Chapter VIII: Part II (6)

"A modern Theatre, as I heard you say,
Sows seeds of evil broadcast--well it may;
But let me ask you, my respected son,
Pray, have you ever ventured into one?"

"My Lord," said MICAH, "no!
I never, never go!
What! Go and see a play?
My goodness gracious, nay!"

The worthy Bishop said, "My friend, no doubt
The Stage may be the place you make it out;
But if, my REVEREND SOWLS, you never go,
I don't quite understand how you're to know."

"Well, really," MICAH said,
"I've often heard and read,
But never go--do you?"
The Bishop said, "I do."

"That proves me wrong," said MICAH, in a trice;
"I thought it all frivolity and vice."
The Bishop handed him a printed card;
"Go to a theatre where they play our Bard."

The Bishop took his leave,
Rejoicing in his sleeve.
The next ensuing day
SOWLS went and heard a play.

He saw a dreary person on the stage,
Who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage,
Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd,
And spoke an English SOWLS had never heard.

For "gaunt" was spoken "garnt,"
And "haunt" transformed to "harnt,"
And "wrath" pronounced as "rath,"
And "death" was changed to "dath."

For hours and hours that dismal actor walked,
And talked, and talked, and talked, and talked,
Till lethargy upon the parson crept,
And sleepy MICAH SOWLS serenely slept.

He slept away until
The farce that closed the bill
Had warned him not to stay,
And then he went away.

"I thought _my_ gait ridiculous," said he--
"_My_ elocution faulty as could be;
I thought _I_ mumbled on a matchless plan--
I had not seen our great Tragedian!

"Forgive me, if you can,
O great Tragedian!
I own it with a sigh--
You're drearier than I!"

MY LADY

Bedecked in fashion trim,
With every curl a-quiver;
Or leaping, light of limb,
O'er rivulet and river;
Or skipping o'er the lea
On daffodil and daisy;
Or stretched beneath a tree,
All languishing and lazy;
Whatever be her mood--
Be she demurely prude
Or languishingly lazy--
My lady drives me crazy!
In vain her heart is wooed,
Whatever be her mood!

What profit should I gain
Suppose she loved me dearly?
Her coldness turns my brain
To _verge_ of madness merely.
Her kiss--though, Heaven knows,
To dream of it were treason--
Would tend, as I suppose,
To utter loss of reason!
My state is not amiss;
I would not have a kiss
Which, in or out of season,
Might tend to loss of reason:
What profit in such bliss?
A fig for such a kiss!

ONE AGAINST THE WORLD

It's my opinion--though I own
In thinking so I'm quite alone--
In some respects I'm but a fright.
_You_ like my features, I suppose?
_I'm_ disappointed with my nose:
Some rave about it--perhaps they're right.
My figure just sets off a fit;
But when they say it's exquisite
(And they _do_ say so), that's too strong.
I hope I'm not what people call
Opinionated! After all,
I'm but a goose, and may be wrong!

When charms enthral
There's some excuse
For measures strong;
And after all
I'm but a goose,
And may be wrong!

My teeth are very neat, no doubt;
But after all they _may_ fall out:
_I_ think they will--some think they won't.
My hands are small, as you may see,
But not as small as they might be,
At least, _I_ think so--others don't.
But there, a girl may preach and prate
From morning six to evening eight,
And never stop to dine,
When all the world, although misled,
Is quite agreed on any head--
And it is quite agreed on mine!

All said and done,
It's little I
Against a throng.
I'm only one,
And possibly
I may be wrong!

THE FORCE OF ARGUMENT

LORD B. was a nobleman bold
Who came of illustrious stocks,
He was thirty or forty years old,
And several feet in his socks.

To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea
This elegant nobleman went,
For that was a borough that he
Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent.

At local assemblies he danced
Until he felt thoroughly ill;
He waltzed, and he galoped, and lanced,
And threaded the mazy quadrille.

The maidens of Turniptopville
Were simple--ingenuous--pure--
And they all worked away with a will
The nobleman's heart to secure.

Two maidens all others beyond
Endeavoured his cares to dispel--
The one was the lively ANN POND,
The other sad MARY MORELL.

ANN POND had determined to try
And carry the Earl with a rush;
Her principal feature was eye,
Her greatest accomplishment--gush.

And MARY chose this for her play:
Whenever he looked in her eye
She'd blush and turn quickly away,
And flitter, and flutter, and sigh.

It was noticed he constantly sighed
As she worked out the scheme she had planned,
A fact he endeavoured to hide
With his aristocratical hand.

Old POND was a farmer, they say,
And so was old TOMMY MORELL.
In a humble and pottering way
They were doing exceedingly well.

They both of them carried by vote
The Earl was a dangerous man;
So nervously clearing his throat,
One morning old TOMMY began:

"My darter's no pratty young doll--
I'm a plain-spoken Zommerzet man--
Now what do 'ee mean by my POLL,
And what do 'ee mean by his ANN?"

Said B., "I will give you my bond
I mean them uncommonly well,
Believe me, my excellent POND,
And credit me, worthy MORELL.

"It's quite indisputable, for
I'll prove it with singular ease,--
You shall have it in 'Barbara' or
'Celarent'--whichever you please.

'You see, when an anchorite bows
To the yoke of intentional sin,
If the state of the country allows,
Homogeny always steps in--

"It's a highly æsthetical bond,
As any mere ploughboy can tell----"
"Of course," replied puzzled old POND.
"I see," said old TOMMY MORELL.

"Very good, then," continued the lord;
"When it's fooled to the top of its bent,
With a sweep of a Damocles sword
The web of intention is rent.

"That's patent to all of us here,
As any mere schoolboy can tell."
POND answered, "Of course it's quite clear";
And so did that humbug MORELL.

