Homburg Hells!
What an end of dread despondency their mien foretells!
When fortune turns her back,
And the promised Red looks Black,
And the Black grows Red with shame,
As it hears its worshipped name;
All is lost
In a timorous appealing to the mercy of Leblanc:
In a sad expostulation with the croupiers of Leblanc:
Playing higher, higher, higher,
With a maddening desire
And a desperate endeavour
Now――now to win or never,
Though it love and honour cost.
Oh the Hells, Hells, Hells!
What tale their echo tells
Of despair!
How they cling to Black and Red!
What a tremor they outspread
On the loving hearts that wait in hope at home.
Yet the year it fully knows
By the curses
Or the purses
How the fortune ebbs and flows!
How the scandal stinks and smells
By the sinking or the swelling in the budget of the Hells!
Hear the groaning in the Hells――
German Hells!
Ev’ry coin in hope thrown down,
Be it florin, thaler, crown,
Is a groan.
And the croupiers dressed in sable,
Sitting down before the table,
And who dealing, dealing, dealing,
In that well-known monotone
Coldly glory in the feeling
That their human heart is stone!
Green cloth their only scenery,
They go by some machinery
Without souls;
And their master takes the tolls,
While the ball it rolls and rolls,
Rolls
And rattles in the Hells.
But his heart no longer swells
At the Pæan of the Hells;
For he hears above the echo of the Hells
The knells, knells, knells,
Of the Hells.
In the fast approaching time,
When ruin, lust, and crime
Will be driven from the wells,
In the downfall of the Hells――
Of the Hells, Hells, Hells,
To the moaning and the groaning of the Hells!
_The Tomahawk_, October 19, 1867.
――――:o:――――
CHRISTMAS FANCIES.
Here is Christmas with its bills――Little Bills!
’Mid a world of merriment intruding with their ills.
What a tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
At the area bell all day,
They’re enough the brow to wrinkle
Of a placid periwinkle,
With their constant “Please to pay.”
Coming time after time,
Without reason, without rhyme,
Holding long confabulations on the lowness of their tills;
With their bills, bills, bills, bills!
Bills, bills, bills,
Oh, the worry and the scurry of the bills!
And the Host of other ills――Christmas ills!
Eatables in baronies and drinkables in rills,
All the day and all the night
Spent in over-eating quite,
And in pouring down your throat
Inopportune――
Floods of liquor that would float――
If not a merchant vessel――a big boat,
Pretty soon!
Oh, the gorges and the swills,
With no thought about the morrow, and the call for DR. SQUILLS,
And your wills,
Codocils,
That you write with shaky quills,
For ’tis indigestion kills!
Oh, the languish and the anguish
Of your ills, ills, ills, ills,
Ills, ills, ills,
Oh, the bother and the pother of your ills!
Then to-morrow and its pills――bitter pills!
Fever-heats succeeding on the heels of horrid chills,
All the livelong restless night――
What a cheerful Christmas plight!
Too much agonized to speak,
You can only squeak――squeak
Like a coon,
In a clamorous appealing from your indigestion’s pangs――
In a mad expostulation with the gnawing of its fangs,
And a sense of utter loathing for the pills,
For the pills, pills, pills, pills,
Pills, pills, pills――
And the comrades of the pills,
The pills, bills, ills!
Oh, the very name of Christmas all my soul with terror fills.
_Fun_, December 28, 1867.
――――:o:――――
THE BELLS.
Oh, those bells――oh, those bells!
Oh, those bells, bells, bells!
Oh, the weary, weary, worry that their ringing always tells!
How they jangle and they jangle
Through the troubled day and night!
How they clash, and clang, and mangle,
As if calling out in spite――
You must run, run, run!
Your work’s never done,
From the rising to the setting of the sun, sun, sun.
Oh, those never-ceasing bells――
Chamber-bells――
What a climbing and a fetching their music ever tells!
Now it’s number seven hundred――
Now it’s number twenty-five――
Now it’s forty more in chorus
Calling――Waiter, look alive!
Ting-a-ling, ling, ling,
Don’t you hear me ring, ring?
You, had better come a-running, or I’ll break a string, string!
Oh, those silver-sounding bells――
Parlour-bells――
What a coming and a running their melody compels!
How they jingle, jingle, jingle,
Till the horrid jingling seems
To multiply and mingle
Into harsh and mocking screams,
Crying――Fly, fly, fly!
We are paying very high,
We’ll get our money’s value, or we’ll know the reason why.
Oh, those cruel, clanging bells――
Front-door bells――
Oh, what cozy dreams of comfort their sounding forth dispels!
How their clanging and their banging
Keeps one trotting to and fro,
Till you seem a sort of nightmare,
Kept forever on the go
By the clang, clang, clang,
And the bang, bang, bang!
Till the ringers of those door-bells you could hang, hang, hang!
Oh, that best and blessed bell――
Dinner bell――
With what harmony and melody its brazen accents swell!
How its full and unctuous greeting
Seems to reach your inner man,
And you answer as a waiter,
And a hungry waiter, can
To its ding, dong, dong!
Come along, long, long!
So the blessed bell for dinner ends my song, song, song!
_Anonymous._
――――:o:――――
THE BILLS.
See the members with their bills.
Private bills,
What a world of promises their bringing-in fulfils;
How they jostle one another,
And compete for vacant nights,
How they pant, and gasp, and smother,
Pushed aside by party fights,
While their movers, standing by,
Emit a doleful cry,
Apprehensive of the destiny that ultimately kills
Their bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
The dismal fate in keeping for their bills.
See the silly annual bills,
Foolish bills,
With what-deluded hopefulness their introduction fills
All their friends throughout the land,
Who can never understand,
That the House will throw them out
One by one;
That though the movers shout
At a speaker who is dozing while they spout,
When they’ve done,
With patience sorely tried,
But with a gush of thankfulness the members will divide,
And decide,
To deride
The foolish annual bills;
And the lesson each instils
Is, that clearly these are merely
Futile bills, bills, bills.
Bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
Never to be anything but bills.
See the Ministerial bills,
Burly bills,
With what prolonged expectancy their introduction thrills!
Through the country far and wide,
Their friends exult with pride;
Too much horrified to speak,
Their opponents only shriek
In affright,
In a clamourous appealing to the wisdom of the House――
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic House.
They declare the bills a chouse,
And affirm they will, by _nous_,
Rouse the country now or never,
By a resolute endeavour,
To resist the pale-faced premier,
With his bills, bills, bills,
While each party-leader drills
For the fight
His forces great or small
To enfranchise or enthral
The country on the great division night;
And the public hardly knows,
Mid the wrangling
And the jangling,
How the danger ebbs and flows,
But each newspaper instils
Into readers,
By its leaders,
All its own views of the bills,――
Its own views of the pestilent or patriotic bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
The stupendous and tremendous public bills.
