――――
THE CAUSE OF TRUTH.
(Few are aware that Southey’s beautiful and much lauded Poem of “Old
Father William,” is copied almost verbatim from an old American
ballad. Far be it from us to comment upon the fact, but truth compels
us to remark that a more barefaced piece of plagiarism has never come
under our notice. In order to convince the public of the veracity of
our statements, we subjoin the original ballad as found by us in an
old MS. entitled “Wild Cat Warblings.”)
“You air old, Father William, an elderly cuss,
But I reckon you air real grit,
For the high handed way you sailed into that muss
Astonished creation a bit.”
“Waal, fact is,” said William, removing his quid,
“I allus was cheerful and spry;
And my motto is, ‘Do, or you’re sure to be did,’
And ‘Root little hog, or die.’”
“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“Your fingers are stiff you’ll agree;
Yet you euchred the boys till they hadn’t a red,
And bust up the heathen Chinee.”
“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied,
“I played on the square, you perceive;
But now I have let old integrity slide,
And I keep the best bower in my sleeve.”
“You are old, Father William, and whiskey took neat,
Unsettles the sight I opine;
Yet you wiped out the digger who called you a cheat,
In a way that was powerful fine.”
“Take the lead when you can,” was his father’s response,
“That’s a bully old rule you’ll allow;
Besides, if you settle a critter at once,
It saves you from having a row.”
“You are old, Father William, and soon I expect
To be taking you round in a hearse;
Yet somehow you never appear to reflect
That you’re goin’ from wicked to worse.”
“Go slow” said his father, replacing his chaw,
“You are getting too all fired proud;
I reckon we’ve had just enough of your jaw,
Let’s licker. Hi! drinks for the crowd.”
_Zoz_ (Dublin), October, 1878.
――――
YOUTH AND AGE.
“You are old, Father William,” the young men cried,
“A disciple of Fox and of Grey;
Yet you prattle of peace at a Palmerston Club;
Come tell me the reason, I pray.”
“Oh, what’s in a name?” Father William replied,
“Against Pam’s pet ideas I am planning;
But your Militant Tories are spouting next door,
’Neath the peaceable ægis of Canning.”
“While here, Father William,” the young men cried,
“At Benjamin’s baseness you rave;
But like Balaam when called on the Jew to confound,
At Westminster blessings you gave.”
“At Oxford, my sons,” Father William replied,
“I smote with my staff, I’m aware;
But I spoke to the Asses in Westminster Hall,
For I knew they could answer me there.”
“Oh, fie, Father William, you should not employ
Your talents in personal strife;
These picnic orations bad temper betray;
Is it seemly at your time of life?”
“In office and out,” Father William replied,
“Has Beaconsfield filled me with rage;
In the days of my youth I remember his sneers,
And I will not forget in my age.”
_Mayfair_, February 12, 1878.
――――
THE OLD MAN’S SORROW, AND HOW HE CAUSED IT.
(_A Ballad of the Future._)
“You are sad, People’s William,” the young man cried,
“And you seem to your years to succumb;
You are weak, People’s William, though not very old,
And have a large corn on your thumb.”
“In the years lately past,” People’s William replied.
“I weakly attempted too much;
I abused both my health and my vigour, and now
There is scarcely a task I dare touch.”
“Dearie me, People’s William,” the young man cried.
“It grieves me to hear you speak so,
But still I should like” (here he gazed at the corn)
“Something more of your history to know.”
“In the years lately pass’d,” People’s William replied,
“I knew not the meaning of rest;
For I cut down big trees by way of relief,
Then return’d to my desk with new zest.
I wrote, towards the end, for some six magazines,
“Every month several pamphlets likewise,
And of post cards and letters, some four score a day――
Ah, you listen, I see, with surprise.”
“That I do; People’s William,” the young man cried,
“As your various achievements you sum,
But ’tis not with wonder that longer I view
That well defined corn on your thumb.”
“Nor was this all I did,” People’s William replied,
“For I strove with my tongue, too, to teach,
And I lost ne’er a chance, howsoever it came,
Of making an _à propos_ speech.”
“But, stay, People’s William!” the young man cried,
“You surely some holidays took,
When, flying from home to some district unknown,
You work for the moment forsook.”
“Nay, nay, ’twas not so!” People’s William replied;
“’Twas the same on my holiday trips;
Wheresoever I was, I had always to keep
A ready-made speech on my lips.
As I stept on a pier from steamer’s poop-deck,
“Or put my head out of a train;
As I enter’d a city, or went from a town,
I could not from speaking refrain.
Where two or three gather’d together forthwith,
I gave them a taste of my tongue;
No matter their sex, no matter the place,
I spared neither aged nor young.”
“Enough! People’s William!” the young man cried;
“It is clear to me now that I gaze
On a man who has foolishly tried in the past
To spend in hard work _all_ his days.”
“That is so, my young man,” People’s William replied;
“So me as a warning employ
To teach that all work and no play in the end
Makes William, like Jack, a dull boy!”
_Truth_, October 24, 1878.
――――
WHAT THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE GOBBLER.
ALSO WHAT THE GOBBLER SAID IN REPLY.
“You are old, turkey gobbler,” the young man cried;
“Your flesh must be terribly tough,
Yet they’ll cook you to-morrow for dinner, I’ll bet――
Don’t you think that exceedingly rough?”
“I am no longer young, I admit,” said the fowl,
“Yet remember I cost but a shillin’;
Your landlady thought (and with her I agree)
That, considering the price, I’d be fillin’.”
“You are old as the hills,” the young man remarked,
“And I fear you are not very fat,
Though they’ve fed you on pumpkin seeds now for a month――
Pray what will you answer to that?”
“I’m not very fat――you’ve hit it again;
In truth I’m as lean as a lizard,
For some chronic complaint, with a long Latin name,
Is eating away my gizzard.”
“Your gizzard! good gracious! don’t say so, by Jove!”
The youth in dismay fairly roared;
“Why, that is the part sure to fall to my lot,
When, as now, I’m behind with my board!”
“I am sorry for that,” replied the old fowl;
“I assure you ’tis no fault of mine;
But I s’pose if you choose to prefer something else,
’Twill be easy enough to decline.”
“You are old, you are tough, you are sickly besides;
Your lot my compassion doth move;
Don’t you think,” said the youth, “that a change of scene
Your condition would greatly improve?”
“I acknowledge the corn and a change of air
Would do me much good I believe;
But I have an engagement to-morrow, you see,
I cannot very well leave.”
“I’ll break your engagement,” the young man cried,
As he smashed in the coop with an axe,
Whereupon for a healthier neighbourhood
The old turkey gobbler made tracks.
* * * * *
“There’ll be turkey for dinner,” the boarders all cried,
But, alas! they were greatly mistaken,
For the landlady brought in that Christmas day
The usual liver and bacon.
_Free Press Flashes_, 1882.
――――
THE GRAND YOUNG MAN, OR FATHER WILLIAM “EWART” ANSWERED.
“You look young, little Randolph,” the Old One cried,
“Yet you’re up on your legs every day;
You have impudence, too, an amazing amount!
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“Your wisdom, your years,” little Randolph replied,
“And the honours that some think your due,
Merely force me to strut in your path and proclaim
I’m as good every bit, sir, as you.”
“You _are_ young, little Randolph,” the Old One cried,
“If your elders excite but your jeers;
But tell me, now do, how it comes that, though young,
You are so ill-behaved for your years.”
“I am so ill-behaved,” little Randolph replied,
“Because I believe in myself,
And regard such old fogies as Northcote and you
As lumber but fit for the shelf.”
“You’re _too_ good, little Randolph,” the Old One cried,
“And of gumption you’re certainly full;
But I never could quite understand why you seem
To enjoy playing frog to my bull.”
“Old pippin, it’s clear,” little Randolph replied.
“A fine Grand _Old Man_ you may be,――
But I’m making my game, and the public all round
Hail the coming _Grand Young ’Un_ in me!”
_Punch_, November 18, 1882.
――――
_Truth_ for April 5, 1883, contained nineteen competition parodies of
“You are old, Father William,” amongst which the following are the
most interesting, the others are nearly all out of date:――
“You are old, Father William,” the young man cried,
“Yet your step is still springy and gay;
You are strong, Father William, a muscular man,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”
“In the days of my strength, Mr. G――dst――e replied,
“I, by exercise, strength still amass’d;
That, devoted to England and Statesmanship first,
I might flourish my axe to the last.”
“You are old, Father William,” the young man cried,
“In the Commons to lead is not play;
And yet you accept not the peerage you’ve earned;
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”
“In the tomb of the Lords,” Mr. G――dst――e replied,
“I’d not bury my eloquence vast;
But as Clark speaks of rest, in the future may do
That I never have done in the past.”
“You are bold, Father William,” the young man cried
“Though majorities dwindle away:
Oft your acts men estrange, yet you talk them all back,
Now, teach me the secret, I pray.”
“Mark me, Herbert, my son,” Mr. G――dst――e replied,
“Let my words your discretion engage;
In the days of my youth, had I chatter’d like you,
“None had hearkened to me in my age.”
REPEALER.
――――
“You are young, Master Randolph,” the Premier cried;
“You are scarce from your nursemaid set free.
And I was a Statesman before you were born,
So don’t come dictating to me.”
“I own that I’m young,” Master Randolph replied,
“And you are old, WEG, that no one denies.
But I’m really surprised that you have not yet learnt
That in age no criterion lies.”
“It’s exceedinly rude,” Father William rejoined,
“To speak thus to your elders and betters.
Remember, ‘Small boys should be seen and not heard,’
As you’ll read when they teach you your letters.”
“But, being so old,” the Coming One cried,
“You ought to be wiser, it’s plain.
But no――a thought strikes me――I see it, of course:
You are entering your childhood again.”
“This impudence really exceeds all belief;
Since I was young, things are much changed.
When I was a Tory, small boys knew their place――
My lad, I’m afraid you’re deranged.”
“Father William,” the other rejoined, with a laugh,
“Of my talents you’re jealous, I see;
And this I know well, though you scoff at my youth,
That you’d gladly change ages with me.”
PICKWICK.
――――
“You’re a Peer, now Lord Wolseley,” a subaltern cried
“Scarce your breast can more medals display.
By the Horse Guards unsnubbed, to the War Office dear,
How on earth you have managed it, say?”
“’Tis advertisement does it,” Lord Wolseley replied,
“I went in for monthly reviews;
In each new magazine Wolseleyistics were seen,
But I minded my p’s and my q’s.”
“You’re a General, Lord Wolseley,” the subaltern cried,
“And our only one, so people say;
In your twopenny wars no great captains you fought,
How got you such fame? tell, I pray.”
“In my Ashantee campaign,” Lord Wolseley replied,
“I had made what cute Yanks call a ‘Ring,’
And, buttering all round from ‘the Duke’ to the ground,
Praised my friends that my praise they might sing.”
“You’re a Patron, Lord Wolseley,” the subaltern cried,
“Of a wine club, ‘The Vine,’ yet you say
The best soldier is he who drinks nothing but tea;
Expound me this thusness, I pray.”
“At swallowing camels,” Lord Wolseley replied,
“Dear England’s digestion’s not weak.
She will gulp down whole arkfuls――like me to succeed,
Try advertisement, butter, and――cheek!”
SKRIKER.
――――
“New honours, Lord Wolseley,” cried Roberts “you get,
Though your victories were very small;
You’re head of the army, and War Office pet――
Pray how have you managed it all!”
“In war,” he replied, “all manœuvres are fair,
So by others the hard work was done;
Their failures I blamed, took their praise as my share,
And so that’s how my honours were won.”
* * * * *
OLD LOG.
――――
“You are old, Lady William,” the _débutante_ cried,
“And by this time your hair should be grey;
Yet fair golden locks still encircle your head,
Now, how do you do that, I pray?”
“The locks of my youth,” Lady William replied,
“Were a carroty ginger they said;
But by wise application of Mexican Balm,
I attained to this delicate shade.”
“You are old, Lady William,” the _débutante_ cried,
“And all the folks call you a guy:
Yet the bloom on your cheek far outrivals my own,
Now tell me the dodge or I die.”
“A complexion like mine.” Lady William replied,
“Is expensive and peerless, I hope;
I obtained it by dint of much trouble and care,
And the free use of Pears’ patent soap.”
“You are old, Lady William,” the _débutante_ cried,
“At least, so your enemies say;
But the census last year puts your age down, I see,
As thirty-five years to a day.”
“When my youth ’gan to fade,” Lady William replied,
“I thought I’d remain at this stage;
My friends and my enemies doubted and scoffed
But by now they’ve forgotten my age.”
THIRD RAVEN.
――――
“You are old, Kaiser Wilhelm,” the young Prince cried,
“Do you mean with us always to stay?
You’ve been shot at, Sir Kaiser, some three or four times,
Yet you’re coming up smiling to-day.”
“In the days of my youth,” Kaiser Wilhelm replied,
“I was hardy, and healthy, and strong;
And as to the shooting, my boy, it is said
That threatened men always live long.”
“You were bold, Kaiser Wilhelm,” the young Prince cried,
“When you popped Prussia’s crown on your brow;
And yet you were right as the sequel has proved,
For they’ve made you an Emperor now.”
“Why, certainly, Prince!” Kaiser Wilhelm replied.
“I remembered that thrones do not last.
I thought of the bird, and the hand, and the bush,
And I nailed ‘Right Divine’ to the mast.”
“They were sold, Kaiser Wilhelm,” the young Prince cried,
“Those French who would march to Berlin;
For there’s poor little Denmark, and Austria too,
They’ve all been obliged to cave in.”
“Yes, I’ve had a good time!” Kaiser Wilhelm replied,
Though there’s one little flaw, I confess;
That obstinate Pope is the thorn in my side,
Or else I’m a perfect success.”
T.S.G.