"Its tone's esoteric in force--
I trust that I make myself clear?"
MORELL only answered, "Of course,"
While POND slowly muttered, "Hear, hear."

"Volition--celestial prize,
Pellucid as porphyry cell--
Is based on a principle wise."
"Quite so," exclaimed POND and MORELL.

"From what I have said you will see
That I couldn't wed either--in fine,
By Nature's unchanging decree
_Your_ daughters could never be _mine_.

"Go home to your pigs and your ricks,
My hands of the matter I've rinsed."
So they take up their hats and their sticks,
And _exeunt ambo_, convinced.

PUT A PENNY IN THE SLOT

If my action's stiff and crude,
Do not laugh, because it's rude.
If my gestures promise larks,
Do not make unkind remarks.
Clockwork figures may be found
Everywhere and all around.
Ten to one, if I but knew,
You are clockwork figures too.
And the motto of the lot,
"Put a penny in the slot!"

Usurer, for money lent,
Making out his cent per cent--
Widow plump or maiden rare,
Deaf and dumb to suitor's prayer--
Tax collectors, whom in vain
You implore to "call again"--
Cautious voter, whom you find
Slow in making up his mind--
If you'd move them on the spot,
Put a penny in the slot!

Bland reporters in the courts,
Who suppress police reports--
Sheriff's yeoman, pen in fist,
Making out a jury list--
Stern policemen, tall and spare,
Acting all "upon the square"--
(Which in words that plainer fall,
Means that you can square them all)--
If you want to move the lot,
Put a penny in the slot!

GOOD LITTLE GIRLS

Although of native maids the cream,
We're brought up on the English scheme--
The best of all
For great and small
Who modesty adore.
For English girls are good as gold,
Extremely modest (so we're told),
Demurely coy--divinely cold--
And we are that--and more.
To please papa, who argues thus--
All girls should mould themselves on us,
Because we are,
By furlongs far,

The best of all the bunch;
We show ourselves to loud applause
From ten to four without a pause--
Which is an awkward time because
It cuts into our lunch.

Oh, maids of high and low degree,
Whose social code is rather free,
Please look at us and you will see
What good young ladies ought to be!

And as we stand, like clockwork toys,
A lecturer papa employs
To puff and praise
Our modest ways
And guileless character--
Our well-known blush--our downcast eyes--
Our famous look of mild surprise
(Which competition still defies)--
Our celebrated "Sir!!!"
Then all the crowd take down our looks
In pocket memorandum books.
To diagnose
Our modest pose
The kodaks do their best:
If evidence you would possess
Of what is maiden bashfulness,
You only need a button press--
And _we_ do all the rest.

THE PHANTOM CURATE

A FABLE

A bishop once--I will not name his see--
Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional;
From pulpit shackles never set them free,
And found a sin where sin was unintentional.
All pleasures ended in abuse auricular--
That Bishop was so terribly particular.

Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man,
He sought to make of human pleasures clearances,
And form his priests on that much-lauded plan
Which pays undue attention to appearances.
He couldn't do good deeds without a psalm in 'em,
Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in 'em.

Enraged to find a deacon at a dance,
Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity,
He sought by open censure to enhance
Their dread of joining harmless social jollity;
Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety)
The ordinary pleasures of society.

One evening, sitting at a pantomime
(Forbidden treat to those who stood in fear of him),
Roaring at jokes _sans_ metre, sense, or rhyme,
He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him--
His peace of mind upsetting, and annoying it--
A curate, also heartily enjoying it.

Again, 'twas Christmas Eve, and to enhance
His children's pleasure in their harmless rollicking,
He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance;
When something checked the current of his frolicking:
That curate, with a maid he treated loverly,
Stood up and figured with him in the "Coverley"!

Once, yielding to an universal choice
(The company's demand was an emphatic one,
For the old Bishop had a glorious voice),
In a quartet he joined--an operatic one--
Harmless enough, though ne'er a word of grace in it;
When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it!

One day, when passing through a quiet street,
He stopped awhile and joined a Punch's gathering,
And chuckled more than solemn folk think meet
To see that gentleman his Judy lathering;
And heard, as Punch was being treated penally,
That phantom curate laughing all hyænally!

Now at a picnic, 'mid fair golden curls,
Bright eyes, straw hats, _bottines_ that fit amazingly,
A croquet-bout is planned by all the girls,
And he, consenting, speaks of croquet praisingly;
But suddenly declines to play at all in it--
The curate fiend has come to take a ball in it!

Next, when at quiet seaside village, freed
From cares episcopal and ties monarchical,
He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed,
In manner anything but hierarchical--
He sees--and fixes an unearthly stare on it--
That curate's face, with half a yard of hair on it!

At length he gave a charge, and spake this word:
"Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye may.
To check their harmless pleasuring's absurd;
What laymen do without reproach, my clergy may."
He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him,
The curate vanished--no one since has heard of him.

LIFE

First you're born--and I'll be bound you
Find a dozen strangers round you.
"Hallo," cries the new-born baby,
"Where's my parents? which may they be?"
Awkward silence--no reply--
Puzzled baby wonders why!
Father rises, bows politely--
Mother smiles (but not too brightly)--
Doctor mumbles like a dumb thing--
Nurse is busy mixing something.--
Every symptom tends to show
You're decidedly _de trop_--
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Time's teetotum,
If you spin it,
Give its quotum
Once a minute:
I'll go bail
You hit the nail,
And if you fail
The deuce is in it!

You grow up, and you discover
What it is to be a lover.
Some young lady is selected--
Poor, perhaps, but well-connected,
Whom you hail (for Love is blind)
As the Queen of Fairy-kind.
Though she's plain--perhaps unsightly,
Makes her face up--laces tightly,
In her form your fancy traces
All the gifts of all the graces.
Rivals none the maiden woo,
So you take her and she takes you!
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Joke beginning,
Never ceases,
Till your inning
Time releases;
On your way
You blindly stray,
And day by day
The joke increases!