See the sickly autumn bills,
Dying bills,
What a flood of penitence each moralist distils
From their slow but sure decay,
As the session wears away,
From the melancholy lesson that they teach;
For every dying scheme
Is in its turn the theme
Of a speech,
And is tediously debated
Until hopelessly belated,
Overthrown,
And its mover prosing, prosing,
In a muffled monotone,
Feels a glory in disclosing
All its merits little known.
In the spring he moves the bills,
And clears his voice and swills
From a tumbler set beside him,
While his enemies deride him,
And his friends cry out, “Hear, hear,”
And he wins a feeble cheer,
Now and then
Only, when
With brows knit in a frown,
His arm sways up and down,
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the moving of the bills:
Of the bills,
To the solemn exposition of the bills,
Till at last the daylight lengthens,
And the summer sunshine strengthens,
And finally it grills
The members in their places,
So sadly, with long faces,
They consent to slay their bills,
To abandon all their bills;
All their bills, bills, bills,
To massacre their bills,
Though sorely ’gainst their wills.
And each bereaved one fills
The house with lamentations o’er his bills,
With sorrow at the slaughter of his bills:
Of his bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
With sorrow at the slaughter of his bills.
_Fun_, August 13, 1870.
――――:o:――――
THE FLUTE.
Lo, the fluter, with his flute――
Grecian flute!
How long the world has waited
For its tantalising toot!
“Unheard melodies are sweetest,
Said the charming poet Keats;
But our pleasure is completest
When we hear them on the streets;
Or sounding loud and shrill
Through the homes of Murray-Hill――
On the heights of Murray-Hill
Loud and shrill,
Hear the flute, flute, flute, flute,
Flute, flute, flute.
That wicked _Broadway Journal_,
Whose Editor infernal,
Lets no trumpet but his own
Through the market place be blown――
Had the chief not been carousing,
Had the “Raven” not been drowsing,
The world had not been waiting,
Been waiting, all in vain,
For that melancholy strain
Of the flute flute――
In anxious expectation for the tintinnabulation
Of the flute.
_American Paper._
――――:o:――――
THE CHIMES DONE IN RHYMES.
AFTER POE AND NEWMAN
Harken to the chimes
That in these Sunday times,
Ring out upon the air.
From the lofty spire,
Rising higher, higher,
In great waves of sound
Vibrating round and round,
Calling out to prayer,
And dropping iron blessings down,
In sweetest music on this wicked town.
We hear professor Pratt,
Keen and clear G flat,
And in each ring there seems to be,
A “horse” cry of agony――
The tortured tones
Of groans and moans――
A poor creature’s speechless agony,
They rise and swell,
Like cries from hell,
Calling the faithful forth to solemn prayer
Then came Schuyler――
Schuyler smiler, Schuyler smiler,
How it rings and sings and swings,
Vibrating on the ear,
As if the hollow smile were set to music here.
“Come ye Christians,” cryeth Schuyler,
The soft political beguiler,
“Come ye Christians, join with me
In praises of the powers that be,
For have we not a neat majority?”
Just such praise in troubled days
Of Our Savior; he would have cried,
“The law should take its course, let him be crucified.”
Schuyler smiler, Schuyler smiler,
From the spire, rising higher,
Rings and swings and sings
The bell,
That of a politician’s heaven seems to tell.
Of a deeper, coarser tone
Chimes the bass a lengthened groan,
For it tells alone,
Alone,
Of the punishment that’s sent
In the person of our President.
Dull and hollow, how it moans
In its heavy undertones!
As if it sought to tell――
That bell――
Of a burdened people doomed to toil
That rogues may fatten off a wasted soil;
Of want and degradation dire,
War, pestilence and fire;
Where rules no ballot but the bayonet,
And Liberty that was and is not yet;
Of Peace, sweet Peace and great content,
Ere the coarse soldier came to be our President
Of office sold for gifts;
Of a low greed that lifts
Mean men to power,
When cowards rule while good men cower.
How it rolls and roars,
And on us pours
Its flood of heavy sound
The vibrating air around,
As the iron tongue upon the iron rim
Clangs out its cry of sin:
Fasting and prayer for a people curs’d
Of all ills the evil far the worst――
A stupid tyranny that brings
No compensation on its blackened wings.
These are the Newman chimes,
And these our modern times.
Were Our Saviour, with weary feet,
Again to walk the dusty street,
And see that lofty steeple;
Hear its clangor calling in the people
See the saints with saintly faces;
In diamonds, silks, and costly laces
Thronging to their downy places――
Hear his apostle state
From marble stall to velvet-cushioned seats,
Not the words of peace, but those of deadly hate
While Mammon the scene completes――
Much would He marvel, and we fear,
Seizing the rod
Would drive old Newman out, and clear
Our goodly people from the house of God.
Ding, dong, bell,
Hear them swell――
Pratt, G flat, scat!
Schuyler smiler, Schuyler smiler;
While groans
And moans
In heavy undertones
The Presidential bell.
D. P.
_The Capital_, (_U.S.A._) November 26, 1871.
――――:o:――――
THE BILLS.
BY THE LATE EDGAR ALLAN TOE.
I.
Hear the duns with lots of bills――
Unpaid bills!
What a world of merriment their misery distils!
How they rattle, rattle, rattle,
On your sported outer door!
While within you drink and prattle.
For an oak is half the battle
With a dun――unchristian bore,
Keeping knock, knock, knock,
Like a sort of ticking clock,
To the bitter tribulation of your gyp whose hand he fills
With his bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
With a lumping and a thumping lot of bills,
II.
Hear the loud alarm of bills――
Tailors’ bills――
What a tale of trousers and of coats whose volume fills
Some dozen drawers. They might
Make one scream out with affright――
Too hard up to pay this week;
You can only speak, speak
Through the door,
In a pitiful appealing to the mercy of the dun,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and dirty dun.
Bills get higher, higher, higher,
And the parent’s wrath is dire;
His son’s resolute endeavour
Not now to pay nor ever,
Making him scold and swear and roar.
Oh the bills, bills, bills,
Hardest far of human ills
To remove!
How they cram and crowd each drawer,
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating gov!
Yet the ear it fully knows
When one’s thinking,
Or a drinking,
When a dun comes up or goes;
Yet the hand it fully fills
Up a beaker,
Getting weaker,
And the beggar drinks and swills.
