherever she wandered, hither and there,
Wildly that lamblet sought with her to be――
With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair,
And a pet as white as its mistress was fair.

A. C. WILKIE.

Martin Farquhar Tupper.

This gentleman was born in London in 1810, and educated, first at the Charterhouse school, and afterwards at Christ Church, Oxford, where he graduated B.A., M.A., and D.C.L. The author of many works, both in prose and verse, Mr. Tupper has been hardly dealt with by the critics, and the parodists.

They appear to have ignored such of his writings as have any merit, in order to hunt most mercilessly to death his _Proverbial Philosophy_, which, though it has run through many editions, is inferior to much else that he has written.

The reasons for this perversity on their part cannot here be considered, only the Parodies as they exist can be dealt with.

――――

The following lines, which were written many years ago by “Cuthbert Bede” in his _Shilling Book of Beauty_, neatly sum up _Proverbial Philosophy_:――

Thoughts may abide in the brain, yet how few have the wit to extract
them;
Many may know of Proverbs, yet could not for worlds have devised them.
All are not gifted the same: there are brains that are stupid and
addled;
There are those that are clear as the stream,――the pellucid water
that floweth
Under the bridges, that bind the Surrey shore unto London.

Philosophy cannot be taught, unless you can meet with a teacher:
I am the teacher of this the nineteenth century of being.
Philosophy I can expound in a way hitherto undream’d of;
Witness my book of Proverbial Platitudes, and its Editions;
Book beloved by women――women of intellect feeble;
Book that is lauded by old maids, and Evangelical parsons;
Book that by school-girls is worshipped, and ranked with _The
Pilgrim’s Progress_;
That is read by bachelor curates, to maidens at Dorcas meetings;
Designing curates, who choose the chapters on “Love” and “Marriage,”
And read the soft nothings therein, with smirks and murderous gusto.
I have written of Proverbs, turned everything to a Proverb,
Even my name as an author, proverbial is it with many,
Who, in braying derision, call me “Sweet Singer of Beadledom,”
Let those laugh who win! my Proverbs have eighteen editions!
Eighteen editions bring fame, and――what is better――_money_.

Another old parody may be quoted from the second volume of _Punch_, (1842).

PUNCH’S PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

_Introductory._

Come along, old fellow; follow me as a friend, from the midnight
streets;
Leave awhile the cold and muddy Strand to loiter in the tavern of
the Coal Hole.
Come into this quiet box, with hot water in a batter’d pewter jug,
Over whose beer-stain’d table are strewn many particles of crust;
Here, upon this wooden peg, hang up thy hat and Chesterfield,
Order a pint of stout, or a go of grog, and rest for half-an-hour.

Behold! I would stop a short time in this buzzing crowd of visitors,
Though wrapp’d up in a mackintosh, yet are the seams and pockets
pervious;
But into the foam of this goodly glass I dip my beak,
And receive its contents as nectar, yet the tap is Barclay’s.
Under its cheerful influence I shall, before long, get loquacious,
And mingle the fashion of my speech with froth-built snatches of
philosophy!

_Of Gifts._

I had a seeming friend:――I gave him a licking――he was gone!
I had an open enemy:――I stood a pint――and won him!
Common friends require presents; monkeys more kicks than halfpence;
But the scorn of anyone melteth at a barrel of Quin’s oysters.
A foe may get spiteful, and incline to call thee a humbug,
But send him a turbot, and he saith,――“He’s a good fellow, after all!”
Policemen will not oft refuse a drain, if absent the inspector,
And policemen’s friendship should be courted in the event of rows.
The larker, held by the collar, may be released by half-a-crown,
And thy own bed is better than the stone sofas of a station house,
Or, being James Edwards, compelled to call thyself John Brown.
There is not one crusher who is proof against the waistcoat pocket,
And the same font of happiness hath even power over reporters.

I saw a beggar in St. Giles’s, and another beggar punch’d his head,
For the first had collected more coppers at his crossing than the
other
His broom fell into the mud, and he swore an oath.
Anon a baked potato-man came up, with a high-pressure can,
And gave him of his store; the first beggar was grateful.
He, poor stricken cadger, picked up his broom with a curse,
And, turning to the potato man, asked what he would take to drink.
And so the sprat had been set, and the herring had been caught!