* * * * *

Ten years later--Time progresses--
Sours your temper--thins your tresses;
Fancy, then, her chain relaxes;
Rates are facts and so are taxes.
Fairy Queen's no longer young--
Fairy Queen has such a tongue!
Twins have probably intruded--
Quite unbidden--just as you did;
They're a source of care and trouble--
Just as you were--only double.
Comes at last the final stroke--
Time has had his little joke!

Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Daily driven
(Wife as drover)
Ill you've thriven--
Ne'er in clover:
Lastly, when
Threescore and ten
(And not till then),
The joke is over!
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Then--and then
The joke is over!

LIMITED LIABILITY

Some seven men form an Association
(If possible, all Peers and Baronets),
They start off with a public declaration
To what extent they mean to pay their debts.
That's called their Capital: if they are wary
They will not quote it at a sum immense.
The figure's immaterial--it may vary
From eighteen million down to eighteenpence.
_I_ should put it rather low;
The good sense of doing so
Will be evident at once to any debtor.
When it's left to you to say
What amount you mean to pay,
Why, the lower you can put it at, the better.

They then proceed to trade with all who'll trust 'em,
Quite irrespective of their capital
(It's shady, but it's sanctified by custom);
Bank, Railway, Loan, or Panama Canal.
You can't embark on trading too tremendous--
It's strictly fair, and based on common sense--
If you succeed, your profits are stupendous--
And if you fail, pop goes your eighteenpence.
Make the money-spinner spin!
For you only stand to win,
And you'll never with dishonesty be twitted.
For nobody can know,
To a million or so,
To what extent your capital's committed!

If you come to grief, and creditors are craving
(For nothing that is planned by mortal head
Is certain in this Vale of Sorrow--saving
That one's Liability is Limited),--
Do you suppose that signifies perdition?
If so you're but a monetary dunce--
You merely file a Winding-Up Petition,
And start another Company at once!
Though a Rothschild you may be
In your own capacity,
As a Company you've come to utter sorrow--
But the Liquidators say,
"Never mind--you needn't pay,"
So you start another Company to-morrow!

THE SENSATION CAPTAIN

No nobler captain ever trod
Than CAPTAIN PARKLEBURY TODD,
So good--so wise--so brave, he!
But still, as all his friends would own,
He had one folly--one alone--
This Captain in the Navy.

I do not think I ever knew
A man so wholly given to
Creating a sensation;
Or p'raps I should in justice say--
To what in an Adelphi play
Is known as "situation."

He passed his time designing traps
To flurry unsuspicious chaps--
The taste was his innately;
He couldn't walk into a room
Without ejaculating "Boom!"
Which startled ladies greatly.

He'd wear a mask and muffling cloak,
Not, you will understand, in joke,
As some assume disguises;
He did it, actuated by
A simple love of mystery
And fondness for surprises.

I need not say he loved a maid--
His eloquence threw into shade
All others who adored her.
The maid, though pleased at first, I know,
Found, after several years or so,
Her startling lover bored her.

So, when his orders came to sail,
She did not faint or scream or wail,
Or with her tears anoint him:
She shook his hand, and said "Good-bye,"
With laughter dancing in her eye--
Which seemed to disappoint him.

But ere he went aboard his boat,
He placed around her little throat
A ribbon, blue and yellow,
On which he hung a double tooth--
A simple token this, in sooth--
'Twas all he had, poor fellow!

"I often wonder," he would say,
When very, very far away,
"If ANGELINA wears it?
A plan has entered in my head:
I will pretend that I am dead,
And see how ANGY bears it."

The news he made a messmate tell.
His ANGELINA bore it well,
No sign gave she of crazing;
But, steady as the Inchcape Rock,
His ANGELINA stood the shock
With fortitude amazing.

She said, "Some one I must elect
Poor ANGELINA to protect
From all who wish to harm her--
Since worthy CAPTAIN TODD is dead,
I rather feel inclined to wed
A comfortable farmer."

A comfortable farmer came
(BASSANIO TYLER was his name),
Who had no end of treasure.
He said, "My noble gal, be mine!"
The noble gal did not decline,
But simply said. "With pleasure."

When this was told to CAPTAIN TODD,
At first he thought it rather odd,
And felt some perturbation;
But very long he did not grieve,
He thought he could a way perceive
To _such_ a situation!

"I'll not reveal myself," said he,
"Till they are both in the
Ecclesiastical arena;
Then suddenly I will appear,
And paralysing them with fear,
Demand my ANGELINA!"

At length arrived the wedding day;
Accoutred in the usual way
Appeared the bridal body;
The worthy clergyman began,
When in the gallant Captain ran
And cried, "Behold your TODDY!"

The bridegroom, p'raps, was terrified,
And also possibly the bride--
The bridesmaids _were_ affrighted;
But ANGELINA, noble soul,
Contrived her feelings to control,
And really seemed delighted.

"My bride!" said gallant CAPTAIN TODD,
"She's mine, uninteresting clod!
My own, my darling charmer!"
"Oh dear," said she, "you're just too late--
I'm married to, I beg to state,
This comfortable farmer!"

"Indeed," the farmer said, "she's mine;
You've been and cut it far too fine!"
"I see," said TODD, "I'm beaten."
And so he went to sea once more,
"Sensation" he for aye forswore,
And married on her native shore
A lady whom he'd met before--
A lovely Otaheitan.

ANGLICISED UTOPIA

Society has quite forsaken all her wicked courses,
Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces.
(Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.)
No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour;
For the higher his position is, the greater the offender.
(That's a maxim that is prevalent in England.)
No Peeress at our Drawing-Room before the Presence passes
Who wouldn't be accepted by the lower-middle classes;
Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out neatly.
In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!
It really is surprising
What a thorough Anglicising
We've brought about--Utopia's quite another land;
In her enterprising movements,
She is England--with improvements,
Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!