But that drinking and that swilling gets one off some of the bills;
Of the bills――
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills――
In the paying or delaying of the bills.
_The Light Green_, Cambridge, 1872.
――――:o:――――
THE BELLS.
BY AN OVERWORKED WAITER
Hear the strangers pull the bells――
Tinkling bells!
What voracious appetites their clattering foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
From morning until night,
And the dishes seem to twinkle,
As the gravies oversprinkle,
With a crystalline delight;
And they chime, chime, chime,
As a shout from time to time,
From “pottle-bodied” gourmands or animated swells,
Is mingled with the ever-ringing bells――
Bells, bells, bells――
The tintinnabulation of the bells.
Hear the early breakfast bells――
Tiresome bells!
Perhaps a Continental trip their harmony foretells,
With a guest awake all night,
And ringing, ere ’tis light,
For change of gold or note,
Hours too soon.
While the ship he wants to sail by does not float
Out of harbour until noon;
And in accents most unmusical he yells
For coffee to be taken,
With toast and eggs and bacon,
Up many flights of stairs, while he tells
Of twenty other wishes
Respecting drinks and dishes,
Which I strive to hear in vain,
For a train
A thousand country visitors propels
From Bath or Tunbridge Wells,
Who come ringing, ringing, ringing at the bells――
Bells, bells, bells――
And I march away to answer fifty bells.
Hear the hasty dinner-bells――
Frantic bells!
What a tale of hunger now their turbulency tells!
The fires are blazing bright,
The cooking is all right,
But I scarce can breathe or speak,
I’m so bothered all the week――
Don’t have a bit of rest――
Through the clamourous appealing of some gormandising guest,
And in mild expostulation to his deaf and frantic ire,
I say, “Yessir, yessir, yessir,”
To my hard-hearted oppressor,
’Mid the clatter
Of the platter,
And of dish and glass and spoon,
Or an organ,
With the owner like a Gorgon,
Grinding in the street some doleful tune;
Yet the ear it fully knows
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the dining ebbs and flows,
To the jangling of the bells――
Bells, bells, bells――
To the clamour and the clangour of the bells.
Later still the supper bells――
Busy bells!
What a world of cheerful thought their melody compels,
Of pleasant airs that float
From operatic throat,
Of farce and pantomime;
But the bells begin to chime,
And, alas! unlucky wight,
Not for me is such delight,
The pleasure-seekers claim me as their own;
Be it man or be it woman,
They are all alike inhuman――
They are ghouls
Wanting soles,
Sausages and rolls,
Flowing bowls,
Pie or tart,
_Souper a-la-carte_,
Lobster salad, oyster,
Peppered grill, or something moister;
And they chat and laugh and joke,
Heedless of the yoke
Of the bells――
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
Which my presence through the weary night compels,
Till morning comes again with the bells――
The merciless and everlasting bells.
_Funny Folks_, April 3, 1875.
――――:o:――――
THE GIRLS.
Hear the laughter of the girls――
Pretty girls.
What a fund of merriment each ruby lip unfurls!
How they chatter, chatter, chatter,
In the balmy air of night!
While the stars that over-spatter
All the heavens hear their clatter
In a soft and wild delight;
To the tintinnabulation that, increasing, ever purls
From the girls, girls, girls, girls.
Girls, girls, girls,
From the wild, capricious, saucy, jaunty girls.
See the flirting of the girls,
Radiant girls!
How the lover’s softened brain wildly whirls
Through the mazes of the ball,
Up and down the stately hall!
How he skips to and fro
And perspires!
Would that we could tell the idiot all we know
Of the fires
Into which the false ones hurl.
Each new whim――see the flame――how it swirls!
How it curls!
How it curls!
Better far that they were churls,
Than fall victims to the girls;
To the prattle and the rattle
Of the girls, girls, girls,
Of the girls, girls, girls, girls,
Girls, girls, girls――
To the sacking and heart racking of the girls!
_Merry Folks._
――――:o:――――
THE BILLS.
_After Poe, by a Mercantile Poet._
See the traders with their bills
Showy bills;
What a joyous feeling every speculator fills,
As his bills go crinkle, crinkle,
On the counters smooth and bright;
And the eyes of bankers twinkle
At their shareholders delight,
Who are dreaming all the time,
Of dividends sublime――
Of a very high percentage made from cashing doubtful bills,
Bills, bills, bills, bills,
Of gratifying profits from accommodation bills.
See the foreign merchants’ bills,
Flimsy bills!
For railways, ships and waterworks and tunnels through the hills,
Oh, we take them with delight,
And for “3 months, after sight”
Give them sovereigns and notes;
And very soon
The merry gambler floats
Far away from British shores, while he gloats
On the boon;
An operatic melody he trills,
And his mellow meerschaum fills,
And he swills
A bumper as he chuckles at the state of bankers’ tills;
When his bills
Falling due,
Not a Jew
Will give twopence for the batch of foreign bills.
Then the failure of the bills,
Brazen bills!
What a tale of terror now the crazy city fills!
Managers, directors, how it thrills!
When they see from morn till night,
Houses crashing left and right,
Fearing, ere a week,
A crowd may shriek, shriek,
With a clamorous appealing at the counters of the bank
Saying, gentlemen, we’ll thank
You very much without delay to empty all your tills;
Things are looking very black,
And we want our money back;
And the banker fully knows
By the banging
And the clanging
How the danger ebbs and flows.
But we trust these passing ills
Will clear the city air,
By inducing greater care
How good money is exchanged for worthless bills,
Bills, bills, bills, bills,
In discounting such accommodation bills.
_Funny Folks_, 14 August, 1875.
――――:o:――――
THE BELLES.
I.
Oh, the dancing of the belles,
Silver belles!
What a world of merriment that glancing group foretells.
How they dance, dance, dance,
In the white and heated light,
Till the berries that o’ersprinkle
Every picture seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight.
Keeping time, time, time,
To the valse-exciting rhyme
Of Der Schönen Blauen Donau that so musically wells;
Oh, the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
Oh, the dancing and the glancing of the belles.
II.
Oh, the court-invited belles,
Golden belles!
What a world of plush and paint their dazzling grandeur tells.
Through the balmy air of night,
Through a vision of delight,
From the jarring city notes
Out of tune,
What a splendid vision floats
To the eyes of Miss Fitz-Neotes
Of Aroon!
Oh the crushing and the rout,
And the gathers that come out!
How the agony voluminously wells,
How it swells!
How it dwells!
On the temper how it tells!
To what anger it impels.
Oh, the rushing and the crushing of the belles!