――――
“You are plain, Mr. Biggar,” the maiden cried,
“Though your hair has not yet turned to grey;
But you’re nice Mr. Biggar, a sensible man,
Why not marry me, Joseph, I pray?”
“In the days of my youth,” Mr. Biggar replied,
“The marital rocks I steered past,
And carefully kept myself free from the knot,
That I ne’er might repent it at last.”
“You’re not young, Mr. Biggar,” the maiden cried,
“And the troubles of age creep apace;
You may need a sweet wife――a soft, loving nurse――
In your heart why not give me a place?”
“In the days of my youth,” smiling Joseph replied,
“That request was oft made to me too,
There are ‘obstacles’ very much stand in the way
Of my marriage, dear Fanny, to you.”
“You are good, Mr. Biggar,” the maiden cried,
“To church shall we both now repair,
Pray these ‘obstacles’ somehow at once be removed
That your future your Fanny may share?”
“I gladly agree, dear,” Joe Biggar replied,
“The idea my attention shall claim;
Meanwhile, let me give you a few pair of hose――
On the way we will purchase the same.”
PASTE.
――――
“You are young, Randolph Churchill,” the old man cried,
“And you have not a hair that is grey!
Yet you set yourself up against Stafford and me,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”
“In the days of one’s youth,” Randolph Churchill replied,
“’Tis important to get oneself known;
And the best way of making a mark in the House,
Is to strike out a line of one’s own.”
“You are young, Randolph Churchill,” the old man cried,
“And wisdom with age comes, they say;
Yet on every topic you claim to be heard,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”
“I am young, it is true,” Randolph Churchill replied,
“But a smattering of most things I know;
And give all men credit for knowing still less,
And often I find this is so.”
“You are young, Randolph Churchill,” the old man cried,
“Yet you’re eloquent, too, in your way;
And your speeches are always reported at length,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”
“If I only can make enough noise while I’m young,”
Said Randolph――“Perhaps when I’m grey
Folks may come to believe me, and so I shall be,
A ‘Grand Old Man’ also some day.”
YASH.
――――
“You are old, Father William,” a pert youth said,
“I can see it, you know, in your face;
And still you go on with your prating and rating,
Pray how do you keep up the pace.”
“In the days of my youth,” the old man replied,
“I foresaw I was destined for strife;
I found a high collar supported the ‘jaw,’
And have stuck to it all through my life.”
“You are old, Father William,” the youth then said,
“You’ll excuse my remarking again;
But still you fell trees with remarkable ease,
Now can you this wonder explain?”
“In the days of my youth,” said the Grand Old Man,
“To keep little Herbert from harm,
With healthy correction his faults I restrained,
This accounts for the strength of my arm.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “yet it’s easy to see
That your brain is as fertile as ever,
And your facts, though a fiction, defy contradiction;
What made you so dreadfully clever?”
“I’ve answered two questions, that’s surely enough,
You have got to the end of your tether;
When puzzled, reply in a meaningless way,
Or refuse to reply altogether.”
DON JUAN.
Of the _Truth_ Parodies omitted, some were political, two were in
reference to the action for breach of promise of marriage brought
against Mr. Joseph Biggar, M.P., and one related to pigeon shooting.
The extraordinary story set afloat by Lady Florence Dixie, that she
had been waylaid by two men who attempted to murder her in broad
daylight and close to the high road, was thus explained:――
“You have told, Lady Florence,” the young man cried,
“A story that reads like a play;
And your tale, Lady Florence, is hard to believe――
Oh! why did you tell it, I pray?”
“In the tales that I tell,” Lady Florence replied,
“I remember that rumour flies fast;
And all that I cannot conjecture at first,
Gets somehow put in at the last.”
“But those men, Lady Florence,” the young man cried.
“Those ruffians, with knives, got away,
And yet of your struggle all traces are gone――
Oh, where are their footmarks, I pray?”
“Of your questions, bold youth,” Lady Florence replied,
“I hoped I had heard quite the last;
I thought of my figure whatever I did,
And my corsets must vouch for the past!”
“But the truth, Lady Florence,” the young man cried,
“Credulity’s passing away;
You are cheerful, while Leaguers are bent on your death――
Oh, tell me the secret, I pray!”
“I am cheerful, young man,” Lady Florence replied,
“For my case doth both houses engage;
And Royalty’s sent to ask how I am――
In fact, I am just now the rage.”
OHR.
――――
THE LORDS AND THE YOUNG RADICAL.
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
Nor can long your departure delay;
Indeed it is strange you have lasted so long,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
Your whole Constitution, that Senate replied,
Would fail, if the Lords should depart;
As the Queen is the Hand, and the Commons the Head,
Of the nation the Lords are the Heart.
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
And I think you should now clear away,
Yet you all seem determined to stick to your House,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
Whatever we may be, the Peers’ House replied,
We are English and pluck do not lack;
We shall never desert a good cause we espouse,
Or to foes turn a cowardly back.
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
And in my view no longer should stay,
Though with some you were popular once, I confess,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
In the days of our youth, the Assembly replied,
We earned the true love of the land;
Magna Charta we won――of its earliest laws
The best were the work of our hand.
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
But, if it is useful to-day
To remind us of good you did centuries back,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
We have faith in the people, the Peers’ House replied,
Far stronger than you can avow;
In the days of our youth if for them we strove hard,
They will hardly turn round on us now.
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
And long since have seen your best day,
But still you are proud of your body effete,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
In the days of our youth, the Assembly replied,
Nothing good or ennobling was scorned:
Clive, Wellington, Nelson, Howe, Liverpool, Pitt,
Made us proud of the House they adorned.
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
And to talk of your youth is to bray,
But if you are proud of the age you have reached,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
There are men in our House, the Assembly replied,
Its promise of youth who fulfil,
And Salisbury, Wolseley, Lytton, Tennyson, Cairns,
Uphold and ennoble it still!
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
But, for all you may venture to say,
You can’t be immortal, or if you so claim,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray.
Our glory will wane not, the Peers’ House replied,
So long as the Sword and the Pen,
The Courts and the Commons, th’ Exchange and the Church
Shall send us the best of their men!
From _A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor_, London, 1884.
――――
THE OLD MAN OF THE COMMONS.
“You are old, Father William.” the young man cried;
“The few locks that are left you are grey;
Yet you’re still a most hale and remarkable man――
Now, tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” William Ewart replied,
“I remembered that youth would fly fast;
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might lack them at last.”
“You are hale, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
“And you never are heard to complain;
But yet I can sadness perceive in your looks;
Pray, what is the source of your pain?”
“Nay, nay, as to that,” William Ewart replied,
“Too closely you’re seeking to pry;
But if you insist upon knowing the cause,
The Whigs can the answer supply.”
“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried.
“And yet you’re more honoured each day;
Now tell me, I beg, what the reason can be
You’re beloved in this wonderful way.”
All the days of my life.” William Ewart replied,
“To do what is right I have tried;
And fearless of scorn and regardless of jeers,
I have ever made duty my guide.”
“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
“Yet thousands but yesterday sat
Devouring, for hours, every word that you spoke;
Now, what is the reason of that?”
“Whenever I speak,” William Ewart replied,
“I never am acting a part;
But I say what I feel, and each sentence comes straight
From the depths of an Englishman’s heart!”
“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried.
“And honours are surely your due;
Then prithee explain why a title or cross
Has ne’er been accepted by you?”
“In a cross or a star,” William Ewart replied,
“No kind of attraction I see;
No, the love of the land, and its people’s respect
Are honours sufficient for me!”
“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
“And you live in the nation’s esteem;
Then why do the Tories insist that a base
And most truculent traitor you seem?”
“’Gainst all honest attacks,” William Ewart replied,
“I am safe, thanks to Liberal might;
So much foul-mouthed abuse must be due, I suppose,
To an impotent partisan spite.”
“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
And yet every year that you live,
You nearer approach to the Radical’s creed
What reason for this can you give?”
“In the days of my youth,” William Ewart replied,
“Of politics what could I know?
But now every year that I live, I contrive
Still wiser and wiser to grow.”
“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
“And life must be fleeting away,
Yet you stick to your post, and refuse to take rest;
Now, what is your reason I pray?”
“I stick to my post,” William Ewart replied,
“Because a great work I’ve begun,
And mean not to rest, though the peers do their worst,
Until that great work I have done.”
_Truth_, 1884.
――――
“Encouraged by the success which has attended the interviewers of Fred
Archer in America, we thought we would send a man to try his hand on
William Archer _père_, at his residence at Cheltenham. He had an
audience of the Patriarch, and has focussed the result in the
following”:――
OLD WILLIAM ARCHER INTERVIEWED.
“You are old, Father William,” the Editor cried,
“And too stout for a race, I suspect;
Yet they say that you once were a good ’un to ride,
Now tell me if that is correct?”
“In my youth,” Father William replied to the scribe,
“I rode for the famed Romanoff,
And the grog which in Russia I used to imbibe,
Put on what I never got off.”
“You are stout, Father William, as I said before,
And my questions may savour of cheek.
If you clapped on the sweaters and used them once more,
How much could you waste in a week?”
“In my youth,” said old Billy, “in flannels and wraps
I’ve toiled over mountain and plain;
But such practices never suit podgy old chaps,
So I’m blest if I do it again.”
“You are ’cute,” said the Scribe, “and your intellect’s clear,
Your son is of jockeys the crack;
As the Derby’s approaching, I’m anxious to hear
Which horse you advise me to back.”
“See here,” said the Old ’Un, “you want a straight tip,
And I’ll give one your merits to suit,
Get out of my diggings, you artful Old Rip!
Or I’ll give you the toe of my boot.”
_The Sporting Times_, May 2, 1885.
――――
“That terrible _Lancet_ has discovered that the public requires to be
put on its guard against the practice of licking adhesive stamps and
envelopes. Local irritation, sore tongues, and the like lie in wait
for the licker, and it seems, furthermore, that ‘every now and again
we hear of special propagation of disease by the habit.’ Our medical
contemporary’s caution suggests a wholly new version of an old
rhyme:――
“You are old, Father William,” the young man cried,
“Yet your health is quite perfect, I wis,
And your back is unbent, and your muscles are strong,
Pray explain, sir, the meaning of this.”
“As a lad,” said the sage, with a glance that was sly,
“In my watch on myself I was strict,
_I refrained when the postage-stamp courted my tongue,
And I let envelopes go unlicked_.”
_Funny Folks_, June 6, 1885.
――――
THE SEQUEL TO A GREAT POEM.
“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“The few locks that are left you are grey;
To revive and embellish your winterbound head,
There is obviously only one way.”
“Ere my fogeydom days,” Father William replied,
“I spent money to make myself spry,
But the hoar-frost of age, all cosmetiques defied,
Though I tried every advertised dye.”
“That may be,” said the youth, with self satisfied air,
(He belonged to a set that was fast,)
Yet, why, Father William, give way to despair,
Are the days of discoveries past?”
“Not so,” cried the old man, “I read but yestr’een,
‘There is hope for the aged and grey,’
You know you young dog very well what I mean,
The Reviver of Great Count D’Orsay.”
(From an advertisement.)
_Once a Week_, 1886.
――――
ON IRISH POLICY.
You are old, Father Will――one might almost expect
That your head was as sage as it’s hoary;
Yet your blunders are easy for babes to detect,
And your wits have, it seems, gone to glory.
You preached upon “Peace,” and your text wouldn’t mar
By applying Coercion to “Pat”;
Yet you’d turn a back somersault, go in for war;
Pray, what is the reason of that?
Of the Empire’s integrity, careless as well
As your own, you must needs turn Home-Rule-ish,
And stoop to intrigue with that traitor P――ll;
What made you so awfully foolish?
“Peace, Randolph,” replied Father Will, in a huff,
“No questions!――I’m lofty and pure,
“Not made like you Tories of bloodthirsty stuff,
“Be off, or you’ll get the _Clôture_.”
_A New Alphabet of Irish Policy_, by Sphinx (John Heywood,
Manchester).
――――
A VALENTINE.
_From Miss Hibernia to W. E. G._
You are old, sweetheart William――your hair is grown grey
But your heart is still tender and true;
And though often in anger I’ve turned me away,
Yet I’ve ever been faithful to you.
You are old, sweetheart William――you’ve courted me long,
And you’ve given me presents galore;
But I want――and I hope you won’t think I am wrong――
I want just one little thing more.
Don’t refuse, sweetheart William, my modest request――
The control of my household affairs;
And our union at last may be happily blest,
And I’ll never more give myself airs!
JAMES G. MEAGHER.
_The Weekly Dispatch_, February 14, 1886.
[Illustration]
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
It was a summer evening,
Old Caspar’s work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Caspar took it from the boy.
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh――
“’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,
“Who fell in the great victory,”
“I find them in the garden, for
There’s many here about;
And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out;
For many a thousand men,” said he,
“Were slain in that great victory.”
“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
“Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for!”
“It was the English,” Caspar cried,
“That put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for
I could not well make out;
But everybody said,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous victory!”
“My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little streams hard by;
They burned his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled.
Nor had he where to rest his head.
“With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then
And new born infant died:
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
“They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many a thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun:
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.”
“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,
And our good Prince Eugene.”
“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”
Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,
“It was a famous victory!”
“And everybody praised the Duke,
Who such a fight did win.”
“But what good came of it at last?”
Quoth little Peterkin.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,
“But ’twas a famous victory!”
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
Mr. J. Dixon, in a recent number of _Notes and Queries_, remarks that
“while writing this popular little poem Southey seems to have
‘forgotten his history’ in making Caspar, an old Bavarian peasant,
call Prince Eugene of Savoy, “_our_ good prince.” He and the Duke of
Marlborough, as commanders of the allied forces, defeated the combined
army of the French and Bavarians, and old Caspar could look upon
Prince Eugene only as an enemy and alien. Southey calls the little boy
_Peterkin_, a name quite unknown in South Germany. _Blenheim_ has been
so universally accepted as giving a name to the battle, and so many
places in England have been called after it, that it would be absurd
to expect that the real name of the village――‘Blindheim’――should ever
replace it; but certain it is that no such place as _Blenheim_ exists
in Germany.”