Our city we have beautified--we've done it willy-nilly--
And all that isn't Belgrave Square is Strand and Piccadilly.
(They haven't any slummeries in England.)
We have solved the labour question with discrimination polished,
So poverty is obsolete and hunger is abolished--
(They are going to abolish it in England.)
The Chamberlain our native stage has purged, beyond a question,
Of "risky" situation and indelicate suggestion;
No piece is tolerated if it's costumed indiscreetly--
In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!
It really is surprising
What a thorough Anglicising
We've brought about--Utopia's quite another land;
In her enterprising movements,
She is England--with improvements,
Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!

Our Peerage we've remodelled on an intellectual basis,
Which certainly is rough on our hereditary races--
(They are going to remodel it in England.)
The Brewers and the Cotton Lords no longer seek admission,
And Literary Merit meets with proper recognition--
(As Literary Merit does in England!)
Who knows but we may count among our intellectual chickens
Like them an Earl of Thackeray and p'raps a Duke of Dickens--
Lord Fildes and Viscount Millais (when they come) we'll welcome
sweetly--
And then, this happy country will be Anglicised completely!
It really is surprising
What a thorough Anglicising
We've brought about--Utopia's quite another land;
In her enterprising movements,
She is England--with improvements,
Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!

AN ENGLISH GIRL

A WONDERFUL joy our eyes to bless,
In her magnificent comeliness,
Is an English girl of eleven stone two,
And five foot ten in her dancing shoe!
She follows the hounds, and on she pounds--
The "field" tails off and the muffs diminish--
Over the hedges and brooks she bounds--
Straight as a crow, from find to finish.
At cricket, her kin will lose or win--
She and her maids, on grass and clover,
Eleven maids out--eleven maids in--
(And perhaps an occasional "maiden over").
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There's no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!

With a ten-mile spin she stretches her limbs,
She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims--
She plays, she sings, she dances, too,
From ten or eleven till all is blue!
At ball or drum, till small hours come
(Chaperon's fan conceals her yawning),
She'll waltz away like a teetotum,
And never go home till daylight's dawning.
Lawn tennis may share her favours fair--
Her eyes a-dance and her cheeks a-glowing--
Down comes her hair, but what does she care?
It's all her own and it's worth the showing!
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There's no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!

Her soul is sweet as the ocean air,
For prudery knows no haven there;
To find mock-modesty, please apply
To the conscious blush and the downcast eye.
Rich in the things contentment brings,
In every pure enjoyment wealthy,
Blithe as a beautiful bird she sings,
For body and mind are hale and healthy.
Her eyes they thrill with right goodwill--
Her heart is light as a floating feather--
As pure and bright as the mountain rill
That leaps and laughs in the Highland heather!
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There's no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!

TEMPORA MUTANTUR

Letters, letters, letters, letters!
Some that please and some that bore,
Some that threaten prison fetters
(Metaphorically, fetters
Such as bind insolvent debtors)--
Invitations by the score.

One from COGSON, WILES, and RAILER,
My attorneys, off the Strand;
One from COPPERBLOCK, my tailor--
My unreasonable tailor--
One in FLAGG'S disgusting hand.

One from EPHRAIM and MOSES,
Wanting coin without a doubt,
I should like to pull their noses--
Their uncompromising noses;
One from ALICE with the roses---
Ah, I know what that's about!

Time was when I waited, waited
For the missives that she wrote,
Humble postmen execrated--
Loudly, deeply execrated--
When I heard I wasn't fated
To be gladdened with a note!

Time was when I'd not have bartered
Of her little pen a dip
For a peerage duly gartered--
For a peerage starred and gartered--
With a palace-office chartered,
Or a Secretaryship.

But the time for that is over,
And I wish we'd never met.
I'm afraid I've proved a rover--
I'm afraid a heartless rover--
Quarters in a place like Dover
Tend to make a man forget.

Bills for carriages and horses,
Bills for wine and light cigar,
Matters that concern the Forces--
News that may affect the Forces--
News affecting my resources,
Much more interesting are!

And the tiny little paper,
With the words that seem to run
From her little fingers taper
(They are very small and taper),
By the tailor and the draper
Are in interest outdone.

And unopened it's remaining!
I can read her gentle hope--
Her entreaties, uncomplaining
(She was always uncomplaining),
Her devotion never waning--
Through the little envelope!

A MANAGER'S PERPLEXITIES

Were I a king in very truth,
And had a son--a guileless youth--
In probable succession;
To teach him patience, teach him tact,
How promptly in a fix to act,
He should adopt, in point of fact,
A manager's profession.
To that condition he should stoop
(Despite a too fond mother),
With eight or ten "stars" in his troupe,
All jealous of each other!
Oh, the man who can rule a theatrical crew,
Each member a genius (and some of them two),
And manage to humour them, little and great,
Can govern a tuppenny-ha'penny State!

Both A and B rehearsal slight--
They say they'll be "all right at night"
(They've both to go to school yet);
C in each act _must_ change her dress,
D _will_ attempt to "square the press";
E won't play Romeo unless
His grandmother plays Juliet;
F claims all hoydens as her rights
(She's played them thirty seasons);
And G must show herself in tights
For two convincing reasons--
Two very well-shaped reasons!
Oh, the man who can drive a theatrical team,
With wheelers and leaders in order supreme,
Can govern and rule, with a wave of his fin,
All Europe and Asia--with Ireland thrown in!