A parody of a somewhat more spiteful character appeared in _Punch_, August 23, 1856, but the circumstances to which it alluded are now forgotten, so that the parody lacks interest: a few verses only need be quoted:――

THE QUEEN OF OUDE.
(NOT)

_By Martin Farquhar Tupper, Esq._

THE QUEEN OF OUDE,
Which is so proud,
She never will get boozy,
Has crossed the seas,
And, if you please,
Will serve out LORD DALHOUSIE.

_The Queen of Oude_,
She cries so loud
For justice, like a Q. C.
And claims her right,
And wants to fight
The MARQUIS OF DALHOUSIE.

* * * * *

The QUEEN OF OUDE
Shall save her gowd,
And this she’d do, _me duce_,
She’d give a lunch,
To me, and _Punch_,
And ask my LORD DALHOUSIE.

The QUEEN OF OUDE,
Which is so proud.
Would find her lot _adouci_,
To hear the wit
That we’d emit.
Me, _Punch_, and LORD DALHOUSIE.

――――

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

_By Farthing Tarquhar Mupper, Esq._

Beer, that hath entered my head, and peopled its inner chambers,
The addling outcome of barrels, the dream-inspiring malt and the
hop-juice,
Amber-tinged wine of the Briton, with the headache and biliousness
after,
Heaven-brewed draught of immortals, oh! sweeter than ever was nectar,
Such extend I unto thee, thou docile child of a pot-house:
Commend thy mouth to the tankard, and grudge not to drink of the
liquor,
Nor scorn its yellow flood for the sake of the Bacchus of Cruikshank.
Lo! now, I stand not forth, laying hold on spear and on buckler;
I come, as the cask of pale ale, to comfort thee, and to succour:
With soft and mellowest taste to charm the lips which are eager;
With the balmy breath of fellowship to touch thy heart sympathetic.
Let us drink together as friends, in the happy smoke of tobacco,
Nor judgment take her seat until we are happy as lordlings,
That the fumes of good strong beer may override all argument,
And charity not be a stranger at the board that is spread for
brothers.

ANONYMOUS.

In _Banter_ (a comic paper edited by Mr. G. A. Sala) for November 11, 1867, there was a parody of Tupper, entitled _Proverbial Philosophy of Sausages_, but it was not very amusing; and in the same paper, for November 18, there was a burlesque description of a dinner given to Mr. Tupper, and of an after-dinner speech he delivered in which he explained the dodges and devices he had practised in order to puff his works, and increase the sale of _Proverbial Philosophy_.

――――

THE FALL OF TUPPER.

We are too often painfully reminded that the best of us are but very frail. A very painful case of moral declension has occurred lately. Martin Farquhar Tupper, the great moral philosopher at whose feet all England has sat so long and learnt so much, that great and good man who had discovered a new species of poetry which was neither rhyme nor reason, but all beautiful pure sentiment, has come down to writing rhyme! Happily he has not yet reached the next stage――he has not fallen so low yet as to incur the suspicion of writing reason. But this abandonment of his principles has been, we fear, the result of bad company, for――our heart breaks almost while we pen the words,――but it is too plain, we cannot shut our eyes to the cruel truth――Martin Farquhar Tupper has fallen into the power of Algernon Charles Swinburne!! He, the purest of philosophers, the chosen minstrel of the Evangelical Church, has been studying the words of the erotic Pagan bard, the laureate of Venus and Faustina!

We are enabled, by a wonderful effort of clairvoyance, to publish a poem which the modest songster of _The Rock_ has held back, the charming domestic interest and true Protestant flavour of which must commend it to all admirers of Martin Farquhar Tupper:――

GOING TO THE WASH.
(_Lines written on Monday morning._)

BY M. F. T.

I really must look to my washing this week,
I must watch how my shirts are got up;
For I feel that in matters like this I’m too meek,
And I don’t keep my pluck enough up;
I ought to be brave, and to speak my mind out,
For of sheep, sure the male is a Tup,
And I am a Tupper, so quite to the rout
I must put Mrs. Sarah Hiccup.

Let me see; five fine shirts as ever was seen,
Five collars (not paper) to match,
With four pairs of socks, some blue and some green,
Will make up a beautiful batch;
Then of handkerchiefs seven seem semblant to see,
And two or three neckties so white!
Every clear starcher’s soul will be strangled with glee,
When on my sacred things they set sight.