A BATTLE WITH BILLINGSGATE.
It was the Christmas holidays,
And seated in the pit,
A Father saw the new Burlesque,
That was so full of wit.
And by him sat――in slang unskill’d――
His pretty little girl, Clotilde.
She heard some “ladies” on the stage
Say they would “cut their sticks!”
And one in male attire declare
That she’d “go it like bricks.”
She asked her Father what were “bricks”?
And what they meant by “cut their sticks?”
The Father heard the audience laugh,
As at some witty stroke;
And the old man he scratch’d his head,
For he couldn’t see the joke.
“I don’t know what they mean,” said he,
“But sure ’tis some facetiæ.”
And then she heard one, nearly nude,
Say something else about,
“Has your fond mother sold her mangle?
And does she know you’re out?”
And when the people laughed, cried she,
“Oh, Pa! there’s more facetiæ!”
And then the little maiden said,
“Now tell me why, Papa,
That lady ask’d him if the mangle
Was sold by his mamma?”
“I can’t tell why, my dear,” said he,
Though, of course, ’tis some facetiæ.”
But when she saw the lady’s fingers
Unto her nose applied,
“Why, ’tis a very vulgar thing!”
The little maiden cried.
“The papers all, my child, agree,
’Tis brimful of facetiæ.
“And everybody says the piece
With brilliant wit is filled;”
“And what is wit, my dear Papa?”
Quoth innocent Clotilde.
“Why, that I cannot say,” quoth he,
“But wit is _not_――vulgarity.”
From _George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack_ for 1847.
――――
A SEASONABLE GOSSIP.
It was a Sunday evening,
Old Simpson’s pipe was fill’d,
And on the hob his porter stood
(He always took it “chill’d”)
And near him, from the _Times_ outspread,
His little grandson Thomas read.
(Here follow seven verses descriptive of the principal events in the
French Revolution of 1848. These are ancient history now.)
“Great praise, no doubt, the men deserve,
Who for their rights have fought.”
“But what will come of it at last?”
Asked little Tom, in thought.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,
“But not, I fear, Tranquillity.”
_The Puppet Show_, May 13, 1848.
――――
THE BATTLE OF JOBBING.
_A Prospective Scene_.――_Time about_ 1893.
It was a winter’s evening;
Old Thomson’s work was done,
And he, before a small wood fire,
Sat crouching like a crone;
And by him sat, as cold as stones,
His trusty neighbours, Scott and Jones.
He saw his nephew bringing in
A something large and round,
That in the garden at the back,
In digging there he’d found.
He came to ask what he had found
That was so large, and black, and round.
Old Thomson took it from the youth,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And answered with a sigh――
“A lump of that sea-coal,” said he,
“Our fathers used so lavishly.”
They find it near Newcastle, for
There’s plenty thereabout;
But Shipping Law and City Dues
Combine to keep it out.
And such poor wretched folks as we
Can’t purchase such a luxury.”
“Now tell me what ’tis all about,”
The youth cried with surprise;
And neighbours Scott and Jones looked up
With wonder in their eyes:――
“Now tell us all about the Law,
And what the City Dues are for?”
“The Law is this――all foreign ships
Are by our rulers told,
They shall not bring us coal while ours
Are off for Melbourne gold;
And so the coal comes as it can――
A cheap and most efficient plan!
“The City lent an orphan fund
To merry Charles the Second;
Full seven hundred thousand pounds
I think the sum was reckon’d;
But what they lent it for,” quoth he,
“No mortal man could ever see.
“But though Charles could not meet his bill
The loan was not so rash;
For soon they put a tax on coals,
Which paid them back their cash
A hundred-fold; but then, you know,
That money makes the Mayor to go.
“On ev’ry fire for twenty miles
They laid this City tax,
And what they lost by _merry_ Charles
They put on other’s backs;
And still they keep the tax, you know,
For money makes the Mayor to go.
“We think it is a splendid sight
On a November day,
To see the Lord Mayor’s coach and six,
With bands and banners gay;
But then we know, beneath the show,
_What_ money makes the Mayor to go.
Great praise the Corporation wins
For hospitality.”
“Why, they’re a set of jobbing knaves!”
Exclaimed the other three.
“Hush, hush! my friends,” quoth he, “you know,
That money makes the Mayor to go.
“And after feasts much broken food
Is given to the poor,”
“Why, they but give them back their own!”
Exclaim’d they, as before.
“Well, that,” said he, “I do not know,
But money makes the Mayor to go.”
_Diogenes_, October, 1853.
――――
THE BATTLE OF BERLIN.
(_As it may be described some day._)
It was a summer’s evening,
Old Monty’s[67] work was done,
And he, before his garden door,
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green,
His little grandchild Hughendine.
She saw her brother Benjamin
Bring something tied around
With broad red tape, which he inside
A Cabinet had found:
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so neatly tied around.
Old Monty took it from the boy,
And sighing, shook his head,
“It is my relic of the fight
That congress waged,” he said――
“The Berlin Treaty, which,” quoth he,
“We won in the great victory.”
“Now, tell us what ’twas all about,”
Young Benjamin he cries;
And little Hughendine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes――
“Now tell us why the Congress met,
And what advantage did we get.”
“It was our Premier,” Monty cried,
“That put them all to rout;
Though how and when he managed it
I could not well make out;
But every body said,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous victory.
“True, Russia most successfully
Did play her little game;
And Austria got heaps of spoil,
And even Greece the same:
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
“Great praise the Duke of Cyprus won,
And Salisbury too, I ween.”
“For simply faring like the rest!”
Said little Hughendine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,
“It was a famous victory.
“And everybody praised the Duke
Who such a fight did win.”
“But, pray, what good has come of it?”
Quoth little Benjamin.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he;
“But ’twas a famous victory.”
_Funny Folks_, August 3, 1878.
――――
CHILDREN AT THE PANTOMIME.
First Prize poem published in _The World_ February 4, 1880.
It was a winter’s evening;
The father’s work was done,
And in a box at Drury Lane
He sat to see the fun,
And nestling closely at his side
Were Mat and Mabel eager-eyed.
They gloated over Blue Beard’s crimes;
They pitied Sister Ann;
They clapped the transformation scene,
As only children can;
Then Columbine and Harlequin,
With Clown and Pantaloon, come in.
“Now tell us what it’s all about,”
Young Mat expectant cries;
And little Mabel seconds him
With shining wistful eyes.
“Now tell us all about the fuss,
And why they whack each other thus.”
“It is their way,” the father said;
“They act it in dumb show;
But what they whack each other for
I really do not know.
But everybody calls it prime――
It is a famous pantomime,
“But still, they say, ’tis sad to see
Those girls so young and fair,
Who charmed you so just now, at home,
And all the squalor there.
But things like these in every clime
Attend a famous pantomime.
“Great credit has the manager
From all the people gained.”
“Why those poor girls _appeared_ so gay!”
Quoth Mabel, greatly pained.
“Hush, hush, thou little lass o’ mine;
It is a famous pantomime!
“And folk have praised the good lessee,
Who’s furnished us the fun.”
“But what’s the meaning of it all?”
Quoth Mat, his tiny son.
Said dad, “You’ll know it all in time;
But ’tis a famous pantomime.”
ORCHIS. (_F. B. Doveton._)
_Second Prize Poem._
It was a winter’s evening,
Had closed the tedious day,
And grandpapa and Master Tom
Had come to see the play,
And, shyly peeping at the scene,
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
Then Master Tommy’s mouth and eyes
Grew very large and round,
With awestruck gaze of mute surprise
At that enchanted ground;
“Please tell us what they do, you know,
And why they slap each other so.”
“They play those tricks to make us laugh,
(Just hear the people shout!)
Though what they slap each other for,
I never could make out;
But everybody says this time
It is a famous pantomime.
“And some are kings, and some are queens,
And some are knights and squires.
And some have friends behind the scenes,
And fly――by means of wires;
For many hundred at a time,
Perform in this great pantomime.
“Some smile, like that for weeks and weeks,
And twirl upon their toes;
Some paint their eyebrows and their cheeks,
And prance about in rows;
And everybody says, ‘How prime!
It is a famous pantomime.’
“Great praise the foremost actors win
Whenever they are seen――”
“But tis a very silly thing!”
Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl; this time
It is a famous pantomime.
“Perhaps poor Joe, who laughs so loud,
Feels more inclined to cry;
Perhaps _his_ little Wilhelmine
Is sick, and like to die:
But every one, you know, some time
Must play in the great pantomime.”
CUCUMBER. (_A. Salter._)
――――
THE BATTLE OF BRUMMAGEM.
_By Robert Mouthey._
I.
It was an April evening,
The polling day was o’er;
And Grandpa STONE in sadden’d mood,
Reclined his fire before;
Recrimination, blame, were done,
GEM, RANDALL, HOPKINS,――all,――were gone.
II.
His little grandson, playing near,
A printed sheet had found,
With letters cover’d, bold and clear,
And figures large and round;
In vain he tried to make it out,
And came to ask what ’twas about.
III.
Old STONE then took it from the child,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And heav’d a natural sigh,――
“It tells of all who went,” said he,
And poll’d in the great victory!”
IV.
“I see it in the papers told,
There’s many here about;
And often when their tales I read,
In lies I find them out;
We Tories never feared,” said he,
“To gain a glorious victory!”
V.
“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
His grandson then he cries,
While near his little sister stood,
With wonder-waiting eyes;
“Now, tell us all about this Poll;
What means this word so queer and droll?”
VI.
“The Liberals ’twas” said STONE, “who put
The Tory host to rout;
But how this same thing came to pass
I cannot well make out;
But all the same for us,” said he,
“It is a _virtual_ victory!”
VII.
“I show’d my face amid the crowd,
The polling booth hard by;
Hired ruffians chaff’d and hooted me,
And I was forced to fly;
So, as was best, I quickly fled,
And here I rest my weary head.”
VIII.
“All false reports and tales we spread,
And slander far and wide;
Intimidation, threats, rewards,――
Each Tory dodge we tried;
Such things in politics must be,
E’en for a _virtual_ victory!”
IX.
Bad luck! a drizzling rain came down,
The day had else been won;
Our band of Tory lambs it drench’d,
And spoilt their promis’d fun;
The Liberals to vote were free,
And gain’d a famous victory!”
X.
“Great praise our BURNABY he won,
And CALTHORPE by his side,”
“Why, twas a very foolish thing!”
The little girl then cried.
“Nay,――nay,――my little girl,” quoth he,
“They gain’d a _virtual_ victory!”
XI.
“And every one the MAJOR prais’d,
Who this great fight did win;”――
“Then, after all,” the boy he cried,
’Twas BURNABY got in?”
“Well,――not exactly that,”――said he,
’Twas but a _virtual_ victory!”
By the late William Bates, B.A.
_The Town Crier_, Birmingham, April, 1880.
――――
A FAMOUS HOLIDAY.
It was a summer evening,
The pointsman’s work was done;
And he before his own box door
Felt precious glad for one;
And by him loafed about the line
The night-watch due at half-past nine.
And, as he loafed about, he came
On something flat and round,
That smashed had caught his shuffling feet
Upon the gravelled ground.
And then he asked what he had found
That was so smashed――yet flat and round.
The pointsman took it from his mate
Who stood all sleepy by;
And then he clapped it on his head
And said, “Lor’ bless you――why,
It’s what some bloke dropped by the way
On that there last bank ’oliday!
“I often come across ’em here,
There’s many round about;
Why, if you had to find your ’ats,
That ditch would rig you out!
There’s scores of ’em, so I’ve heard say,
Wos dropped on that there ’oliday.”
“Now, tip us ’ow it come about,”
The other, drowsy, cries,
The while, the crownless chimney-pot
Upon his head he tries.
“Now, tip us: say, whose job it wor?
What did he smash the ’_Scursion_ for?”
“Jim’s wor that job,” the pointsman said;
“He ’ad too long a bout!
But what he smashed the ’_Scursion_ for
I never could make out.
He fell a blinkin, I dus say,
And took _his_ little ’oliday!
“But them as was a-takin’ theirs
(And some――it was their last),
Was ’appy, singin’ of their songs:
And, as she busted past,
You might ’ave heard ’em, laughin’ say,
‘This ’ere’s a famous ’oliday!’
“So, when she come upon them points,
As crammed as you could pack,
And not a soul a-chaffin’ there
Know’d death lay on the track,――
It did seem ’ard in that there way
To end their ‘famous ’oliday!’
“And, oh! it was a ’orrid sight,
When off the line she run,
With dozens lying stiff and still,
Who started full of fun!
But, there――had Jim now not give way,
They’d ’ad a famous ’oliday!
“He got it precious ’ot for that!”
The other stroked his chin.
“Maybe. But it’s the Company,”
Said he, “I’d like to skin!
I’d let ’em all at Bot’ny Bay
Just try _their_ famous ’oliday!”
The pointsman faced his mate. Quoth he,
“Where can your reck’ning be?
Here’s parties pays a bob or two.
And gets three hours o’ sea;
And, _if they ain’t smashed up_, I say,
That there’s a famous ’oliday.”
“And, what’s to come,” the other asked,
“Of scares now like this ’ere?”
The pointsman smiled. “My mate,” he said,
“_You_’re green, that’s pretty clear.
Why, ‘what’s to come?’ Next year, I’ll lay,
_Another famous oliday_!”
_Punch_, September 25, 1880.
――――
A GLORIOUS VICTORY.
It was a summer evening,
Old Roger’s work was done,
And he his fragrant honey-dew
Was smoking in the sun,
And by him sported, bright and fair,
His little grandchild, Golden Hair.
She saw her brother, Curly Head,
Bring something hard and round
Which he, upon the mantel-shelf,
Beneath a shade, had found.