Of the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
Oh, the tearing and despairing of the belles!
III.
Oh, the belles of the Mabille,
Brazen belles!
What a world of lying love their honied accent tells.
In the glare and in the light
How they dance out their delight,
Thinking of the future never,
Dancing on and dancing ever,
With a weary simulation of a love they cannot feel,
In the glare and in the glitter and the hell of the Mabille.
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavour
Now――now to win or never,
Golden youth!
Oh, the belles, belles, belles,
What a tale their laughing tells
Of despair.
How they dance, dance, dance,
With a weary smile and glance,
In the glare and in the glitter that are there!
Yet the eye it fully knows
By the sighing
Lips and dying
How the hoping ebbs and flows.
Yet the eye distinctly tells
How the hoping sinks and swells,
By the dancing, and the glancing, and the prancing of the belles,
Of the belles――
Of the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
By the sighing lips and dying of the belles.
BENJAMIN D――――. _His Little Dinner_, 1876.
――――:o:――――
THE BILLS.
Hear the doctor with his bills,
Horrid bills!
What a world of medicine, of powders and of pills,
How you sicken, sicken, sicken,
When they burst upon your sight,
While your very pulse will quicken,
And your blood will seem to thicken,
And throb in fearful fright,
Keeping time, time, time,
In an allopathic rhyme,
To the merry little “guinea” that so very neatly fills
Up the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
That adds a portly total to the bills.
Hear the tailor with his bills,
Heavy bills!
What a vast extravagance their money column fills,
In the merry summer’s light,
How they pall upon the sight,
From the hard up debtors’ throats,
In dismal tune,
What a grumbling ditty floats,
To the sanguine “Master Stitchem” as he gloats,
Grasping loon.
Oh, from out his sounding tills
What a rush of chinking satirically trills,
How it trills,
How it spills.
Hopes of Future! How it fills
Up the cranium to “dils.”
Oh, the adding and the padding,
Of the bills, bills, bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
Till we’re bilious at the summary of bills.
Hear the butcher with his bills,
Meaty bills!
What a hearty appetite their money column fills,
On the thoughtful mind at night,
How they grin with blue delight,
We’re too much annoyed to speak,
But we shriek a dismal shriek,
And out of tune,
In a senseless, vain appealing to the mercy of the man,
In a vain expostulation with the deaf and grasping man.
Screaming man, man, man,
Make them smaller if you can,
And our sensible endeavour
Shall be never, never, never,
To pay the greasy, red-faced loon.
Oh, the bills, bills, bills,
What a cup their total fills,
Of despair!
How they come in more and more,
Till the eye is nearly sore
As it contemplates the culminating store.
Yet the mind it fully knows
By the ringing,
They are bringing,
A further lot which we must add to those,
Yet the bosom quickly fills,
By the ringing,
By the ringing,
With a dark foreboding fills,
For it knows of many long outstanding unreceipted bills,
Heavy bills!
Oh, the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
Oh, the torture we are put to by the bills!
Hear the matron with her bills!
Many bills,
What a pleasant breakfast time their large addition kills.
From our happy dreams by night,
How we start with ghastly fright,
And quick relapse with melancholy groan,
Again to hear their notes
From their grim fantastic throats
In threatening tone.
And the devils! Ah! the devils,
And minutely he that revels
All alone
In the padding, padding, padding,
In that dismal monotone,
Feels delight as thus he’s adding
Round the debtor’s neck a stone.
He is neither man nor woman,
But a junior clerk inhuman,
Worst of lads.
And his chief it is who pads,
And he adds, adds, adds,
Adds
More figures to the bills,
And his demon mind it fills
With delight to view the bills,
And he capers and he trills,
Keeping time, time, time,
In a Basinghall street rhyme,
To the rustle of the bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills,
To the total of the bills,
Keeping time, time, time,
As he trills, trills, trills,
In a Basinghall street rhyme,
To the padding of the bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills,
To the adding of the bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
Oh, the trying care, undying, of the bills!
_The Corkscrew Papers._ London: W. H. GUEST, 1876.
――――:o:――――
THE SWELLS.
Listen to the lisping of the swells――
Awful swells
_Ennui_ in intensity each drawling accent tells,
As they saunter in the “Row,”
With _entourage comme il faut_,
Far too _blasé_ e’en to speak,
Save in childish pipings weak,
Out of tune,――
In a mild expostulation at the want of something new,
In a clamorous appealing at the dearth of aught to do,――
Looking cool, cool, cool,
At all “get-ups” not by POOLE,
As club scandal they retail
Of the last connubial sale
Of the day!
How they leer,
And peer, and sneer,
At Saint John’s Wood broughams queer,
In a charmingly debilitated way!
Next, we have another kind of swells――
Seedy swells!
Impecuniosity within their aspect dwells,
And their boots, and hats, and clothes,
Sadly foreign are to those
Which our former friends disclose
Every day!
And they dismally recur unto the days ere tick expired,
When they dined and wined _ad lib._, and were both fêted and admired――
Ere the Hebrew would refuse
To transmute their I O U’s,
And they only knew the blues
As a bore;
When the features of their creeds
Were feeds, and weeds,
And steeds,
And the thought of being poor
In the future they ne’er saw,
But would greet it with a roar,
To be sure!
Last, we have the naughtiest of swells――
Howling swells!
Each, in larks nocturnal, both our other friends excels,
Thinking nought of getting “tight,”
Screeching out in wild delight
In the “startled eve of night”
Tavern melodies, despite
The warning of the much-disgusted “p’lice,”
Making rows, rows, rows,
Imitating small bow-wows,
While the cats on all the tiles,
Whom this mad defiance riles,
Add their quota to the torment of the Peace!
Yes, these swells, swells, swells,
Bibulation deep impels
To wake the peaceful midnight with their yells, yells, yells,
With their yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells,
Their sleep-destroying, horrifying yells!
_Worthy a Crown?_――1876.
――――:o:――――
THE BELLS.
Hear the tramcars with their bells,
Merry bells,
What a good threepennyworth their melody foretels,
As they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
Through the day and through the night,
All the cars that oversprinkle
The lines fly in a twinkle,
From the red, or blue and white;
And from eight p.m. they chime,
Through the Corporation slime
(The proper term is mud, but then you see it wouldn’t rhyme――
It’s sometimes very difficult to hit upon a rhyme.)
Until the licensed-victualler his customers expels,
And their bacchanalian yells,
Join in chorus with the bells;
With the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells――
The racing and the chasing of the bells.