Stop, I’ve nearly forgotten two jerseys (quite thin),
And two flannel shirts too I vow!
In this weather its right to wear flannel next skin,
At least I do truly so trow;
One nightshirt, if modesty lets me to add,
In my list I must also include,
I would mention my nightcap, but soberly sad,
Society sneers that it’s rude.

Mrs. Sarah Hiccup now I hope will take care,
And return all the things that I send;
But trumpets of treachery tickle the air
Till I know not where Treason will end!
What if Ritualist robbers should recklessly join
My shirts, to make copes with, to seize;
Or the pattering Papist my parcel purloin
His priests so prehensile to please?

_The Tomahawk._ August 22, 1868.

――――

The following excellent parody has been ascribed to Mr. Andrew Lang:――

MR. TUPPER IN THE CLOUDS.

I, the proverbial philosopher, sing of “electrical storage,”
As discovered by Thompson (Sir William), a philosopher whose name is
also proverbial.
Pride is a horrible sin, and I am no sinner;
So I do not hesitate to extend my hand in greeting to Sir William,
Trusting that he will not overmuch presume on my affability.
Hitherto I have been sorely flouted not only by eagles,
But also by that ridiculous creature the gnat――in Latin ’tis called
_culex pipiens_.
Laughter was good for the gods of Homer; but we are not gods nor
Homeric,
And laughter too audibly laughed betrays the void mind of the laugher.
Therefore, instead of cachinnating, I smile with supernal sarcasm
To think that a gnat should dare to flout the stringer of proverbial
pearls
On silken threads of verse, strengthened and made indestructible
By wax from philosophy’s beehive warmed in the sun of experience;
But oh! Raptorial Bird! oh, vilest of all the _culicides_!
Emblems both of the critics, carnivorous and sharp-stinging reviewers,
I will be even with you now. I’ll fly, but not on waxen wings like
silly Icarus――
Not in a balloon, or in anything on the levitation principle:
That was all very well for Mr. Green and M. de Montgolfier,
But I say that levitation is all my eye and my elbow.
(Proverb that verges on slang, but its uses hath slang, like
adversity).
No levitation for me; but force like that of a cannon-ball.
Not that I mean to be shot out of a twelve-pounder like Zazel at the
Aquarium,
But to be propelled by tame gunpowder. “How shall I tame it?”
Have you never heard of Carter the Lion King, or of Myn Heer Van
Amburg?
Did not they tame furious mammalia? And did they tell you how they
did it?
So shall I not tell you how I intend to tame this “villanous
saltpetre.”
But I’ll do it, or have it done for me by “our mechanicians,”
They shall invent a machine to be loaded with domesticated gunpowder
(I patenting the discovery, of course, as the author of the
suggestion),
That shall enable me to reign in the blue empyrean and complete the
subdual of the planet
Which is and has been for ever so long my heritage.
Wo, then, wo to the gnats! wo to the Jewish-nosed eagle!
I put the least first and the greatest last, partly to snub the King
of the Falconidæ,
And partly because it better suits my rhythm――
I will not say my _metre_ because I condemn all trammels,
Pouring out my soul in lines of unequal lengths occasionally relieved
by hexameters.
Wo, wo, wo! to the eagle! Now you see I reverse things again,
Vice-versa-ing my apostrophe――’tis a common trick of versemen and
orators――
Soon the eagle of song will soar ever so much higher than the eagle
who can’t sing;
And he won’t like that――the other eagle I mean, of course:
So he’ll let himself fall into the sea like a thunderbolt.
(That last idea is not mine, but a Mr. Tennyson’s; have you heard of
him?)
While as for the gnats――they are the critics, as I hinted just now,
you know.
Sting for sting, my hearties, then! buzz for buzz! bite for bite!
And, as of course I am ever so much bigger than you are,
I’ll shrike you as the humming-bird shrikes the honey-bee――that I
will.

_St. James’s Gazette._ June 27, 1881.

WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

By DAVID MALLET. Born, 1700. Died, 1765.

’Twas at the silent solemn hour,
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret’s grimly ghost,
And stood at William’s feet.

Her face was like an April morn
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand
That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear
When youth and years are flown:
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,
Consumed her early prime;
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek――
She died before her time.