OUT OF SORTS

When you find you're a broken-down critter,
Who is all of a trimmle and twitter,
With your palate unpleasantly bitter,
As if you'd just bitten a pill--
When your legs are as thin as dividers,
And you're plagued with unruly insiders,
And your spine is all creepy with spiders,
And you're highly gamboge in the gill--
When you've got a beehive in your head,
And a sewing machine in each ear,
And you feel that you've eaten your bed,
And you've got a bad headache _down here_--
When such facts are about,
And these symptoms you find
In your body or crown--
Well, it's time to look out,
You may make up your mind
You had better lie down!

When your lips are all smeary--like tallow,
And your tongue is decidedly yallow,
With a pint of warm oil in your sw_a_llow,
And a pound of tin-tacks in your chest--
When you're down in the mouth with the vapours,
And all over your new Morris papers
Black-beetles are cutting their capers,
And crawly things never at rest--
When you doubt if your head is your own,
And you jump when an open door slams--
Then you've got to a state which is known
To the medical world as "jim-jams."
If such symptoms you find
In your body or head,
They're not easy to quell--
You may make up your mind
You are better in bed,
For you're not at all well!

AT A PANTOMIME

BY A BILIOUS ONE

An actor sits in doubtful gloom,
His stock-in-trade unfurled,
In a damp funereal dressing-room
In the Theatre Royal, World.

He comes to town at Christmas-time
And braves its icy breath,
To play in that favourite pantomime.
_Harlequin Life and Death_.

A hoary flowing wig his weird,
Unearthly cranium caps;
He hangs a long benevolent beard
On a pair of empty chaps.

To smooth his ghastly features down
The actor's art he cribs;
A long and a flowing padded gown
Bedecks his rattling ribs.

He cries, "Go on--begin, begin!
Turn on the light of lime;
I'm dressed for jolly Old Christmas in
A favourite pantomime!"

The curtain's up--the stage all black--
Time and the Year nigh sped--
(Time as an advertising quack)
The Old Year nearly dead.

The wand of Time is waved, and lo!
Revealed Old Christmas stands,
And little children chuckle and crow,
And laugh and clap their hands.

The cruel old scoundrel brightens up
At the death of the Olden Year,
And he waves a gorgeous golden cup,
And bids the world good cheer.

The little ones hail the festive King--
No thought can make them sad;
Their laughter comes with a sounding ring.
They clap and crow like mad!

They only see in the humbug old
A holiday every year,
And handsome gifts, and joys untold,
And unaccustomed cheer.

The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar,
Their breasts in anguish beat--
They've seen him seventy times before,
How well they know the cheat!

They've seen that ghastly pantomime,
They've felt its blighting breath,
They know that rollicking Christmas-time
Meant cold and want and death--

Starvation--Poor Law Union fare,
And deadly cramps and chills,
And illness--illness everywhere--
And crime, and Christmas bills.

They know Old Christmas well, I ween,
Those men of ripened age;
They've often, often, often seen
That actor off the stage.

They see in his gay rotundity
A clumsy stuffed-out dress;
They see in the cup he waves on high
A tinselled emptiness.

Those aged men so lean and wan,
They've seen it all before;
They know they'll see the charlatan
But twice or three times more.

And so they bear with dance and song,
And crimson foil and green;
They wearily sit, and grimly long
For the Transformation Scene.

HOW IT'S DONE

Bold-faced ranger
(Perfect stranger)
Meets two well-behaved young ladies.
He's attractive,
Young and active--
Each a little bit afraid is.
Youth advances,
At his glances
To their danger they awaken;
They repel him
As they tell him
He is very much mistaken.
Though they speak to him politely,
Please observe they're sneering slightly,
Just to show he's acting vainly.
This is Virtue saying plainly,
"Go away, young bachelor,
We are not what you take us for!"

(When addressed impertinently,
English ladies answer gently,
"Go away, young bachelor,
We are not what you take us for!")

As he gazes,
Hat he raises,
Enters into conversation.
Makes excuses--
This produces
Interesting agitation.
He, with daring,
Undespairing,
Gives his card--his rank discloses--
Little heeding
This proceeding,
They turn up their little noses.
Pray observe this lesson vital--
When a man of rank and title
His position first discloses,
Always cock your little noses.
When at home, let all the class
Try this in the looking-glass.
(English girls of well-bred notions
Shun all unrehearsed emotions,
English girls of highest class
Practise them before the glass.)

His intentions
Then he mentions,
Something definite to go on--
Makes recitals
Of his titles,
Hints at settlements, and so on.
Smiling sweetly,
They, discreetly,

Ask for further evidences:
Thus invited,
He, delighted,
Gives the usual references.
This is business. Each is fluttered
When the offer's fairly uttered.
"Which of them has his affection?"
He declines to make selection.
Do they quarrel for his dross?
Not a bit of it--they toss!
Please observe this cogent moral--
English ladies never quarrel.
When a doubt they come across,
English ladies always toss.

A CLASSICAL REVIVAL

At the outset I may mention it's my sovereign intention
To revive the classic memories of Athens at its best,
For my company possesses all the necessary dresses,
And a course of quiet cramming will supply us with the rest.
We've a choir hyporchematic (that is, ballet-operatic)
Who respond to the _choreutae_ of that cultivated age,
And our clever chorus-master, all but captious criticaster
Would accept as the _choregus_ of the early Attic stage.
This return to classic ages is considered in their wages,
Which are always calculated by the day or by the week--
And I'll pay 'em (if they'll back me) all in _oboloi_ and
_drachmae_,
Which they'll get (if they prefer it) at the Kalends that are
Greek!

(At this juncture I may mention
That this erudition sham
Is but classical pretension,
The result of steady "cram.":

Periphrastic methods spurning,
To my readers all discerning
I admit this show of learning
Is the fruit of steady "cram."!)