Hear the yellow dinner bells,
In hotels――
How pleasant to the tympanum of all the hungry swells,
How it conjures to the eye
Happy dreams of pigeon pie,
And gorgeous _table d’hotes_,
Coming soon;
And swimming butter boats,
And turtle soup that glistens as it floats
In the spoon:
Now rising from the dish
Comes the odour of the fish,
How it smells, and it tells
Why the eye so brightly glistens, and the ear so fondly listens
For the bells,
For the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
The rousing to carousing by the bells.
Hear those clanging iron bells,
Railway bells.
What a page of accidents their dissonance foretels,
As we thunder o’er the river
How the nervous ladies shiver,
How they groan.
And the stoker, ah, the stoker,
He who wields the mighty poker,
All alone.
And who, like a thing of evil,
Sits undaunted on his throne,
As if he knew the devil
Would be careful of his own
(It has often been remarked that he is careful of his own.)
The engine is a pyre,
The poker is his lyre,
And he joins in ghastly cadence with the demons of the fire
(Perhaps you’re not aware that there are demons in the fire)
They rush across the fells
Through the forests and the dells,
And echo goblin choruses in answer to the bells,
Ringing knells for the swells,
With the bells,
With the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
The rasping, and the grasping of the bells.
_Zoz_, October 26, 1878.
――――:o:――――
THE BILLS.
E. A. POE-TICS FOR THE SEASON.
Hear the postmen with the bills――
Christmas bills!
What a world of merriment their frequency instils!
How they gather, gather, gather,
On the file to such a height,
That one wishes――don’t one, _rather_!――
Them considerably farther――
Altogether out of sight;
With their “Time, time, time,
With the proceeds of your rhyme――
Time to meet the invitation which so chronically fills
All the bills, bills, bills, bills,”
Prompts our glaring and our swearing at the bills.
Dash that fellow with the bills!
Olden bills!
What a world of happiness their cursed coming kills!
And from morning until night
How they check a man’s delight
With demands for gold and notes:
Payment for shoon,
Meat and drink and coal and coats;
While they nearly all desire their pounds and groats
Very soon!
Oh, the girls’ astounding frills!
Oh, the rare old sherry which papa at moments swills!
And the pills for the ills.
Thence resulting! it all fills
Up the avalanche which chills
Us, the starters and the martyrs
Of the bills, bills, bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills――
Of the pining and the whining of the bills!
Hear the checking of the bills,
Bothering bills!
What a lot of bitter spite their tedious tale distils!
In the silence of the night
How we plot to “fly a kite,”
To avoid the moody menace of their tone!
For their only antidote
To the check in every note
Is a loan.
And the people――hang the people!――
They would call from every steeple
How your payments you postpone.
And in calling, calling, calling
Oft enough to make them blown,
Proves they glory in appalling
Men whose debts are all they own
Be they man or be they woman,
They are certainly less human
Than like ghouls;
And their king is he who rolls
Most people into holes,
Bowls
Men over with his bills!
And his merry bosom fills
With delight at leaving bills;
And he dances and he trills,
Saying, “Time, time, time,
To pay up your pound and dime――
Pay the figure of the bills,
Of the bills.”
Saying, “Time, time, time!
Owing money is a crime;
It is robbing to have bills,
To have bills, bills, bills;
It is shocking to have bills!”
Saying, “Time, time, time!”
As he trills, trills, trills,
To the growing of the bills――
Of the bills, bills, bills,
To the growing of the bills――
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills――
To our groaning and our moaning o’er the bills.
_Funny Folks_, January 25, 1879.
――――:o:――――
THE HOSE.
Hear the ballad of the hose――
Stripèd hose.
What a blissful wealth of plumpness they tenderly enclose!
Naught you’ll find in ancient story
Like those shapely symmetries.
Solomon, in all his glory,
Was not arrayed in one of these
Dainty hose, hose, hose.
Nothing can compare with those
Striped with the crimson color of the fragrant-scented rose.
Oh! those hose, hose, hose, hose,
Hose, hose, hose――
Those softly rounded, garter-bounded hose.
There’s a charm about those hose――
Silken hose――
Which, from an æsthetic standpoint, admiration will impose!
And whene’er we chance to spy them,
Then they seem our sole “Utopias,”
And we feel we’d like to buy them――
Buy them filled, like Cornucopias――
Saucy hose, hose, hose.
And the beauty they disclose――
How the eye of the beholder in entranced rapture glows
On those hose, hose, hose, hose,
Hose, hose, hose――
Those grace-enveloped, full-developed hose.
You, by chance, may see those hose――
Well-filled hose――
Peeping from the mystic meshes of a labyrinth of clothes.
Damsels dark and damsels fair,
Each, mayhaps, displays a pair
Of deftly-woven, parti-colored stockings, which more winsomely allure
By the floral garniture
Of their clockings.
But the people-ah! the people――
They that dwell up in the steeple,
Far from those:
’Mid the clanging and the rumble
Of the bells――they never “tumble”
To the hose.
At that lofty elevation,
They maintain their equipose,
Suffering not the excitation
Consequent on seeing those
Shapely hose, hose, hose――
White as winter’s snows,
Save the stripes, so richly tinted with the blushes of the rose,
Are the hose, hose, hose, hose――
Those hose, hose――
Are the fascinating, aggravating hose.
LUTIN.
_Puck_, (New York), May 21, 1879.
――――:o:――――
THE BILLS.
(_An apology for which Punch is proud to owe to Edgar Poe._)
I.
See the ever-swelling bills――
Heavy bills!
What a world of botherment SIR STAFFORD’S bosom fills!
How they tumble, tumble, tumble
In, to his extreme affright!
While the nation ’gins to grumble
At the wild financial jumble,
To the Liberals’ delight.
E’en the _Times_, _Times_, _Times_,
Hints at economic crimes
In the quick accumulation that the world with wonder fills,
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills,――
The growing and o’erflowing of the bills.
II.
See the Military bills――
Bouncing bills!
How their growth the CHANCELLOR’S optimism chills!
For each little local fight,
Afghan, Zulu, what a sight
Of cash, in gold or notes,
Must come soon!
What triumphant mockery floats
From the Radical, who capers while he gloats
O’er the tune,
The pretty tune to which
The Nation, racked though rich,
Will have to pay the piper from its coffers and its tills,
For the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills,
The ne’er ceasing increasing of the bills!
III.
See the long Imperial bills――
Bloated bills!
How their swoln proportions hint of choking bolus pills
For JOHN BULL, who, at the sight,
Stares and stammers with affright!