She came to ask what he had found
That was so hard, and smooth, and round.
Old Roger took it from the boy
Who stood expectant by,
And then the old man told the tale――
(Fire kindled in his eye)――
“This is the Cricket-Ball,” said he,
“That tells of a great Victory.
“I prize it more than all I have,
It’s worth can ne’er be told;
’Tis true ’tis only leather, but
’Tis more to me than gold!
Go, place it back again,” said he,――
“It was a famous Victory.”
“Please tell us what it is you mean.”
Young Curly Head he cries;
And little Golden Hair looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes:――
“Yes, tell us, for we long to know
The reason why you prize it so.”
“It was the Colonists,” he said,
Of now undying fame,
Who met Eleven picked Englishmen
And put them all to shame:
For everybody said,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous Victory.
“The contest, at the Oval was――
The noted ground hard by――
’Twas there that Spofforth smashed the stumps,
And made the bails to fly;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous Victory.
“Not even Grace, of matchless skill
(No worthier in the land),
The ‘Demon’s’ onslaughts could resist,
His awful speed withstand;
By lightning smit, as falls the oak,
The wickets fell beneath his stroke!
“And more than twenty thousand men,
With bated breath, looked on――
The threatening rain deterred them not,
Nor did the scorching sun;
Their time and money gave to see
Who’d gain the famous Victory.
“And when at last the crisis came――
When _one_ must quickly yield――
When Peate, the famous Yorkshireman,
His wicket failed to shield,
All over was the splendid play――
The Englishmen had lost the day!
“They say it was a wondrous sight,
After the match was done,
To see so many thousand men
After the Victors run;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous Victory.
“Great praise the ‘Demon’ Spofforth gained,
His bowling was so rare.”
“I think he must have frightened them,”
Said little Golden Hair.
“Well, well, my little girl,” quoth he,
“It was a famous Victory!”
“And everyone the ‘Demon’ cheered,
So many low he laid”――――
“_But what could they be all about
To let him?_” Curley said:
“Why _that_――I cannot tell,” said he:
“But ’twas a famous Victory!”
_Punch_, September 16, 1882.
――――
A FAMOUS VICTORY.
It was a spring-tide evening,
When he who speaks of jams,
And many more mysterious things,
Sat reading telegrams;
And, while he scanned them through and through,
The British public read them too.
And soon that public stared to see
A column filled with blood,
Which though set forth in plainest print,
No mortal understood:
They came to ask that statesman good
What looked so red with human blood.
The statesman took it from the crowd
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And heaved a worried sigh――
“’Tis some news-monger’s scrawl,” said he,
“About the grand new victory.”
“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
The British public cries,
While in that good man’s face it looks
With wonder-waiting eyes――
“Now tell us all about our war,
And what we killed these Arabs for.”
“It was we English,” out he cried,
“Put Osman’s blacks to rout;
What else can Liberals want to know
Why else marched Graham out?
And e’en the Tories own,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous――victory.”
“We thrashed the Arabs once at Teb――
I can’t say why ’twas so;
For Tokar needed no relief,
And Sinkat less you know:
And Gordon promised t’other day,
The Soudanese should have their way.
“Oh, ’twas a glorious sight to see
How great god Jingo rose,
And at my bidding swept from life
Whole hosts of gallant foes:
How British soldiers dare and die
With, or without a reason why,
“They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won:
For full four thousand bodies there
Lay dead beneath the sun:
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
“Great praise my energy has gained,
And laurels crown my head.”
“Why, ’twas a downright massacre!”
The simple public said.
“Nay, nay, my friends: nay, nay,” said he
“It was a famous victory!”
“Famous, by――Jingo!” so he swore.
Yet still they asked, perplext,
“But what good comes of it at last?
And what’s to follow next?”
“_Why, that I cannot tell_,” said he:
“_But――’twas a_ FAMOUS VICTORY!”
_Clapham Free Press_, April 5, 1884.
――――
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM (HOUSE).
It was a winter evening,
In dull November’s gloom,
When J. B. Stone sat doing sums,
In the club smoking-room;
And by him Rowlands sat serene
Blowing the fragrant nicotine.
They heard a voice both shrill and loud
Calling out “_Daily Mail_,
Result in Central Birmingham!”
Then turned a little pale;
And Rowlands hoarsely whispered “Stone,”
I――rather――think――the verdict’s known.”
They sent the spacious serving man――
A ha’p’ny in his hand――
To fetch with tongs th’ accursed sheet,
Which eagerly they scanned:
A fearful thing there met their sight,
“GREAT VICTORY FOR MR. BRIGHT!”
Quoth Rowlands: “This looks very blue,
Poor Churchill――what a sell!
I think I’ll have a brandy hot,”
And forthwith pulled the bell;
While Stone sat still with stony stare,
Gazing profoundly on the air.
But soon he gave a sudden jerk,
And pulled his pencil out,
And figured over several sheets,
Then raised a joyous shout:
“Ah, ah, ’tis not so bad you see,
We’ve won a virtual victory.
“’Tis true that Bright is just ahead,
By hundreds nine to ten,
But I can show he should have won
By just us much again:
We’ve lower’d their proud majority,
And that’s a virtual victory.”
“Ahem!” said Rowlands, looking glum,
“That doesn’t count, I fear,
A win’s a win, and we must sing
Political small beer.
Your best arithmetic won’t score
Twice two as anything but four.”
“Cheer up, cheer up, my trusty friend.”
Stone cheerily chirped out,
“I’m rather good at ciphering,
And know what I’m about:
I say we ought to sing with glee
For such a virtual victory:
“Send off the news to Blenheim House
That Marlborough may know,
Despatch a score of ‘tannergrams’
To humble Highbury Joe;
’Twill make him shake with fear to see
We’ve won a virtual victory.
“Come, run with me to High Street quick,
And show to the _Gazette_
How to display this joyful news
In type triumphant set;
How fine upon the bill ’twill be
To read “Great Virtual Victory!”
“But tell me,” Rowlands answered him,
“What ’vantage we shall gain,
When Bright will sit, and Bright will vote,
While Churchill’s with the slain?”
“Oh that,” quoth Stone, “Don’t trouble me,
’Tis such a virtual victory!”
_Birmingham Daily Mail_, November, 1885.
――――
THE OLD GLADSTONITE AND HIS SON.
A.D. CIRCA 1900.
“Tell me, dear father, if the time
When this poor paltry Island’s might,
Was held enough to conquer Crime,
And even Anarchy to fight;
Explain to me how Gladstone’s acts――
So noble in themselves――yet made
Our ruin and our fall two facts,
And put our glory in the shade.”
His explanation only ran,
“He was a very grand old man.”
“But father, dear, when all the dead
And tortured loyalists who fell
For deeming that what Gladstone said,
Was true; and only when the yell
Of Dynamiting Fenian crew
Came on their ears, saw their reward,
For so believing, surely you
Don’t think ’twas right to steal their sword?”
He murmured, as his tears began,
“He was a very Grand Old Man.”
“And England’s honour, credit, name,
Her colonies, her army, fleet,
All gone――her prestige turned to shame,
Her altered battle cry ‘Retreat:’
Was not all this a biggish price
To pay for keeping even him
To talk, and make distinctions nice.
And be so eloquent and dim?”
He glared as only fathers can,
“He was a very Grand Old Man.”
“Father, I know we should be still
While foes are taking all we prize;
’Tis Gladstone-good to think no ill
Of murderers in moral guise;
But, somehow, if our forbears had
Just shut him up, I’d almost bet
That Englishmen might now be glad,
And England might be England yet.”
Poor Father’s tears in buckets ran,
“He was a very Grand Old Man.”
DESART.
The _Morning Post_, June 5, 1886.
――――:o:――――
THE JACKANAPE JOCK.
(_From our Special Sporting Correspondent._)
I.
Great stir in the air, great stir on the lea,
Stands, paddock and ring all noisy with glee,
All backing the favourite, for none had a notion
Except his sly owner, he’d been drugged with a potion.
II.
As the hour of two chimed forth from the clock,
Out came the favourite with Jackanape Jock,
As they swept round the corner, they were received with a yell,
Cantering down in the open, both showed off so well.
III.
Even the starter of the Horsely stock
Had lumped his little on Jackanape Jock;
He mounted his steed, as the hand bell rang,
Which signalled the time when his duties began.
IV.
Then, the rest of the field trotted down to the dell,
They muster’d fifteen――all known very well;
But none so cute at getting out of a block
As the favourite bay and the Jackanape Jock.
V.
The sun in heaven shone bright and gay;
All who’d any coin began to hedge or to lay;
Bookmakers screamed their odds all around,
Four to one, three to one, then two to one pound.
VI.
The bay with the Jackanape Jock was seen
A dark little speck by the other fifteen;
Sir Ralph took his glasses from round his neck
And fixed his eyes on that dark little speck.
VII.
He felt the cheering power of spring,
He’d all on the bay, slap down to his ring,
It was wealth or ruin――nothing less――
But Sir Ralph felt certain of success.
VIII.
He watched the white flag brightly float,
He watched the starter’s light covert coat,
He saw the nags standing as firm as a rock,
But the one which stood best was the bay and his jock.
IX.
The flag is lower’d――away they go,
The start is fair――the pace not slow,
The excitement is great――all gaze on the race,
And even _their_ tongues are quiet for a space.
X.
Up by the dell, as if spurning the ground,
Though straining each muscle, each gracefully bound;
But from the tip of his tail to the end of each hock
It looks like a win for the bay and his jock.
XI.
Sir Ralph he shouted and praised the bay,
He fancied he’d got it all his own way;
He began counting his gains, and hoarding his ore,
And chuckled with glee at the thought of his store.
XII.
All of a sudden, the bay lessens his speed,
And cease to take such a prominent lead;
“He’s keeping him in for the finish,” says he,
And he praised the jock as he had the gee.
XIII.
“The chap wants to show he’s well up to the course,
And can win in a canter without tiring his horse;
But I hope he won’t try and run it too fine,
For even in racing you must draw the line.”
XIV.
Yet still the bay lags behind more and more,
The ring and the stands make more noise than before;
Says Sir Ralph, “If he means pulling the bay,
I tell you beforehand, I’m d――d if I pay.”
XV.
Here they are――they have pass’d and the great race is run,
The numbers go up and all have been done――
And nothing but swearing and cursing is heard,
For the bay and his jock came in a bad third.
XVI.
Sir Ralph he swore and tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair;
He curst the bay; he curst the jock;
And he curst his owner like one o’clock.
XVII.
But before he departs from the scene of the tale,
To catch the first trans-Atlantic mail,
He mutters this moral, at the thought of his losses
“Mind you don’t go and put your crust in racehorses.”
From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley.
(Jones and Piggott, 16, Trinity Street, Cambridge, 1883.)
[Illustration]
PARODIES OF SOUTHEY’S EARLY POLITICAL POEMS.
In order to explain the parodies of Southey’s political poems, it is
necessary to refer to the peculiar opinions he held, and the widely
varying theories he advanced, at two different periods of his life.
In Southey’s youth his friends had wished him to enter the English
Church, but he, in addition to holding strong republican views, had
also imbibed Socinian principles. Feeling, therefore, that he could
neither conscientiously receive holy orders, nor remain happily under
a purely monarchical government, he decided upon resigning both his
college and his country. He enlisted his two bosom friends, Lovell and
Coleridge, in his projects, and, proceeding to Bristol, there held a
consultation as to the best mode of securing the liberties of the
human race in future, from the designs and ambition of political
rulers. The system agreed upon was that of a Pantisocracy, or society
wherein all things should be in common; and the spot fixed on as the
citadel of future Freedom was on the banks of the river Susquehana, in
North America.
But the poverty of the three friends prevented them from putting the
scheme into execution, and procuring, as they had fondly hoped,
universal liberty and equality for the entire human race.
Notwithstanding this disappointment Southey’s enthusiasm in the cause
of republicanism was kindled even higher than before; and, in his “Wat
Tyler,” published in 1795, he advocated the principle of universal
liberty and equality, with a fervour not exceeded by any writer of
that agitated period. This vehemence, he lived to regret,――whether the
calmer judgment of maturer years condemned the errors of those that
were past,――or whether self-interest was the influencing motive for a
sudden and total change of political sentiment, it is not now possible
to ascertain. So complete was his change of sentiment that he employed
the most active measures for the suppression of the work itself: he
destroyed all the unsold copies, bought up many of those that had been
distributed, and exhibited the plainest demonstration of an
abandonment of his early projects and principles. Carlisle, and
others, who did not hesitate to expose themselves to legal penalties,
provided they could hold up a political deserter to public scorn, had
the boldness to republish “Wat Tyler” without Mr. Southey’s
permission. An injunction was instantly applied for by the indignant
author, but Lord Eldon refused to grant this protection, on the plea
that “a person cannot recover damages upon a work which in its nature
was calculated to do injury to the public.” This decision encouraged
the vendors of the poem, and not less than 60,000 copies are supposed
to have been sold during the excitement it created. And such passages
as the following were extracted from it, and widely quoted by the
opposition journals:――
“My brethren, these are truths, and weighty ones.
Ye are all equal: Nature made ye so,
Equality is your birth-right;――when I gaze
On the proud palace, and behold one man
In the blood-purpled robes of royalty,
Feasting at ease, and lording over millions;
Then turn me to the hut of poverty,
And see the wretched labourer, worn with toil,
Divide his scanty morsel with his infants;
I sicken, and, indignant at the sight,
Blush for the patience of humanity.”
Nor had Southey the consolation of public sympathy, which indeed is
seldom shown to such political apostates.