In the period Socratic every dining-room was Attic
(Which suggests an architecture of a topsy-turvy kind),
There they'd satisfy their twist on a _recherché_ cold ἄριστον,
Which is what they called their lunch--and so may you, if you're
inclined.
As they gradually got on, they'd τρέπεσθαι πρὸς τὸν πότον
(Which is Attic for a steady and a conscientious drink).
But they mixed their wine with water--which I'm sure they didn't
oughter--
And we Anglo-Saxons know a trick worth two of that, I think!
Then came rather risky dances (under certain circumstances)
Which would shock that worthy gentleman, the Licenser of Plays,
Corybantian mani_ac_ kick--Dionysiac or Bacchic--
And the Dithyrambic revels of those indecorous days.

(And perhaps I'd better mention
Lest alarming you I am,
That it isn't our intention
To perform a Dithyramb--
It displays a lot of stocking,
Which is always very shocking,
And of course I'm only mocking
At the prevalence of "cram.")

Yes, on reconsideration, there are customs of that nation
Which are not in strict accordance with the habits of our day,
And when I come to codify, their rules I mean to modify,
Or Mrs. Grundy, p'r'aps, may have a word or two to say:
For they hadn't macintoshes or umbrellas or goloshes--

And a shower with their dresses must have played the very deuce,
And it must have been unpleasing when they caught a fit of sneezing,
For, it seems, of pocket-handkerchiefs they didn't know the use.
They wore little underclothing--scarcely anything--or no-thing--
And their dress of Coan silk was quite transparent in design--
Well, in fact, in summer weather, something like the "altogether."
And it's _there_, I rather fancy, I shall have to draw the line!

(And again I wish to mention)
That this erudition sham
Is but classical pretension,
The result of steady "cram."
Yet my classic lore aggressive,
If you'll pardon the possessive,
Is exceedingly impressive
When you're passing an exam.

THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB

Strike the concertina's melancholy string!
Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!
Let the piano's martial blast
Rouse the echoes of the past,
For of AGIB, Prince of Tartary, I sing!

Of AGIB, who, amid Tartaric scenes,
Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens:
His gentle spirit rolls
In the melody of souls--
Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.

Of AGIB, who could readily, at sight,
Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.
He would diligently play
On the Zoetrope all day,
And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

One winter--I am shaky in my dates--
Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;
Oh, Allah be obeyed,
How infernally they played!
I remember that they called themselves the "Oüaits."

Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Alas! PRINCE AGIB went and asked them in;
Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin
And when (as snobs would say)
They had "put it all away,"
He requested them to tune up and begin.

Though its icy horror chill you to the core,
I will tell you what I never told before--
The consequences true
Of that awful interview,
_For I listened at the keyhole in the door!_

They played him a sonata--let me see!
"_Medulla oblongata_"--key of G.
Then they began to sing
That extremely lovely thing,
"_Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp._"

He gave them money, more than they could count,
Scent from a most ingenious little fount,
More beer in little kegs,
Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,
And goodies to a fabulous amount.

Now follows the dim horror of my tale,
And I feel I'm growing gradually pale;
For even at this day,
Though its sting has passed away,
When I venture to remember it, I quail!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,
All-overish it made me for to feel.
"O Prince," he says, says he,
"_If a Prince indeed you be_,
I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!

"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,
To what the gent who's speaking to you saith:
No 'Oüaits' in truth are we,
As you fancy that we be,
For (ter-remble!) I am ALECK--this is BETH!"

Said AGIB, "Oh! accursed of your kind,
I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"
BETH gave a dreadful shriek--
But before he'd time to speak
I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more,
They fastened me, full length, upon the floor.
On my face extended flat,
I was walloped with a cat,
For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonising thrill!
(I can feel the place in frosty weather still.)
For a week from ten to four
I was fastened to the floor,
While a mercenary wopped me with a will!

They branded me and broke me on a wheel,
And they left me in an hospital to heal;
And, upon my solemn word,
I have never, never heard
What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!

THE PRACTICAL JOKER

Oh what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes.
What keen enjoyment springs
From cheap and simple things!
What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes,
That pain and trouble brew
For every one but you!
Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havanah,
Its unexpected flash
Burns eyebrows and moustache;
When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha,
But common sense suggests
You keep it for your guests--
Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red-hot coppers,
And much amusement bides
In common butter-slides:
And stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected croppers.

Coal scuttles, recollect,
Produce the same effect.
A man possessed
Of common sense
Need not invest
At great expense--
It does not call
For pocket deep,
These jokes are all
Extremely cheap.
If you commence with eighteenpence (it's all you'll have to pay),
You may command a pleasant and a most instructive day.

A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like
rockets,
And turnip-heads on posts
Make very decent ghosts:
Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waistcoat pockets--
Burnt cork and walnut juice
Are not without their use.

No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with
needles--
Live shrimps their patience tax
When put down people's backs--
Surprising, too, what one can do with fifty fat black beedles--
And treacle on a chair
Will make a Quaker swear!
Then sharp tin tacks
And pocket squirts--
And cobblers' wax
For ladies' skirts--
And slimy slugs
On bedroom floors--
And water jugs
On open doors--
Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play,
Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day!

THE NATIONAL ANTHEM

A monarch is pestered with cares,
Though, no doubt, he can often trepan them;
But one comes in a shape he can never escape--
The implacable National Anthem!
Though for quiet and rest he may yearn,
It pursues him at every turn--
No chance of forsaking
Its _rococo_ numbers;
They haunt him when waking--
They poison his slumbers--
Like the Banbury Lady, whom every one knows,
He's cursed with its music wherever he goes!
Though its words but imperfectly rhyme,
And the devil himself couldn't scan them;
With composure polite he endures day and night
That illiterate National Anthem!

It serves a good purpose, I own:
Its strains are devout and impressive--
Its heart-stirring notes raise a lump in our throats
As we burn with devotion excessive:
But the King, who's been bored by that song
From his cradle--each day--all day long--
Who's heard it loud-shouted
By throats operatic,
And loyally spouted
By courtiers emphatic--
By soldier--by sailor--by drum and by fife--
Small blame if he thinks it the plague of his life!
While his subjects sing loudly and long,
Their King--who would willingly ban them--
Sits, worry disguising, anathematising
That Bogie, the National Anthem!