Too much horrified to reckon
All the burdens piled his neck on
By the lune,
The mad hallucination which his fancy did inspire,
The wild and weak ambition, which his foolish brain did fire,
To soar higher, higher, higher,
With a lunatic desire,
And an imbecile endeavour
Now, now to swell, or never,
To Imperial plenilune!
Oh the bills, bills, bills!
What a tale their tottle fills!
Hard to bear!
How they mount to more and more!
What a cold, cold _douche_ they pour
On the folly of the frantic Jingo scare!
Yet our pockets fully know,
By the waxing
Of the taxing,
How they flow, and flow, and flow;
Yet the ear that daily fills
With the wrangling,
And the jangling
Of the rival Party quills,
Knows how the Country chills,
At the swelling beyond telling in the number of the bills――
Of the bills――
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills,
The mounting past all counting of the bills!
_Punch_, Oct. 25, 1879.
――――――――
BILLS.
(SCENE.――Paterfamilias discovered in the act of looking through his
morning’s letters.)
I.
Here’s the postman with his bills――
Christmas bills!
What a world of coming trouble their very sight instils!
How they worry, worry, worry,
In their envelopes of blue!
Whilst though I conceal my flurry,
I am really in a hurry,
To break open and review
The long lines, lines, lines,
Of fours and noughts, and nines,
And the terrifying total――which, as it is, my heart so thrills――
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills――
Oh, the flurry and the worry of the bills!
II.
Here are two most lengthy bills――
Bonnet bills!
What a world of foolish details, to be sure, their columns fills!
Here are bonnets for all weathers,
Trimm’d with birds, and flowers, and feathers’
Tulle diaphanous that floats――
Each new device!
Gold-tipp’d grasses, silver oats,
Birds have yielded up their plumage, beasts their coats,――
At a price,
Which is down in Madame’s bills.
(Three guineas! only fancy for a wreath of daffodils!)
Why it chills,
And it thrills,
And a lesson new instils,
Does the wicked waste that fills,
And makes bigger every figure
Of those shameful bonnet bills!
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills――
These increasing and ne’er ceasing
Bonnet bills!
III.
Here are more alarming bills――
Butcher’s bills!
What a tale their total tells of the worst of household ills!
How the figures seem to glare,
And to tell one everywhere
Of bones weighed out as meat,
Of triumphant plans to cheat
In their bills.
In their bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills――
Change the prices and devices of their bills.
IV.
Here are countless other bills――
Sundry bills!
Of which the reckoning up is like climbing up high hills!
Now I tremble with affright
On my lawyer’s to alight,
With its endless six and eightpences
All shown;
And the doctors, though one line,
To bad language doth incline,
Or a groan;
Whilst the tailor――oh, the tailor!
Was he ever found to fail, or
Ever known
Not to pile up useless details
In the manner to him prone;
“Fancy twill’d,” and “double mill’d,”
“Blue Elysian,” “braided,” “drill’d,”
Till each garment that he retails
Is described in terms high flown.
Then there are bills, of course,
Sent by tradesmen, who, perforce,――
(Without doubt);
Of American sirloins sold as Scotch beef superfine,
Of suet charged but never sent, of fat skewer’d on the chine;
Of rump steak at one-and-nine,
And of “rounds” so steep’d in brine,
That, spite resolute endeavour,
One could eat it never, never!
Nor anyhow the salt boil out.
Oh these bills, bills, bills,
Writ with skewers ’stead of quills――
They recall
Prices always going higher,
Though at Newgate ’twould transpire
Often meat had had a most decided fall.
Yes, there’s scarce a line that shows
Joints overweighted,
Price o’erstated,
As one by experience knows.
Yet the whole with hope one fills,
Co-operation
Through the nation
Soon will empty butchers’ tills;
Or at least bring down the prices they are charging in their bills――
With under-dash――
_Must_ make up by _Tuesday week_
Such a sum; so from you seek
Cash!
To assist them with _their_ bills,
And here, too, like bitter pills,
Come the long-forgotten bills――
Accounts one fancied settled,
Till by them, newly nettled,
All the air with cries one fills,
Making moan, moan, moan,
In a muffled monotone,
At the checking of the bills――
Of the bills!
Making moan, moan, moan,
In the same old monotone,
At the reckoning of the bills!
Of the bills, bills, bills,
At the checking, the reck’ning of the bills.
With a deep and final groan,
At the bother of the bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills,
At the pother of the bills,
Of the bills, bills, bills, bills,
Bills, bills, bills,
At the bother, and the pother of the bills.
_Truth_, January 8, 1880.
――――:o:――――
THE BELLS.[8]
Hear a voice announcing IRVING in _The Bells_――sledge’s bells!
What a scene of wild excitement the advertisement foretells!
See the rush upon the pay-hole――
People stand a night and day whole
To secure a little corner for _The Bells_!
To look ghastly pale and shudder, every man and every “brudder”
Feels that nothing can be equal to _The Bells_!
_Bells! Bells! Bells! Bells!_
Too horrified to cheer,
Folk will testify by fear
How appalled they are by IRVING in _The Bells_;
While great beads of perspiration will appear,
For in conscience-stricken terrors he excels!
Gloomy _Bells_!
Pit and gallery will glory in the weird and frightful story,
Which may even thrill the bosom of the swells,
For every Yankee “dude”
Unquestionably should
Have nightmare after witnessing _The Bells_!
Will our cousins all go frantic from Pacific to Atlantic, or condemn
as childish antic
IRVING’S dancing, and his gasping, and his yells!
There’s a certain admiration which the strange impersonation
Still compels,
E’en from those who can’t see beauty in _The Bells_――
In the play that Mr. LEWIS calls _The Bells_!
Wondrous _Bells_!
You first made HENRY famous, so the stage historian tells,
Will the scene be now repeated which in London always greeted
His performance of Mathias in _The Bells_?
Or will every sneering Yankee,
In his nasal tones, say “Thankee,
I guess this is just another of your mighty British ‘sells?’”
Let the thought for ever perish, that the actor whom we cherish
Could fail to lick creation in _The Bells_!
But if there are detractors
Of this foremost of our actors,
Of the gentlemanly IRVING――friend of TOOLE’S――
“They are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human,”
They are fools!
_Judy_, October 24, 1883.
――――:o:――――
The following verses, in imitation of POE, are quoted from a little
work entitled “Original Readings and Recitations,” by W. A. Eaton,
published by H. Vickers, Strand. Mr. Eaton is a well-known Temperance
Advocate, and the author of many pathetic poems admirably adapted for
public Recitations:――
THE VOICE OF THE BELLS.
I love the sound of bells
At evening, when the sun
To the tired labourer tells
His hard day’s work is done.