Henceforward Southey cast off his revolutionary opinions, and all his
future writings were marked by an intolerant attachment to church and
state, and servile adulation of the Royal Family. He soon reaped the
reward of his apostacy, he was appointed secretary to Mr. Corry,
Chancellor of the Exchequer for Ireland, with a salary of £350 a year,
and very light duties. In 1807, the government conferred a pension of
£200 a year upon him, and in 1813, on the death of Henry James Pye, he
was appointed Poet Laureate. In this capacity he did not compose the
usual Birthday odes, and New Year’s Day odes, as had been done by his
predecessors, but he produced various courtly poems on certain
important events. These appeared at irregular intervals, and there are
only three which need be specially alluded to, namely, _Carmina
Aulica_, written in 1814, on the arrival of the allied sovereigns in
England; _Carmen Triumphale_ for the commencement of the year 1814;
and _Carmen Nuptiale_, the Lay of the Laureate on the marriage of the
Princess Charlotte. But last, and worst of all, was _The Vision of
Judgment_, written on the death of George III, in 1820. These poems
were all deeply tinged with Southey’s political prejudices, and
contained the most bitter sentiments towards all who differed from his
views; they provoked much animosity and ridicule at the time, and
would soon have passed into utter oblivion, but for the satires and
parodies they gave rise to.
Of these Lord Byron’s _Vision of Judgment_ was, of course, the most
powerful, in it the Laureate received a mercilessly witty castigation,
which even his admirers admitted to be not altogether unmerited, as he
had gone out of his way to attack those who had done him no wrong.
The mere fact of Southey’s complete change of opinions on political
and social affairs would not, in itself, have been sufficient to
account for the violence of the attacks to which he was subjected. It
was not only that he turned from being an ardent Republican and a
Communist, to a staunch Royalist and supporter of the Aristocratic
form of government, but the change came at a time when party feeling
ran very high, when the great body of the people were suffering sore
distress, and when his own prospects, pecuniary and social, were
greatly benefitted by deserting what was then known as the popular
cause.
Further, he at once proceeded with all the ardour of a pervert to
violently attack all who held similar views to those he had but so
lately upheld, and advised that the most severely repressive measures
should betaken against them, which caused Byron to address him thus,
in the opening lines of _Don Juan_:
Bob Southey! you’re a poet――Poet-Laureate,
And representative of all the race;
Although ’tis true that you turned out a Tory at
Last,――yours has lately been a common case;
And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like “four and twenty blackbirds in a pye;
Which pye being open’d they began to sing”
(This old song and new simile holds good).
“A dainty dish to set before the King”
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food,――
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumber’d with his hood,――
Explaining metaphysics to the nation――
I wish he would explain his explanation.
You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,
And be the only blackbird in the dish;
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
And tumble downward like the flying fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,
And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry Bob!
I would not imitate the petty thought
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
Since gold alone should not have been its price.
You have your salary was’t for that you wrought?
And Wordsworth has his place in the excise.
You’re shabby fellows――true――but poets still,
And duly seated on the immortal hill.
Notwithstanding all the attacks aimed at him, Southey continued to
write in the interest of his patrons, and retained the office of Poet
Laureate until his death in 1843, when it was conferred upon William
Wordsworth, who already held a lucrative government appointment. For
more complete details of the duties and emoluments connected with the
post of Poet Laureate, readers may refer to my little history of the
Poets Laureate of England.
The most witty and amusing attacks of Southey’s early republican poems
proceeded from the pen of George Canning who started the _Anti-Jacobin
Review_, a series of weekly papers, the avowed object of which was to
expose the doctrines of the French Revolution, and to ridicule the
advocates of that event, and the friends of peace and parliamentary
reform. The editor was William Gifford, author of the _Baviad and
Mæviad_, and John Hookham Frere, Lord Clare, and Lord Mornington, were
amongst the contributors. Their purpose was to disparage and blacken
their adversaries, and they spared no means in the attempt. Their most
distinguished countrymen, whose only fault was their being opposed to
the government, were treated with no more respect than their foreign
adversaries, and were held up to public execration as traitors,
blasphemers, and debauchees. So alarmed, however, became some of the
more moderate supporters of the ministry at the violence of the
language employed, that Mr. Pitt was induced to interfere, and after
an existence of eight months, the _Anti-Jacobin_ (in its original
form) ceased to exist.
The Poetry which appeared in the _Anti-Jacobi_n has been frequently
reprinted, but the prose contents are now generally forgotten. The
best of the poetry was contributed by George Canning, with some
assistance from John Hookham Frere, and whilst ridiculing the utopian
views of Southey, and his friends, with much point and spirit, it
differed from the prose articles of the _Anti-Jacobin_ in that it
contained fewer insulting personal allusions, and was generally
written in a style of good humoured banter.
It was in November, 1797, that the first parody on Southey appeared,
founded upon the following
INSCRIPTION.
_For the Apartment in Chepstow Castle, where Henry Marten,
the Regicide, was imprisoned Thirty Years._
For thirty years secluded from mankind
Here Marten linger’d. Often have these walls
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
He paced around his prison; not to him
Did Nature’s fair varieties exist,
He never saw the sun’s delightful beams,
Save when through yon high bars he pour’d a sad
And broken splendour. Dost thou ask his crime?
He had REBELL’D AGAINST THE KING, AND SAT
IN JUDGMENT ON HIM; for his ardent mind
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such
As Plato loved; such as with holy zeal
Our Milton worshipp’d. Blessed hopes! Awhile
From man withheld, even to the latter days
When Christ shall come, and all things be fulfill’d!
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
INSCRIPTION.
_For the Door of the Cell in Newgate where Mrs. Brownrigg,
the ’Prentice-cide, was confined previous to her Execution._
For one long term, or ere her trial came,
Here BROWNRIGG linger’d. Often have these cells
Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice
She scream’d for fresh Geneva. Not to her
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street.
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand;
Till at the last in slow-drawn cart she went
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime?
SHE WHIPPED TWO FEMALE ’PRENTICES TO DEATH,
AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HOLE. For her mind,
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes!
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog
The little Spartans; such as erst chastised
Our Milton when at college. For this act
Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! but time shall come
When France shall reign, and laws be all repeal’d!
In the next number of the _Anti-Jacobin_ there was an article on
JACOBIN POETRY, in which it was stated that “one of the most
universally recognised principles in the Jacobin creed was that the
truly benevolent mind should consider only the _severity of the
punishment inflicted by human law_s without any reference to the
_malignity of the crime_. It remained only to fit it with a poetical
dress, which had been attempted in the inscription for Chepstow
Castle, and which (we flatter ourselves), was accomplished in that for
Mrs. Brownrigg’s cell.”
“Another principle, no less devoutly entertained, and no less
sedulously administered, is the _natural and eternal warfare of the
Poor and the Rich_.”
“This principle is treated at large by many authors, we trace it
particularly in a poem by the same author from whom we borrowed our
former illustration of the Jacobin doctrine of crimes and punishments.
In this poem, the pathos of the matter is not a little relieved by the
absurdity of the metre. The learned reader will perceive that the
metre is sapphic, and affords a fine opportunity for his SCANNING and
PROVING, if he has not forgotten them”:――
THE WIDOW.
Cold was the night wind; drifting fast the snows fell;
Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked;
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey,
Weary and way-sore.
Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom:
She had no home, the world was all before her,
She had no shelter.
Fast o’er the heath a chariot rattled by her:
“Pity me!” feebly cried the poor night wanderer.
“Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger
Here I should perish.
“Once I had friends――but they have all forsook me!
Once I had parents――they are now in heaven!
I had a home once――I had once a husband――
Pity me, strangers!
“I had a home once――I had once a husband――
I am a widow, poor and broken-hearted!”
Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining;
On drove the chariot.
Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her;
She heard a horseman: “Pity me!” she groaned out,
Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining;
On went the horseman.
Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold and hunger,
Down sunk the wanderer: sleep had seized her senses.
There did the traveller find her in the morning
God had released her.
ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1796.
“We proceed to give our imitation, which is of the _Amœbœan_ or
Collocutory kind”:――
IMITATION.
SAPPHICS.
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY, AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER.[68]
_Friend of Humanity._
“Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order――
Bleak blows the blast;――your hat has got a hole in’t,
So have your breeches!
“Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day, ‘Knives and
Scissars to grind O!’
“Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?
“Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?
“(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.”
_Knife-Grinder._
“Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers.
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.
“Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-
-stocks for a vagrant.
“I should be glad to drink your Honour’s health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.”
_Friend of Humanity._
“_I_ give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn’d first――
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance――
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!”
[_Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a
transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy._]
This is generally admitted to be the best parody in the _Anti-Jacobin_,
and has itself been frequently imitated. A few of the most interesting
examples may be here quoted.
――――
In _John Bull_ (a London newspaper) for March 25, 1827, there was a
parody on the subject of Roman Catholic emancipation, a topic then
engaging much attention, although the bill on the subject was not
passed until 1829.
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY, AND THE BRICKLAYER’S LABOURER.
_Friend of Humanity._
Poor Roman Catholic! ere you mount the ladde
Unfold to me your melancholy story:
Soil’d is your neckcloth, and your whole apparel
Ragged and rusty.
Ah! Roman Catholic! all the proud Protestants
who to churches sometimes go on Sunday
Think you an ass for carrying the hod of
POPE DELLA GENGA.
Once your clothes were new――and how came they shabby?
Did the Home Minister throw dirt upon you?
Or did His Honour the Master of the Rolls? or
Chancellor ELDON?
Did Mr. PEEL, for killing of his game? or
Did His Honour, for denying of the _veto_?
Or JOHN LORD ELDON, because you don’t like a
Chancery lawsuit?
(Ought not O’CONNELL and SHIEL to be M.P.’s?)
Tell, without reserve, each of your privations;
Ready is my tongue the nation to rouse to
Render you justice.
_Bricklayer’s Labourer_:――
Justice! Privation!――what is it you mean, Sir?
Little do I know of our Lord the POPE, Sir,――
Father SHANGOLDEN gives me absolution
Often enough, Sir.
Secrets there are,――and those I shall not tell ye――
Captain ROCK and I can keep our own counsel;
But my clothes were spoiled long before I came here
Over from Ireland.
Give me some whiskey――_that_ is all I want now――
That makes me happy, for indeed I do not
Either for SHIEL or O’CONNELL, or the _vato_
Care a potato!
_Friend of Humanity._
I give thee whiskey――I will see thee burnt first.
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance;
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!
[_Kicks the Bricklayer’s Labourer, overturns his hod of mortar and
exit in a transport of liberal enthusiasm, and universal toleration._]
――――
SAPPHICS OF THE CABSTAND.
_Friend of Self-Government._
Seedy cab-driver, whither art thou going?
Sad is thy fate――reduced to law and order,
Local Self-Government yielding to the grip of
Centralisation.
Victim of FITZROY! little think the M.P.’s,
Lording it o’er cabs, ’bus, lodging-house and graveyard,
Of the good times when every Anglo-Saxon’s
House was his castle.
Say, hapless sufferer, was it Mr. CHADWICK――
Underground foe to the British Constitution――
Or my LORD SHAFTESBURY, put up MR. FITZROY
Thus to assail you?
Was it the growth of Continental notions,
Or was it the Metropolitan police force
Prompted this blow at _Laissez-faire_, that free and
Easiest of Doctrines?
Have you not read MR TOULMIN SMITH’S great work on
Centralisation? If you haven’t, buy it;
Meanwhile, I should be glad at once to hear your
View on the subject.
_Cab-driver._
View on the subjeck? Jiggered if I’ve got one;
Only I wants no centrylisin’, I don’t――
Which I suppose it’s a crusher standin’ sentry
Hover a cabstand,
Whereby if we gives e’er a word o’ cheek to
Parties as rides, they pulls us up like winkin’
And them there blessed beaks is down upon us
Dead as an ’ammer.
As for MR. TOULMIN SMITH, can’t say as I knows him,
But as you talks so werry like a gem’man,
Perhaps you’re a goin’ in ’ansome style to stand a
Shillin’ a mile, sir.
_Friend of Self-Government._
I give a shilling? I will see thee hanged first――
Sixpence a mile or drive me straight to Bow Street,
Idle, ill-mannered, dissipated, dirty,
Insolent rascal!
_Punch_, July 30, 1853.
――――
LAY OF THE PROCTOR.
“Tell me, O Proctor, whither art thou going?
Thus with thy bull-dogs putting the pace on,
Thick is the rain, your bands will get spoilt, sir
So will your velvet.
Tell me now frankly what made you turn Proctor,
Was there a lady somewhere in the case, sir,
Was it from duty, or is true you’re
A misanthrope, sir?
Did you want coin to help you to marry,
Or did you feel it a duty to your College,
Or was it simply from a love of mischief
That you turned Proctor?
If ’twas the first, then I will gladly tell you
My name and College, and pay you the five shillings,
Nay more, I don’t mind giving you a trifle
To help you on, sir.”
“Trifle!! I only hope that you’re drunk, sir,
Openly to insult a Proctor daring
Thus in the streets. If you are not tipsy
You’ll be sent down, sir.
Are you aware, sir, whom you’re addressing?
One who can fine you, send you down, or gate you,
Once more I ask you, sir, _will_ you tell me
Your name and College?”
“My name and College? I’ll see thee d――d first,
Wretch, with no sense of gentlemanly feeling,
Sordid, unholy, pitiless, degraded,
Brute of a Proctor.”
(_Trips up the Proctor, knocks down Bull-dogs, and exit in transports
of joy._)
WILL SCARLET.
From _The Shotover Papers, or Echoes from Oxford_, May 2, 1874.
――――
INTERVIEWED.
SCENE――_A Sea Port. Friend of Humanity (Mr. P * * * h) meeting
Seafaring Person._
_Friend of Humanity_ (_loq._)――
Stranger, why so deeply blushing?
Why your hat your temples crushing?
Why strange oaths so freely gushing?
Why inclined to so much lushing?
Why your way so madly pushing?
And from haunts of seaman rushing,
Through wet streets insanely slushing,
Fretting, fuming, “tish”-ing, “tush”-ing?
_Seafaring Person._
’Cos it’s me as run the Russian
Emperor aground at Flushing!