JOE GOLIGHTLY

OR, THE FIRST LORD'S DAUGHTER

A tar, but poorly prized,
Long, shambling, and unsightly,
Thrashed, bullied, and despised,
Was wretched JOE GOLIGHTLY.

He bore a workhouse brand;
No Pa or Ma had claimed him,
The Beadle found him, and
The Board of Guardians named him.

P'r'aps some Princess's son--
A beggar p'r'aps his mother.
_He_ rather thought the one,
_I_ rather think the other.

He liked his ship at sea,
He loved the salt sea-water,
He worshipped junk, and he
Adored the First Lord's daughter.

The First Lord's daughter, proud,
Snubbed Earls and Viscounts nightly;
She sneered at Barts, aloud,
And spurned poor Joe Golightly.

Whene'er he sailed afar
Upon a Channel cruise, he
Unpacked his light guitar
And sang this ballad (Boosey):

Ballad

The moon is on the sea,
Willow!
The wind blows towards the lee,
Willow!
But though I sigh and sob and cry,
No Lady Jane for me,
Willow!

She says, "'Twere folly quite,
Willow!
For me to wed a wight,
Willow!
Whose lot is cast before the mast";
And possibly she's right,
Willow!

His skipper (CAPTAIN JOYCE),
He gave him many a rating,
And almost lost his voice
From thus expostulating:

"Lay aft, you lubber, do!
What's come to that young man, JOE?
Belay!--'vast heaving! you!
Do kindly stop that banjo!

"I wish, I do--O lor'!--
You'd shipped aboard a trader:
_Are_ you a sailor or
A negro serenader?"

But still the stricken lad,
Aloft or on his pillow,
Howled forth in accents sad
His aggravating "Willow!"

Stern love of duty had
Been JOYCE'S chiefest beauty;
Says he, "I love that lad,
But duty, damme! duty!

"Twelve months' black-hole, I say,
Where daylight never flashes;
And always twice a day
A good six dozen lashes!"

But JOSEPH had a mate,
A sailor stout and lusty,
A man of low estate,
But singularly trusty.

Says he, "Cheer hup, young JOE!
I'll tell you what I'm arter--
To that Fust Lord I'll go
And ax him for his darter.

"To that Fust Lord I'll go
And say you love her dearly."
And JOE said (weeping low),
"I wish you would, sincerely!"

That sailor to that Lord
Went, soon as he had landed,
And of his own accord
An interview demanded.

Says he, with seaman's roll,
"My Captain (wot's a Tartar)
Guv JOE twelve months' black-hole,
For lovering your darter.

"He loves MISS LADY JANE
(I own she is his betters),
But if you'll jine them twain,
They'll free him from his fetters.

"And if so be as how
You'll let her come aboard ship,
I'll take her with me now."
"Get out!" remarked his Lordship.

That honest tar repaired
To JOE upon the billow,
And told him how he'd fared.
JOE only whispered, "Willow!"

And for that dreadful crime
(Young sailors, learn to shun it)
He's working out his time;
In six months he'll have done it.

HER TERMS

My wedded life
Must every pleasure bring
On scale extensive!
If I'm your wife
I must have everything
That's most expensive--
A lady's-maid--
(My hair alone to do
I am not able)--
And I'm afraid
I've been accustomed to
A first-rate table.
These things one must consider when one marries--
And everything I wear must come from Paris!
Oh, think of that!
Oh, think of that!
I can't wear anything that's not from Paris!
From top to toes
Quite Frenchified I am,
If you examine.
And then--who knows?--
Perhaps some day a fam--
Perhaps a famine!
My argument's correct, if you examine,
What should we do, if there should come a f-famine!

Though in green pea
Yourself you needn't stint
In July sunny,
In Januaree
It really costs a mint--
A mint of money!

No lamb for us--
House lamb at Christmas sells
At prices handsome:
Asparagus,
In winter, parallels
A Monarch's ransom:
When purse to bread and butter barely reaches,
What is your wife to do for hot-house peaches?
Ah! tell me that!
Ah! tell me that!
What _is_ your wife to do for hot-house peaches?
Your heart and hand
Though at my feet you lay,
All others scorning!
As matters stand,
There's nothing now to say
Except--good morning!
Though virtue be a husband's best adorning,
That won't pay rates and taxes--so, good morning!

THE INDEPENDENT BEE

A hive of bees, as I've heard say,
Said to their Queen one sultry day,
"Please your Majesty's high position,
The hive is full and the weather is warm,
We rather think, with a due submission,
The time has come when we ought to swarm."
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Up spake their Queen and thus spake she--
"This is a matter that rests with me,
Who dares opinions thus to form?
_I'll_ tell you when it is time to swarm!"
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

Her Majesty wore an angry frown,
In fact, her Majesty's foot was down--
Her Majesty sulked--declined to sup--
In short, her Majesty's back was up.
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Her foot was down and her back was up!

That hive contained one obstinate bee
(His name was Peter), and thus spake he--
"Though every bee has shown white feather,
To bow to tyranny I'm not prone--
Why should a hive swarm all together?
Surely a bee can swarm alone?"
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Upside down and inside out,
Backwards, forwards, round about,
Twirling here and twisting there,
Topsy-turvily everywhere--
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Pitiful sight it was to see
Respectable elderly high-class bee,
Who kicked the beam at sixteen stone,
Trying his best to swarm alone!
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Trying his best to swarm alone!