I love to hear,
So soft and clear,
Their notes go sailing o’er mount and mere.
Bells, softly chime
Your sweet, low rhyme,
Ring on, still ring.
While softly the shadows creep,
Over the folded sheep.
The day is done;
Down goes the sun,
And Silence opens the gates of Sleep.
I love the sound of bells
On a glorious summer morn,
When ev’ry note that swells
Tells of a joy new born.
The wedding note
Doth lightly float,
Gaily o’er hill and dale,
Merrily, cherrily,
Madly, gladly,
Telling of joys that will never fail.
Bells, bells, bells!
Hark how their music swells!
How it floats along,
Like a glorious song!
Bells, bells, bells, bells!
Oh, teach me the joy that your glad music tells.
I love to hear the bell
That is rung for a passing soul,
As, solemnly over the dell,
Its mournful boomings roll.
Toll, toll, toll,
For a passing soul;
While the mourners tramp
Through the graveyard damp.
Toll, toll, toll!
Boom, boom, boom!
Over an open tomb.
With a voice of terrible gloom,
(Toll, toll, toll,)
As long as the ages roll,
Thou wilt tell men of their doom.
But yet I love thee well,
Thou mournful, chiming bell;
For who shall say,
While thou dost toll,
What glorious chimes
And echoing rhymes
Will welcome to heaven the new born soul?
* * * * *
――――:o:――――
THE BILLS.
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE GENTLE READER.
Hark! the postman! he brings Bills!
Christmas Bills!!
What a world of torment now my bosom fills!
How they trouble, trouble, trouble,
All the merry Christmas time,
While a woe unfathomable
Seems to bubble, bubble, bubble
In my mind and mars the merry Christmas chime.
For they come, come, come,
In a multiplying sum,
Admitting no evasion of their ills;
Oh the Bills! Bills!! Bills!!! Bills!!!!
Bills!!!!! Bills!!!!!! Bills!!!!!!!
Oh, the torment and the torture of the Bills!
Hang those Bills!
Christmas Bills!!
For their presence all our Christmas joy dispels;
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
And every note that floats
From our dry and dusty throats
Is a groan;
And we wish we were the people
Who dwell up in a steeple――
Happy people!
All alone!
And who, toiling, toiling, toiling
For their creditors’ despoiling,
Find it easy all cash payments to postpone,
And find pleasure in the spoiling,
In the spoiling and the moiling,
In the spoiling of a bailiff with a stone.
They are scarcely man and woman,
They are almost superhuman――
They are kings,
And like kings can sit and sing,
While they fling, fling, fling,
Fling rocks upon their duns;
While each dun gets up and runs
For his pistols and his guns,
And he dances and he groans,
Keeping time, time, time,
In a strange spasmodic rhyme,
To the volley of big stones,
Of big stones;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a ghastly sort of rhyme,
To the volleying of the stones,
Of the stones, stones, stones,
To the volley of the jolly big stones.
Keeping time, time, time,
While he yells, yells, yells,
In a wild galvanic rhyme,
For the payment of his bills,
Of his Bills! Bills!! Bills!!! Bills!!!!
Bills!!!!! Bills!!!!!! Bills!!!!!!!
For the instant liquidation of his Bills!
_Free Press Flashes_, 1883.
――――:o:――――
O! THE HAMMERS.
O! the hammers, hammers, hammers,
Clanging hammers;
How they beat, how they chime,
With a joyous music time,
Soul-inspiring, never tiring
To the ear;
O’er the waters of the Tyne
Rolls the melody divine
Loud and clear;
And the toilers, strong and grim,
Glory in the sounding hymn,
For they know that each blow
Keeps the homely hearth aglow;
So they hammer, hammer, hammer,
And the far-resounding clamour
Gives them cheer.
O! the hammers, hammers, hammers,
Throbbing hammers,
How they leap, how they skip,
O’er the bosom of the ship,
Ever beating and repeating
Labour’s lay;
Hark! they tell of human might,
With an echoing delight,
All the day;
O! the battle must be won,
And the toiling must be done,
For the strife of each life
Is for children and for wife;
So they hammer, hammer, hammer,
And the wild, sonorous clamour
Is their stay.
From “Poems and Songs,” by WILLIAM ALLAN.――Simpkin Marshall & Co.,
London, 1883.
――――:o:――――
REMINISCENCES OF SUMMER.
See the frog, the slimy, green frog,
Dozing away on that old rotten log;
Seriously wondering
What caused the sundering
Of the tail that he wore when a wee pollywog.
See the boy, the freckled schoolboy,
Famed for cussedness, free from alloy;
Watching the frog
Perched on the log,
With feelings akin to tumultuous joy.
See the rock, the hard, flinty rock,
Which the freckled-faced boy at the frog doth sock;
Conscious he’s sinning,
Yet gleefully grinning
At the likely result of its terrific shock.
See the grass, the treacherous grass,
Slip from beneath his feet! Alas,
Into the mud
With a dull thud
He falls, and rises a slimy mass.
Now, see the frog, the hilarious frog,
Dancing a jig on his old rotten log;
Applying his toes
To his broad, blunt nose
As he laughs at the boy stuck fast in the bog.
* * * * *
Look at the switch, the hickory switch,
Waiting to make that schoolboy twitch;
When his mother knows
The state of his clothes
Won’t he raise his voice to its highest pitch.
_Free Press Flashes_, 1883.
――――:o:――――
THAT AMATEUR FLUTE.
Hear the fluter with his flute――
Silver flute!
Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot!
How it demi-semi quavers
On the maddened air of night!
And defieth all endeavours
To escape the sound or sight
Of the flute, flute, flute,
With its tootle, tootle, toot――
With reiterated tooteling of exasperating toots,
The long protracted tootelings of agonising toots,
Of the flute, flute, flute, flute,
Flute, flute, flute,
And the wheezings and the spittings of its toots.
Should he get that other flute――
Golden flute――
Oh, what a deeper anguish will its presence institoot!
How his eyes to heaven he’ll raise,
As he plays,
All the days!
How he’ll stop us on our ways
With its praise!
And the people――oh, the people,
That don’t live up in the steeple,
But inhabit Christian parlours
Where he visiteth and plays――
Where he plays, plays, plays――
In the cruellest of ways,
And thinks we ought to listen,
And expects us to be mute,
Who would rather have the earache
Than the music of his flute,
Of his flute, flute, flute,
And the tootings of his toot,
Of the toots wherewith he tooteleth its agonising toot,
Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot,
Phlute, phlewt, phlewght,
And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot.