[_They weep together._
_Punch_, May 23, 1874.
――――
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY.
“Russicos odi, puer, apparatus”
_Horace_ (_latest edition._)
FRIEND OF HUMANITY.
“Mr. John Bull! What ever are you doing?
Turkey is crush’d, the East is out of order;
War-trumpets blow; your interests are threaten’d,
So is your honour!
“Mr. John Bull! how little thought the great ones,
Who are supposed to settle European
Questions, that you would ever be content to
Play second fiddle!
“Tell me, John Bull, have you no human feeling?
Won’t you assist these luckless lambs of Moslems?
Will you sit still and see the Russians enter
Constantinople?
“Can you allow your foe of former days thus
All undisturbed to carry on his old game?
Can you behold his arrogance, and yet not
Give him a thrashing?
“Have you not read the Special Correspondents’
Shocking accounts of Muscovite aggressions?
Will you not make a spirited retort?――I
Pause for an answer.”
JOHN BULL.
“Answer! good gracious! I have none to give, sir!
Only, I know that many papers, and the
Stock Exchange too, occasionally spread ri-
-diculous rumours.
“Often I’m told the wily tricks of Russia
Here or there put my interests in danger:
Still, they’re untouch’d, whilst quietly I keep my
Weather-eye open.
“I shall be glad to fight for British honour,
When it’s attack’d, and you of course will help me;
But, for my part, I never like to mix it
With Politics, sir.”
FRIEND OF HUMANITY.
“I come and help thee! I will see thee d―――― first――
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance;
Baffled, effete, humiliated, sordid,
Spiritless Shopman!”
[_Wisely refrains from kicking Mr. J. B., and exit in a transport of
martial enthusiasm and impartial philanthropy_.]
_Funny Folks_, March 30, 1878.
――――
THE FRIEND OF AGRICULTURE, AND THE NEEDY NEW VOTER.
A contribution to modern Anti-Jacobinism.
(_Imitated from the celebrated Sapphics of Canning and Frere_.)
FRIEND OF AGRICULTURE.
NEEDY New Voter! Whither are you wending?
Bad are the times, and hard upon _your_ order.
Prices fall fast;――your stomach feels a vacuum,
So does your pocket!
Nubbly-knee’d rustic! little know the proud ones,
Who at their button flaunt the expensive orchid,
What dreary work ’tis delving all your days, and
Ending a pauper.
Tell me, Giles Joskin, whom your vote inclines to.
Is ’t the rich Rad, who only aims to use you?
Or the kind Squire? or Parson of the Parish――
Lavish of blankets?
Is it sly Joe, who’s playing his own game, or
Arch-diddler Arch? Are you the dupe of “ransom”
Or roguish land-schemes, baited with that bogus
Cow and Three Acres?
(Have you read _Popular Government_, by Sir R. Maine?)
Tears of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Tell _me_ your tale; turn up those Rads, and trust the
Pitiful Tory.
NEEDY NEW VOTER.
Tory? Lor’ bless ye, _he_ has proved a sell, Sir,
What hath he done for I, or for the farmer?
This poor old hat and breeches, yon bare acres,
Show _him_ a diddle.
Promised Protection? Boh! Can’t take _me_ in so.
Cow and Three Acres; That’s a Tory scare-crow;
But there _be_ some small hopes in altered land-laws
And small allotments.
I should be glad to think yer honour loved us;
_Might_, if ye’d been the first to gi’ us the Vote now.
But _do ut des_,[69] as Bizzy puts it; _that_ is
My politics, Sir,
FRIEND OF AGRICULTURE.
Give _thee_ the Vote? I wish we’d seen thee starve first.
Wretch! whom no thought but gain can move to gratitude;
Sordid, uncultured, Socialistic, stupid
Radical cat’s-paw!
(_Kicks the New Voter, compares him unfavourably with the intelligent
Conservative Working Man, and exit in a transport of Constitutional
enthusiasm and universal Anti-Jacobinism._)
_Punch_, February 6, 1886.
――――:o:――――
Again, in December, 1797, did _The Anti-Jacobin_ attack Southey’s
muse, saying: “we have already hinted at the principle by which the
followers of the Jacobinical sect are restrained from the exercise of
their own favourite virtue of charity. The force of this prohibition,
and the strictness with which it is observed, are strongly exemplified
in the following poem. It is the production of the same author whose
happy effort in English Sapphics we presumed to imitate; the present
effusion is in Dactylics, and equally subject to the laws of Latin
prosody.”
――――
THE SOLDIER’S WIFE.
_Dactylics._
Weary way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart,
Travelling painfully over the rugged road;
Wild-visaged wanderer! Ah! for thy heavy chance.
Sorely thy little one drags by thee barefooted,
Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back――
Meagre and livid, and screaming its wretchedness.
Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony,
As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe,
Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy haggard face,[70]
Thy husband will never return from the war again;
Cold is thy hopeless heart, even as charity――
Cold are thy famished babes――God help thee, widowed one!
ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1795.
THE SOLDIER’S FRIEND.
(Canning’s Contrast.)
Come, little Drummer Boy, lay down your knapsack here;
I am the soldier’s friend――here are some books for you;
Nice clever books by Tom Paine, the philanthropist.
Here’s half-a-crown for you――here are some handbills too――
Go to the barracks, and give all the soldiers some,
Tell them the sailors are all in a mutiny.
(_Exit Drummer Boy, with handbills, and half-a-crown, mane Soldiers’
Friend._)
Liberty’s friends thus all learn to amalgamate,
Freedom’s volcanic explosion prepares itself,
Despots shall bow to the fasces of liberty.
Reason, philosophy, “fiddledum diddledum,
Peace and fraternity, higgledy, piggledy,
Higgledy, piggledy, “fiddledum, diddledum.”
_Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera_.
――――
In the following number of _The Anti-Jacobin_ (December 18, 1797),
another parody of the same original appeared:――
THE SOLDIER’S WIFE.
_Imitation Dactylics._
(_Being the quintessence of all the Dactylics that ever were, or ever
will be written._)
Wearisome Sonnetteer, feeble and querulous,
Painfully dragging out thy demo-cratic lays――
Moon-stricken Sonnetteer, “Ah! for thy heavy chance.”
Sorely thy Dactylics lay on uneven feet;
Slow is the syllable which thou would’st urge to speed,
Lame and o’erburthen’d, and “screaming its wretchedness!”
* * * * *
Ne’er talk of ears again! look at thy spelling book;
_Dilworth_ and _Dyche_ are both mad at thy quantities――
DACTYLICS, call’st thou ’em?――“God help thee, silly one!”
Both these Parodies were written by William Gifford, the Editor of the
_The Anti-Jacobin_.
[Illustration]
SOUTHEY’S OFFICIAL POEMS.
Southey wrote an ode on the first overthrow of Napoleon, entitled
“_Carmen Triumphale_, for the year 1814,” this gave James Hogg, the
Ettrick Shepherd, the hint for a long and uninteresting parody “_The
Curse of the Laureate, Carmen Judiciale_,” published in “The Poetic
Mirror,” in 1816.
But of all Southey’s official poems “_The Vision of Judgment_,”
published in 1820, on the death of George III, was the most important,
and the one which received the greatest attention, praise, blame, and
ridicule from his contemporaries, according to their various shades of
opinion.
There are two notable instances in English literature of the respect
described as having been paid by heaven to deceased kings. The first
of these was the tribute paid by the servile Dryden to the memory of
Charles II, entitled “_A Funeral Pindarique poem, sacred to the Happy
Memory of King Charles II_,” the other was the description, by Robert
Southey, of the beatification of George III, entitled “_The Vision of
Judgment_.”
Of Dryden’s poem nothing need here be said, except that it contained
the oft quoted lines:――
“For, e’er a prince is to perfection brought,
_He costs omnipotence a second thought_.”
Second thoughts are not always the best, and few kings have been above
the average of mankind.
At the time these poems were written each author was enjoying the
pension of Poet Laureate, which furnishes the only possible excuse for
the blasphemy, and the fulsome adulation, which characterise the
poems.
Southey’s poem, with all its faults, was scarcely so glaringly profane
at that of Dryden, who spoke of the _second_ Charles, as
That all-forgiving king,
_The type of him above_!
yet Southey did not hesitate to represent the Almighty as leaving his
throne especially to come down to meet the spirit of George III at the
gate of heaven. Then all the spirits in heaven, and in hell, are
summoned to the trial of the old king, and his accusers are ordered to
stand forth to bear witness against him.
According to Mr. Southey this immaculate king had no accusers save two
from amongst the fiends, and they are too terrified by his presence to
bear witness against him. These are the shades of _Junius_ and _John
Wilkes_, both of whom are immediately hurled away into sulphurous
darkness.
After this George III is told by an angel that “_there is none to
arraign him_,” which is scarcely surprising considering the summary
manner in which Southey had disposed of the previous accusers.
The beatification of George follows, and he makes his triumphal entry
into heaven, according to Southey, as the KING OF GLORY! The poem was
written in blank verse, and consisted of twelve cantos, whereas Lord
Byron’s _Vision of Judgment_ is written in rhyme, and can scarcely be
styled a parody of Southey’s _Vision_. It is, besides, a rather
lengthy production, and as every one has a copy of Byron’s works, it
is unnecessary to insert it here. In his preface, Byron alludes to the
inconsistencies of Southey’s life and opinions, and in the poem itself
he causes Southey thus to describe his works to the Arch-angel
Michael:
He said――(I only give the heads)――he said,
He meant no harm in scribbling; ’twas his way
Upon all topics; ’twas besides, his bread,
Of which he butter’d both sides; ’twould delay
Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread),
And take up rather more time than a day,
To name his works――he would but cite a few――
“Wat Tyler”――“Rhymes on Blenheim”――“Waterloo.”
He had written praises of a regicide;
He had written praises of all kings whatever;
He had written for republics far and wide,
And then against them bitterer than ever;
For pantisocracy he once had cried
Aloud, a scheme less moral than ’twas clever,
Then grew a hearty Anti-Jacobin――
Had turn’d his coat――and would have turn’d his skin.
He had sung against all battles, and again
In their high praise and glory; he had call’d
Reviewing “the ungentle craft,” and then
Become as base a critic as e’er crawl’d――
Fed, paid, and pamper’d by the very men
By whom his muse and morals had been maul’d;
He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose,
And more of both than anybody knows.
He had written Wesley’s life:――here turning round
To Satan, “Sir, I’m ready to write yours,
In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,
With notes, and preface, all that most allures
The pious purchaser; and there’s no ground
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers:
So let me have the proper documents,
That I may add you to my other saints.”
Satan bow’d, and was silent. “Well, if you,
With amiable modesty, decline
My offer, what says Michael? There are few
Whose memoirs could be render’d more divine.
Mine is a pen of all work; not so new
As it was once, but I would make you shine
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown.
“But talking about trumpets, here’s my vision!
Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision
Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall.
I settle all these things by intuition,
Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all,
Like King Alfonso. When I thus see double,
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble.”
He ceased, and drew forth an M.S.; and no
Persuasion on the part of devils, saints,
Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so
He read the first three lines of the contents;
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show
Had vanish’d, with variety of scents,
Ambrosial, and sulphureous, as they sprang,
Like lightning, off from his “melodious twang.”
* * * * *
――――:o:――――
In 1821, William Hone issued a pamphlet entitled “A SLAP AT SLOP, _and
the Bridge Street Gang_,” with some clever political caricatures by
George Cruikshank. This pamphlet contains several amusing parodies,
notably one on Canning’s _U_-niversity _of Gottingen_, and a very
close imitation of part of Southey’s “_Vision of Judgment_.”
Hone’s object was not only to ridicule Southey’s poem, but also to
attack the members of _The Loyal Association_, or, as it was
afterwards styled, “The Constitutional Association,” a body formed
with somewhat similar objects to those of _The Primrose League_ of
to-day. This society had its offices in New Bridge Street,
Blackfriars, hence Hone’s term, “_Bridge Street Gang_,” its secretary
was one Charles Murray, a thin, elderly man with a wooden leg; whilst
“Dr. Slop” was a name borrowed by Hone from _Tristram Shandy_, and
applied to Sir John Stoddart, M.D., a choleric physician, who had
formerly been on the staff of _The Times_ newspaper. He had therein
attacked certain persons, and opinions, so intemperately that he was
discharged, according to an article in _The Times_ itself, in 1817, on
account of “the virulence and indiscretion of his articles.”
He then started a journal of his own, called _The New Times_, in which
the objects and proceedings of “The Constitutional Association” were
constantly puffed and praised. Hone christened this paper, with
doubtful taste, “The Muck Times, or Slop-pail,” and in the following
parody he imitates Southey’s description of the hosts assembled in
heaven to welcome George III, amongst whom only those were named whose
political opinions were pleasing to the Poet Laureate.
A NEW VISION.
BY ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.! L.L.D.!!
Poet Laureate!!! &c.!!!! &c.!!!! &c.!!!
’Twas at that sober hour when the light of day is receding,
I alone in SLOP’S office was left; and, in trouble of spirit,
I mused on old times, till my comfort of heart had departed.
Pensile at least I shall be, methought――_sus per coll._ surely!
And therewithal felt I my neckcloth; when lo! on a sudden,
There came on my eyes, hanging midway ’twixt heaven and
St. James’s,
The book called the Pension List. There did I see my name written.
Yea even in that great book of life! It was sweet to my eye-lids.
As dew from a tax! and _Infinity_ seem’d to be open,
And I said to myself. “Now a blessing be on thee, my Robert!
And a blessing on thee too my pen! and on thee too my sack-but!”
Now, as thus I was standing, mine ear heard a rap at the
street-door,
Ev’n such as a man might make bold with, half gentle, half footman;
And lo! up the stairs, dotting one, one, after the other,
Came the leg of a wonder, hop! hop! through the silence of evening
And then a voice snarling from the throat of him they call MURRAY,
Who said, as he hopp’d, “must the _Muck Times_ be mournful at _all_
times?