The hive were shocked to see their chum
(A strict teetotaller) teetotum--
The Queen exclaimed, "How terrible, very!
It's perfectly clear to all the throng
Peter's been at the old brown sherry.
Old brown sherry is much too strong--
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Of all who thus themselves degrade,
A stern example must be made,

To Coventry go, you tipsy bee!"
So off to Coventry town went he.
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
There, classed with all who misbehave,
Both plausible rogue and noisome knave.
In dismal dumps he lived to own
The folly of trying to swarm alone!
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
All came of trying to swarm alone.

TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE

BY A MISERABLE WRETCH

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through pathless realms of Space
Roll on!
What though I'm in a sorry case?
What though I cannot meet my bills?
What though I suffer toothache's ills?
What though I swallow countless pills?
Never _you_ mind!
Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through seas of inky air
Roll on!
It's true I have no shirts to wear;

It's true my butcher's bill is due;
It's true my prospects all look blue--
But don't let that unsettle you:
Never _you_ mind!
Roll on!
[_It rolls on._]

ETIQUETTE[12]

The _Ballyshannon_ foundered off the coast of Cariboo,
And down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew;
Down went the owners--greedy men whom hope of gain allured:
Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.

Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew,
The passengers were also drowned excepting only two:
Young PETER GRAY, who tasted teas for BAKER, CROOP, AND CO.,
And SOMERS, who from Eastern shores imported indigo.

[Footnote 12: Reprinted from the _Graphic_, by permission of the
proprietors.]

These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast,
Upon a desert island were eventually cast.
They hunted for their meals, as ALEXANDER SELKIRK used,
But they couldn't chat together--they had not been introduced.

For PETER GRAY, and SOMERS too, though certainly in trade,
Were properly particular about the friends they made;
And somehow thus they settled it without a word of mouth--
That GRAY should take the northern half, while SOMERS took the
south.

On PETER'S portion oysters grew--a delicacy rare,
But oysters were a delicacy PETER couldn't bear.
On SOMERS' side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick,
Which SOMERS couldn't eat, because it always made him sick.

GRAY gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty store
Of turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature's shore:
The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved,
For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved.

And SOMERS sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south,
For the thought of PETER'S oysters brought the water to his mouth.
He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff:
He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough.

How they wished an introduction to each other they had had
When on board the _Ballyshannon_! And it drove them nearly mad
To think how very friendly with each other they might get,
If it wasn't for the arbitrary rule of etiquette!

One day, when out a-hunting for the _mus ridiculus_,
GRAY overheard his fellow-man soliloquising thus:
"I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on,
M'CONNELL, S. B. WALTERS, PADDY BYLES, and ROBINSON?"

These simple words made PETER as delighted as could be,
Old chummies at the Charterhouse were ROBINSON and he!
He walked straight up to SOMERS, then he turned extremely red,
Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and
said:

"I beg your pardon--pray forgive me if I seem too bold,
But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old.
You spoke aloud of ROBINSON--I happened to be by--
You know him?" "Yes, extremely well." "Allow me--so do I!"

It was enough: they felt they could more sociably get on,
For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew ROBINSON!
And MR. SOMERS' turtle was at PETER'S service quite,
And MR. SOMERS punished PETER'S oyster-beds all night.

They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs:
They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs;
They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives;
On several occasions, too, they saved each other's lives.

They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night,
And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light;
Each other's pleasant company they reckoned so upon,
And all because it happened that they both knew ROBINSON!

They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore,
And day by day they learned to love each other more and more.
At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day,
They saw a vessel anchored in the offing of the bay!

To PETER an idea occurred. "Suppose we cross the main?
So good an opportunity may not occur again."
And SOMERS thought a minute, then ejaculated, "Done!
I wonder how my business in the City's getting on?"

"But stay," said MR. PETER: "when in England, as you know,
I earned a living tasting teas for BAKER, CROOP, AND CO.,
I may be superseded--my employers think me dead!"
"Then come with me," said SOMERS, "and taste indigo instead."

But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they found
The vessel was a convict ship from Portland, outward bound!
When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind,
To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.

As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke,
They recognised an unattractive fellow pulling stroke:

'Twas ROBINSON--a convict, in an unbecoming frock!
Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!

They laughed no more, for SOMERS thought he had been rather rash
In knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash;
And PETER thought a foolish tack he must have gone upon
In making the acquaintance of a friend of ROBINSON.

At first they didn't quarrel very openly, I've heard;
They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word:
The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head,
And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead.

To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth,
And PETER takes the north again, and SOMERS takes the south;
And PETER has the oysters, which he loathes with horror grim,
And SOMERS has the turtle--turtle disagrees with him.

THE DISCONCERTED TENOR

A tenor, all singers above
(This doesn't admit of a question),
Should keep himself quiet,
Attend to his diet,
And carefully nurse his digestion.
But when he is madly in love,
It's certain to tell on his singing--
You can't do chromatics
With proper emphatics
When anguish your bosom is wringing!
When distracted with worries in plenty,
And his pulse is a hundred and twenty,
And his fluttering bosom the slave of mistrust is,
A tenor can't do himself justice.
Now observe--(_sings a high note_)--
You see, I can't do myself justice!

I could sing, if my fervour were mock,
It's easy enough if you're acting;
But when one's emotion
Is born of devotion,
You mustn't be over-exacting.
One ought to be firm as a rock
To venture a shake in _vibrato_;
When fervour's expected,
Keep cool and collected,
Or never attempt _agitato_.
But, of course, when his tongue is of leather.
And his lips appear pasted together,
And his sensitive palate as dry as a crust is,
A tenor can't do himself justice.
Now observe--(_sings a cadence_)--
It's no use--I can't do myself justice!

BEN ALLAH ACHMET;

OR, THE FATAL TUM

I once did know a Turkish man
Whom I upon a two-pair-back met,
His name it was EFFENDI KHAN
BACKSHEESH PASHA BEN ALLAH ACHMET.