Lo, SLOP, I’ve a sop, for your mop; yes――hop! hop! I’ve a _story_,
With which I’ll light _you_ up, if you’ll light me, Slop, up
another.”
“Don’t be so _bold_!” methought _a larking_ voice from the skylight
Answer’d, and therewithal I felt fear as of frightening;
Knowing not why, or how, my soul seem’d night-cap to my body.
Then came again the voice, but then with a louder squalling――
“Go to HELL” said the voice, “What, I?” said I inwardly, “I go?”
When lo, and behold, a great wonder! I, I, ROBERT SOUTHEY,
Even I, ROBERT SOUTHEY, _Esquire_, L.L.D. POET LAUREATE,
Member of the Royal Spanish Academy, of the
Ditto of History too, of the Institute Royal
Of Dutchland, and eke of the Welch Cymmodorion wonder,
Author of Joan of Arc, of much Jacobin verse, and Wat Tyler,
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,
(For it’s unknown all the things that I am, and have written),
I, as I said before, ev’n I, by myself, I,
Unlike in that single respect, to my great master Dante,
(For Virgil went with him to help him), but like in all others,
Rush’d up into PARADISE boldly, which angels themselves don’t,
Yea ev’n into Paradise rush’d I, through showers of _flimsies_,
All as good as the Bank, and for hailstones I found there were
_Sovereigns_
Spick and span new; and anon was a body all glorified
Even all the great HOST both of CHURCH and STATE, Crosses, Grand
Crosses,
Commanders, Companions, and Knights of all possible orders,
Commons and Peers, the souls of the sold, whom pensions made
perfect,
Flocking on either hand, a multitudinous army,
Coronet, Crosier and Mitre, in grand semicircle inclining,
Tier over tier they took their place, aloft in the distance,
Far as the sight could pierce, Stars, Garters, and Gold Sticks.
From among the throng bless’d, all full dress’d, in a Field
Marshal’s uniform,
Rose one, with a bow serene, who, aloft, took his station;
Before him the others crouched down, all inclining in concert,
Bent like a bull-rush sea, with a wide and a manifold motion:
There he stood in the mid’st alone; and in front was the presence,
With periwig curling and gay, and a swallow-cut coat tail.
Hear ye of long ears! Lo! in that place was _Canning_,[71]
He who strengthens the Church and State, with his Manton’s
hair-triggers,
And sneers on his lips, and eyes leering, and _rapturous_ speeches;
With him _Fletcher Franklin_ I saw, and _Sir Robert_, my namesake,
Worthy the name! even _Baker_, Sir Robert, of Bow-street;
And _Gifford_, with face made of lachrymose, savage and feeble,
Who delighteth with _Croker_ to cut up men, women, and young men,
And therefore did _Hazlitt_ cut _him_ up, and so he stood mangled,
There, too, brocaded and satin’d, stood smiling and bowing,
With court-mask’d appearance, the _Fearful One_, him of _Triangle_!
And there, too, the _Foolish_ one, _circular_-conscienced, the
_Doctor_!
And I saw in the vision, the _Generals_, _Sol_ and _Attorney_;
And _Sacchi_, was there too, and him surnamed _Non-mi Ricordo_;
And _Mademoiselle Daemon_, and _Barbara Kress_, and _Rastelli_;
And _Mister_, and _Mister-ess Jessop_, and eke the _Miss Jessops_;
And _Mar――――ss H――――d_, and _M――――ss C――――m_, also;
And _Mrs. Fitzherbert_, and _C――ch_; and in sooth all the
_Beauties_
Of the “GEORGIAN _Age_”; except _Robinson Mary_,[72]
Whom great G. first sent to the D―――― and little G. after,
(Namely _Gifford_, who smote at her sorely, yea, ev’n at her
crutches,
So that she fell in her grave, and said, “cover me kind earth!”)
And the great-minded _Cl_―― was there, looking like to Behemoth;
And the _Lauderdale_ disinterested, great Scotch standard-bearer,
And there, too, the King’s much-conspired-against-stationer,
_King_, stood,
The Lord Mayor of Dublin, who sendeth his Majesty’s whiskey;
And the members of _Orange Clubs_, all, anti-Irish shillelaghs;
And a heav’nly assembly of _parsons_, some lately expectant――
Parson _Hey_, Parson B. called, otherwise, Parson _Blackcow_,
divine brute!
Parson C., alias _Croly_, or _Crawley_, or Coronaroly,
Who putteth forth innocent pamphlets on pure coronations,
Expecteth Milleniums, and audeth the _Blackguard_ of Blackwood’s,
And looketh both lofty and slavish, a dreariness high-nosed,
As if he had, under the chin been, by worshipful men, chuck’d;
And great Parson _Eat-all-stone_, who’d swallow _any_ thing surely;
And the _Manchester Yeamanry Cavalry_, riding down women;
And _Alderman Atkins_, with _Curtis_, that _big belly_-gerent;
And _Flower_, and _Bridges_, _C. Smith_, and the rest of the BRIDGE
GANG;
All cloth’d for the heav’nly occasion in their _best_ Indictments!
And there all the _Lottery Contractors_,[73] and such like, were
also;
And there Mr. _Strong-i-th-arm_, his Majesty’s Seal Engraver, was
also;
And they all who _forged_, lo! the French Assignats, were there
also;
And the _Court Newsman_ also was there――
(The Spirit now bids me write _prose_, but that, you know’s all
the same thing.)
And _Colburn_ with his _Muck Monthly Magazine_ was there;
And _Ward_ the animal Painter, with a piece of spoil’d canvas,
35 feet wide by 21, was there;
But _Bird_ who, most disloyally, died of a broken heart, was not
there;
And the _Duke of Wellington_, with his Sword of State was there;
And _Sir John Silvester_, the Recorder of London, and his
_assistant_ were there;
And Messrs. _Rundell and Bridge_, the Jewellers who repair’d the
Crown were there,
And the _Pigtails_ cut off from his Majesty’s guards were there;
And the guards themselves in their _next_ uniforms, and new white
gaiters, were there;
And the _State Coach and Coachman and Horses_ were there;
And the _other Ministers of State_ in the new State liveries were
there;
And the _Clerks of the Council_ and the _two Silver Inkstands_ were
there;
And all the Gentlemen of the _Stock Exchange_ were there;
And all the Gentlemen of the _Shipping Interest_ were there;
And all the Gentlemen of the _Landed Interest_ were there;
But all the people _without Interest_ were not there;
And all the _Peers_ who voted the Queen of England _guilty_ were
there;
And all the _Ministerial Members_ of the House of Commons were
there;
And Dr. _Slop_ with ‘_fresh_ fig leaves for _Adam_ and _Eve_[74],’
was there;
And the _Royal Proclamation_ against Vice and Immorality was pasted
up there;
And behold, while I read it, thinking to put it, excellent as it
was, into language still better,
Methought, in my vision, I dreamt――dream within dream intercircled――
And seem’d to be hurried away, by a vehement whirlwind,
To FLAMES and SULHPHUROUS DARKNESS, where certain of my _Minor
Poems_ were scorching,
Yet unconsumed, in penal fire; and _so_ was _I_ purified,
For deeds done in the flesh, being, through them, burnt by proxy,
There, too, roasted the Bishop of Osnaburgh’s _Doxy_,[75]
But the Righteous-one, _the Prince-Bishop himself_, was in Heaven;
And _two boots_[76] were there, as a burnt offering for
_pecadillo_,
But the _Owner_ thereof was a glorified spirit above,
Whereof, as in duty bound, I had sung to him “Twang-a-dillo,
He that loves a pretty girl, is a hearty good fellow!”
And _in Torment_ (but here the blest rage of the bard returns on
me)
And in torment was _She_, who, on earth, had been also tormented
By _Him_ who is never, nor can be accused, of aught _vicious_;
With her were the friends of my childhood――not leaving out
_Coleridge_;
And they who were _killed_ by the Manchester Yeomanry also;
And _Truth_, the whole Truth, nothing _but_ the Truth, suffered
the burning.
Then I turn’d my meek eyes, in their gladness, to Heaven, and my
_place_ there,
And ascending, I flew back to Paradise, singing of Justice;
Where, fill’d with divine expectation of merited favour,
The gathering host look’d to him, in whom all their hopes center’d,
As the _everlasting_ hand; and I, too, press’d forward to obtain――
But old recollections withheld me; down, down, dropped my sack-but,
And my feet, methought slid, and I fell precipitate. Starting,
Then I awoke, with my hair up, and lo! my young days were before
me,
Dark yet distinct; but instead of the voice of the honest,
I heard only Murray’s _Yap! yap!_ and _hop! hop!_ through the
silence of evening:
_Yap! hop!_ and _hop! yap!_ and hence came the hop, step, and jump
of my verses.
――――:o:――――
CARMEN TRIUMPHALE.
BY R.S.P.L.
Last eve as I sate in my room that looks o’er the church of Saint
Clement,
(_Nota Bene_: I had but of late arrived in town upon business,)
I ordered my boots for a walk, my boots that polished and pointed,
Bright on their surface display the beauty of Warren’s jet
blacking:
Now you must know that my man, in his speed to reply to my summons,
Brought me my Wellington boots, but never once thought of the
boothooks;
So to allay my spleen by calm and ennobling reflections,
Such as might wile the time disturb’d by my valet’s omission,
I sate me down in a chair, and thus apostrophised Warren.
“Pontiff of modern art! whose name is as noted as mine is,
Noted for talent and skill, and the cardinal virtues of manhood
Receive this tribute of praise from one whose applause is an
honour,
I am he who sang of Roderick, the last of the Goths, and
Gothic enough it was, I’m told, in metre and meaning;
Thalaba too was mine, that wild and wondrous effusion,
Madoc and Joan of Arc, and the splendid curse of Kehama;
If I then, the author of these and other miraculous volumes,
And a laurell’d bard to boot, laud thee, oh my Warren, in epic
Verse, both peasant and peer will echo thy name o’er the West end,
And thus shall it be with the man whom S――y delighteth to honour,
Already I hear thy puffs discussed in the circle at Almack’s,
Dusking with sable shade the light of the Scotch Ariosto
Already I hear them arranged for the violincello by Smart, and
Melting on syren lips in lieu of Italian bravuras:
Braham at Drury Lane, the Stephens at proud Covent Garden,
Dwell on each soul stirring rhyme as a lover dwells on the
moonlight,
When by its virgin beam his nymph hurries onward to kiss him.
“Through thee in the season of spring, oh pride of the modern
creation!!!
Beauty sets off by night each grace of her whirligig ankle,
When to the music of harps in dulcet symphonies sounding,
She waltzes with twinkling twirl, and butterfly bucks hover round
her;
Thee she hails as a friend, while her pumps, in the pride of their
polish,
Illumine the ball-room floor like the slippers of famed
Cinderella,――
In Brighton thy name is known, and waxeth important at Cheltenham;
Travels _per coach_ to Bath, that exceedingly beautiful city;
Thence crossing the channel to Wales, it stirs up attention at
Swansea;
Or flees with the speed of a dove o’er the mountainous ridges of
Snowden,
Till valley, and rock, and glen ring aloud with ‘Buy Warren’s
Blacking.’
“But not unto Britain alone is thy fame, Robert Warren, confined:
o’er
The civilised regions of Europe, believe me, ’tis equally honoured;
For when, as a proof of the fact, I rambled through Switzerland
lately;
And, spent with the labour of travel, put up in the vale of
Chamouny,
My boots by the waiter were bathed in the luminous dew of thy
blacking:
This, as you well may guess, astonished my nerves not a little;
So, flaming with zeal, I said, ‘now tell me, oh waiter, I pray
thee,
Th’ extent of this tradesman’s fame in the vales of the Switzer,
that straight I
May note it down as a hint for some future edition of travels,
Then blythe the waiter assured me that through Chamouny, the
splendour
Of Warren’s name beamed joy, as the snow on the summit of Jura,
Tinged by the occident ray, sheds glory and gladness around it,
While villages bask in its smiles:――meantime I continued my
Carmen,――
Thrice honoured artist, who hast a minstrel like me to commend
thee!
Year upon year may roll, but you never will get such another;
For I am the bard of time, the puffer of peer or of peasant,
Whether Russ, German, or French, Whig, Radical, Ultra, or Tory,
Provided my _sack-butt_ is paid with a _butt of sack_ for each
bouncer
Hence, nobles are proud to bow to my laurelled head at Saint
James’s,
Deeming his Majesty’s grace dispensed through me, for they well
know
His Majesty loves in his heart my political creed
(_Nota Bene_――I will not swear that he does; but is it not likely,
oh Europe?)”
Here I concluded my stave, for my valet returned with my
boot-hooks;
So taking my hat in my hand a remarkably requisite practice,
I sought that widening gulf where the Strand with a murmur
susurrous
Flows into Pall Mall East, like Thames at the Nore into ocean;
Here I stood rapt awhile, commending the buildings around me,
Especially Waterloo Place, with which I was highly delighted;
Till hearing the clock strike eight, I returned to my Strand
habitation,
And heard the bell from St. Clement’s toll, toll through the
silence of evening.
From _Warreniana_, by W. F. Deacon. (Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown
and Green, London, 1824.)
――――:o:――――
“_The Satirist, or Monthly Meteor_” for September 1, 1813, contained
several burlesque applications for the Laureatship, then vacant
through the recent death of Henry James Pye.
None of the poems is of sufficient interest co be worth reprinting,
the authors supposed to be imitated are Hannah More, George Colman,
Lord Byron, W. Wordsworth, Dr. Thomas Busby, Thomas Campbell, Walter
Scott, George Crabbe, W. H. Fitzgerald, and Robert Southey.
The burlesque of Southey concludes thus:――
“Then what a happy Prince you’ll be
With a Poet Laureate such as me;
When duly here, to George the Regents praise,
My Prince, as with an angel’s voice of song,
Pours my melodious lays
Upon the gales of even,
And sounding strenuous like a gong,
I lift his fame to th’ north-west gates of heaven,
Such harmony to all my notes is given.”
[Illustration]
EPITAPH FOR ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., POET LAUREATE
AUTHOR OF “WAT TYLER, &c., &c.
Dignus auribus Principis――HORAT.
Here lies our good Laureat, whom _Byron_ has sent hence,
Without any time for “a death-bed repentance,[77]
Of his sapphics, so cruelly mangled by _Canning_――
So safely remov’d both from sense and from scanning;[78]
(For our Laureat dealt largely in sapphics seditious,[79]
Before he got scent of the loaves and the fishes),
Or his Botany Eclogues, from which one would swear
That the Poet had learnt his morality there.[80]
_Poor Joan_[81] ever doom’d to be burnt in our ire,
Once more by all England condemn’d to the fire.
Sure _Southey_, like _Bedford_, was born for thy curse,
And we burn thee again, to atone for his verse.
Next _Thalaba_ came, that selfslaying destroyer,
Of readers and conjurors too the annoyer;
Let him murder magicians, and all their relations,
But why did he murder our rhyme[82] and our patience?
Then _Madoc’s_ adventures so ably were sung,
You’d think they were told in his own native tongue.[83]
For the curse of _Kehama_ one cannot help dreading it,
The curse is so cursedly felt in the reading it.
Then a Monarch of Spain――how strange he should blast one!
For though he’s a _Goth_ he might surely have past one,
Since he is (_the Belov’d_ not excepted) the last one.[84]
But as soon as our bard got attach’d to the crown,
He try’d to sing up what he used to sing down;――
One day _Bribery’s_ slave and the next its reviler,
Praising Castlereagh now, and now praising Wat Tyler,[85]
To constraint and corruption now bidding defiance,
And now lauding the deeds of the Holy Alliance.[86]
Enduring the scorn of all England most martyrly,
Secure that his sores would be lick’d by the _Quarterly_.
Then forth came that Letter, or crack “branding iron,”
Which the Laureat so cackles about to Lord _Byron_,[87]
That letter so famous, in which he advances
Truths such as you find in the Spanish Romances,
Traduced by our Bard, who contriv’d in abridging all,
To make one, _for shortness_, desire the original.
Next like some “obscene birds” of his feather, he flew
To prey on the stain of thy field, Waterloo![88]
Then returned to o’ershade, with his sad gratulation,[89]
An event that awak’d all the hopes of a Nation,
And surely the Laureat alone could have told it,
In rhymes, that had _Sternhold_ himself out-Sternholded.
Then _Byron_ and _Juan_ eternally lamming him,
Play’d the devil with him――so he set about damning him;
And if to his foes or his friends he a grudge meant,
What could he do worse than his _Vision of Judgment_!
But ’twas fit that this model of tergiversation,
Who began in sedition, should end in damnation.
To atone for all this, what must now be his lot?
Shall he “lie” like his Works “in obstruction and rot?”
No――let him be punished by quitting his urn to
See all the “vile uses” they’re sure to return to.
_The Spirit of the Public Journals for_ 1823, London, 1824.
[Illustration]
THE ANTI-JACOBIN.
As the early poems of Robert Southey were repeatedly parodied in this
celebrated journal, a few words as to its contents may conveniently be
inserted here. “_The Anti-Jacobin, or Weekly Examiner_,” was edited by
W. Gifford, and the principal contributors to its pages were the Rt.
Hon. George Canning, Mr. John Hookham Frere, Mr. Jenkinson (afterwards
Earl of Liverpool), Mr. George Ellis, Lord Clare, Lord Mornington
(afterwards Marquis Wellesley), and Dr. John Whittaker. The Poems in
_The Anti-Jacobin_ were not exclusively political, and the following
is a list of all that can be properly termed Parodies, omitting only
those which have already been included in the collection of Parodies
on Southey.
_La Sainte Guillotine_, a new song attempted from the French.
(_Tune_――“O’er the vine-covered hills and gay regions of
France.”)
_The Progress of Man_, a Didactic poem. Written to ridicule Mr.
R. Payne Knight’s _The Progress of Civil Society_, a Didactic
Poem.
_Chevy Chase_, a parody founded upon the Duke of Northumberland’s
attempt to evade the payment of Income Tax.
_The Loves of the Triangles_, a parody of Dr. Darwin’s _Loves of
the Plants_.
_Brissot’s Ghost_, a parody on Glover’s Ballad of _Admiral
Hosier’s Ghost_.
_Ode to Jacobinism_, a political parody of Gray’s _Hymn to
Adversity_.
_The Jacobin_, a political skit, written in imitation of
Southey’s Sapphics, but not so good as the examples already
quoted, and dealing with obsolete facts and forgotten
individuals.
_Ode to a Jacobin_, in imitation of Suckling’s _Ode to a Lover_.
_The Anti-Jacobin_ also contained several humorous imitations of
Horace, and a burlesque play, founded on some German dramas,
translations of which were then being performed in England to the
detriment, and discouragement of English dramatists. The greater
portion of this amusing work was written by Canning, it was entitled
“_The Rovers; or, the Double Arrangement_,” and has passages which
parody _The Robbers_, and several other plays by Schiller: _Stella_ by
Goethe, and _Count Benyowsky, or, the Conspiracy of Kamschatka_.
THE ROVERS.
The second scene of the first act contains the gem of the burlesque.
It opens thus:――
_Scene changes to a subterranean vault in the Abbey of
Quedlinburgh with coffins, escutcheons, death’s heads, and
cross-bones,――toads and other loathsome reptiles are seen
traversing the obscurer parts of the stage.――ROGERO appears, in
chains, in a suit of rusty armour, with his beard grown, and a
cap of a grotesque form upon his head――beside him a crock, or
pitcher, supposed to contain his daily allowance of
sustenance.――A long silence, during which the wind is heard to
whistle through the caverns.――ROGERO rises, and comes slowly
forward, with his arms folded._
ROGERO. Eleven years! it is now eleven years since I was first
immured in this living sepulchre, the cruelty of a Minister――the
perfidy of a Monk――yes, Matilda! for thy sake――alive amidst the
dead――chained――coffined――confined――cut off from the converse of
my fellowmen. Soft! what have we here? (_stumbles over a bundle
of sticks._) Oh! the register of my captivity. Let me see; how
stands the account? Eleven years and fifteen days!――Hah! the
twenty-eighth of August! How does the recollection of it vibrate
on my heart! It was on this day that I took my last leave of my
Matilda. Some demon whispered me that I should never see her
more.… Soft, what air was that! it seems a sound of more than
human warblings. Again, (_listens attentively for some minutes._)
Only the wind; it is well, however; it reminds me of that
melancholy air, which has so often solaced the hours of my
captivity. Let me see whether the damps of this dungeon have not
yet injured my guitar.
(_Takes his guitar, tunes it, and begins the following air_,
_with a full accompaniment of violins from the orchestra.
Air, Lanterna Magica._
SONG.
_By Rogero._
I.
Whene’er with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I’m rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen――
-niversity of Gottingen.
(_Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes;
gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds_――
II.
Sweet kerchief, check’d with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in!――
Alas! Matilda _then_ was true!
At least I thought so at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
-niversity of Gottingen.
_At the repetition of this line_, ROGERO _clanks his chains in
cadence_.
III.
Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew
Her neat, post-waggon trotting in!
Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languish’d at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen
-niversity of Gottingen.
IV.
This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in,
My years are many――they were few
When first I entered at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
-niversity of Gottingen.
V.
There first, for thee my passion grew,
Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu-
-tor, law professor at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
-niversity of Gottingen.
VI.
Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in:
Here doom’d to starve on water gru-
-el, never shall I see the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
-niversity of Gottingen.
_During the last stanza_ ROGERO _dashes his head repeatedly against
the walls of his prison; and finally so hard as to produce a visible
contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The
curtain drops; the music continuing to play till it is wholly fallen._
There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of this
song, the first five stanzas of which were written by Mr. Canning.
Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr.
Pitt, who was cognisant of the proceedings of the “_Anti-Jacobin_”
writers, he was so amused with it, that he took up a pen, and composed
the last stanza on the spot. As the song has been so frequently
parodied any detail connected with it is interesting, and it may be
remarked that Mr. Pitt fell into a grave error in describing _Rogero_
as doomed to starve on water gruel, for in the previous scene the
waiter mentions that he had just conveyed the usual dinner to the
prisoner in the vaults, namely, pease-soup, with the scrag end of a
neck of mutton.
――――
A NEW GOTTINGEN BALLAD.
Oxford and Cambridge, sisters two,
With prejudice begotten in,
Your tassell’d Commoners[90] should embue
Their minds, with knowledge from the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
Johnson and Milton ye can show,
Or tell the graves they’re rotting in;
But what are they to Kotzebue,
Who studied morals at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen?
Hyde-Park, that aristocrats, with new
Buckskins and boots, are trotting in,
Boast you the philosophy true,
Subliming mankind at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen?
Ah! no; your ring, where men in du-
-els go for to be shotten in,
Can boast no slaughters like the su-
-icides, that happens at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
Commons and Lords, where _buff_ and _blue_
Now seem to be forgotten in,
Ye want a thorough _revolu-
-tion_, and the system of the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
Halls of the city, that the crew
Of traders are begotten in,
I’d share your fatt’ning revenue
With _literati_ at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen?
O! people banking base, and _bou-
-tiquière_, that are so hot in gain,
O! learn the doctrine of commu-
-nity of goods, and send yours to
The doctors meek of _Gottingen_!
From _The Morning Herald_, 1802.
――――
SONG.
Whene’er with aching eyes I view
The troublers of the nation,
I find them one conspiring crew
The BRIDGE STREET GANG――the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.
Slop’s venom, of high _Tory_ blue,
The Stuart royal fashion,
In secret gave the poison to
The daggers of the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.
Forth from his SLOP-PAIL swift he flew,
In dread of moderation,
Assassin’s knives to cowards threw,
And called the GANG the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.
I, who when wild his _curses_ flew,
Gave him his appellation,
Would force him into light, in du-
-ty to unmask his CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.
Against me if his SLOP-PAIL brew,
For that high designation,
I spurn his SLOP-PAIL, spurn him too,
And scorn his GANG, the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.
Until a fouler opportu-
-nity a filthier still occasion
He’ll empty his dirty SLOP-PAIL gru-
-el, through his sink-hole CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.
But should he shrink from public view,
Or skulk with mean evasion,
I’ll lash the knave with all his crew――
SLOP and his GANG, the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.
From _Hone’s Facetiæ and Miscellanies_. _A Slap at Slop_ by William
Hone, with illustrations by G. Cruikshank. _London_, 1822.
The allusions to Dr. Slop, (Dr. John Stoddart,) and the _Constitutional
Association_, or Bridge Street Gang, have already been explained in
reference to _A New Vision of Judgment_. (See page 177.)
――――
THE LONDON UNIVERSITY.
In 1826 a party who believed that the home and university plan of
education which prevails in Scotland, was much better than the college
and university education of Oxford or Cambridge, made Lord Brougham
and Mr. Charles Knight their spokesmen, and declared they would have a
university within reach of their own homes. A joint-stock company was
formed, and the place in Gower Street was opened on October 1, 1828,
under the name of the “London University.” One very prominent feature
in the prospectus was that there should be perfect religious freedom
within the university. The scheme met with much opposition and
ridicule, Theodore Hook dubbed the place “Stinkomalee,” and R. Harris
Barham, the author of the Ingoldsby Legends, satirised it in the
following amusing parody:――
SONG.[91]
Whene’er, with pitying eye I view,
Each operative sot in town,
I smile to think how wondrous few
Get drunk who study at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
What precious fools “The People” grew.
Their _alma mater_ not in town;
The “useful classes” hardly knew
Four was composed of two, and two,
Until they learned it at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
But now they’re taught by JOSEPH HU-
-ME, by far the cleverest Scot in town,
Their _items_ and their _tottles_ too;
Each may dissect his sister Sue,
From his instructions at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
Then L――――E comes, like him how few
Can caper and can trot in town,
In _pirouette_, or _pas de deux_――
He beats the famed _Monsieur Giroux_,
And teaches dancing at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
And GILCHRIST,[92] see, that great Geentoo――
Professor, has a lot in town
Of cockney boys who fag Hindoo,
And _larn Jem-nastics_ at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
SAM ROGERS,[93] corpse of vampire hue,
Comes from its grave to rot in town;
For Bays the dead bards’ crowned with yew,
And chants, the Pleasures of the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
FRANK JEFFREY,[94] of the Scotch Review,――
Whom MOORE had nearly shot in town,
Now, with his pamphlet stitched in blue
And yellow, damns the other two,
But lauds the ever glorious U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
Great BIRKBECK,[95] king of chips and glue,
Who paper oft does blot in town,
From the Mechanics’ Institu-
-tion, comes to prate of wedge and screw,
Lever and axle at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
LORD WAITHMAN,[96] who long since withdrew
From Mansion House to cot in town;
Adorn’d with chair of ormulu,
All darkly grand, like Prince Lee Boo,
Lectures on _Free Trade_ at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
Fat F――――, with his cost of blue,
Who speeches makes so hot in town,
In rhetoric, spells his lectures through,
And sounds the V for W,
The _vay they speaks_ it at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
Then H――――E comes, who late at New-
gate Market, sweetest spot in town!
Instead of one clerk, popp’d in two,
To make a place for his ne-phew,
Seeking another at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
There’s Captain ROSS, a traveller true,
Has just presented, what in town――
――’s an article of great _virtu_
(The telescope he once peep’d through,
And ’spied an Exquimaux canoe
On Croker Mountains), to the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
Since MICHAEL gives no roast nor stew,
Where Whigs might eat and plot in town,
And swill his port, and mischief brew――
Poor Creevy sips his water gru-
-el as the beadle of the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!