_American Paper._
――――:o:――――
THE OFFICE BOY’S MOTHER IN AMERICA.
“Bells, bells, bells, bells, bells!”
How their clashing, and their clanging, all thought of peace dispels!
Oh, well might EDGAR ALLAN POE――or any other poet, born in American
clime――
Adopt the bells, the ceaseless bells, as subject for his rhyme.
From early morn, till dewy eve, their clamour resounds loud and long,
The railway train as it puffs and clatters through the streets,
proclaims its passage with “ding, dong! ding, dong!”
The matutinal milkman tinkle tinkles on his way,
And the vegetable vendor tintinabulates “ting-a-ring! ting-a-ring!”
――enough to drive one mad, as a body may say.
The steamboat bell resounds, as if summoning the nation to its doom,
And from chapel, church, and schoolhouse――at all hours――echoes forth
the solemn “boom, boom, boom!”
And at any time――day or night――just as it were――to fill up the blank,
The fire-engine rushes through the streets, with its quick, sharp,
metallic, warning voice, “Clank――clank――clank――clank!”
It ain’t till you’ve lived in an American city that you learn how it
was they came to dub
The oh-no-we-never-mention-him with the name of _Bells_-ebub!
* * * * *
_Judy_, January 14, 1885.
[Illustration]
BISAKEL.
“ISRAFEL,” BY POE, RECAST FOR A NEW ROLL.
The angel Bisakel, whose wings are wheels, has the
fleetest pace of all God’s creatures.――_Koran._
In heaven a spirit doth dwell
Whose great wing is a wheel.
None fly so wildly well
As the angel Bisakel,
And the giddy stars, so legends say,
Slowing their course, attend the play
Of his wondrous heel.
Maturing her age
In her highest noon,
The enamelled moon
Reddens with rage,
And to witness, with misgivin’,
(With the nautic Pleiads even,
More than seven.)
Pauses in heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other gossiping things)
That Bisakeli’s fire
Is owing to that tire
O’er which he sits and slings
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual wings.
But surely that angel trod
Treadles amazing flighty;
And, for a grown-up god,
Their bicycling Houris’ are
His rivals――Aphrodite
Transports faster than a star!
The ecstasies he took
With such company to deal――
His leg and style, his pure caoutchouc,
With the fervour of his wheel――
Well may the stars go reel!
We say thou art not wrong,
Bisakeli, who despisest
Feathers and psalming song;
Bloom thou the laurels among,
Best angel and the wisest,――
_Merrily live, and long!_
Ah, heaven is his’n, indeed――
This world is sweets _and_ sours;
Our powers are puny powers,
And the slowest of his perfect speed
Is the swiftest of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Bisakel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not spin so wildly well
Our mortal wheelery,
While a better song than now might swell
From my lyre within the sky――
But――how is this “for _high_”?
_Lyra Bicyclica_, By J. G. Dalton, Boston, 1880.
――――:o:――――
THE STEED OF FIRE.
From Poe’s “Eldorado”――Fabled Golden
made true steel.
Soberly dight,
A modern knight,
Upon a hack of hire
Had journeyed long
Singing a song
In search of a steed of fire.
But he grew old,
This knight, tho’ bold,
With o’er his heart a dire
Dump as he found
Nothing around
That looked like a steed of fire
And as his strength
Waned, he at length
Met a bicycling flyer:
“Flyer,” said he,
“What! can it be――
Can this be the steed of fire?”
“Upon this mount
We surely count,
’Tis all you can desire;
Ride, boldly ride,”
Cycler replied,
“If you seek for a steed of fire!”
He dried his tears,――
And shed his years,
All on the windy wire,
And sweeps along
Singing much song
In praise of the steed of fire.
_Lyra Bicyclica_, By J. G. DALTON, Boston, Hodges & Co., 1880.
――――:o:――――
THE RAVEN.
_Scene_――Study in Chief Secretary’s Lodge, Phœnix Park. [9]_G.O.T.
loquitor_――
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary
Over two delightful volumes rich in biographic lore.
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis the footman with the tumblers, tapping at my chamber door――
Only that and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak November;
Wrought each separate dying ember, Gladstone’s nose upon the floor,
Terror-struck I feared the morrow; vainly had I sought to borrow
From those books surcease of sorrow; agony perhaps in store!
If those students, sons of Gladstone, failed to top Sir Stafford’s
score!
Name it not for evermore.
Open then I flung the portal, when, with impudence immortal,
In there stepped a stately Raven of old Buckshot’s[10] days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But as cool as Joseph Brady, perched upon my chamber door――
Perched upon a bust of Bradlaugh just above my chamber door――
Perched and spat, and nothing more.
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil, prophet still, Parnell, or devil,
Whether Gladstone or young Herbert sent or brought thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this island disenchanted,
In this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore,
Shall I, shall I poll as many as did Roseberry before?”
Quoth the Raven, “Never more.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil, prophet still, Churchhill or devil,
By that bust that scowls beneath thee, by that God he don’t adore,
Tell this soul with terror haunted, tell this Secretary daunted,
Of the triumphs which we’ve vaunted, of the victory in store,
Shall the newsboys shout to-morrow how I’ve topped Sir Stafford’s
score?”
Quoth the Raven, “Never more.”
ANONYMOUS.
_Received from Edinburgh, March_ 12, 1885.
――――:o:――――
THE RAVEN.
The London correspondent of the _Western Morning News_,
says:――“Speaking of poetry re-calls a very curious circumstance that
has recently been talked about, and which is probably new to most
readers. Everyone has read or heard that wonderful poem of Edgar
Poe’s――‘The Raven’――and probably most of those who have read it know
also of that very singular essay in which the poet explains the manner
in which the poem was composed. He tells them how he came to make
choice of the particular metre, how the burden suggested itself to his
mind, how the last verse was written first and the others to lead
gradually up to it, with a variety of minute and particular details,
all tending to shew its originality. The whole of this essay turns out
to be as ingenious a fiction as any of the ‘tales of mystery’ with
which it is usually bound up. Poe’s sole accomplishment was a minute
and accurate acquaintance with Oriental languages, and this he turned
to account by translating almost literally the poem of ‘The Raven’
from the Persian. The translation is so minute and accurate that even
the cadences are preserved throughout, while the curious repetition of
rhymes by which it is distinguished is equally characteristic of the
work of the Persian poet. As a singular specimen of a literary
imposture such a matter as this deserves notice. The discovery is due
to the well-known eastern traveller, Mr. Lang, formerly of the Bombay
service, and has since been corroborated, I hear, by some of the most
celebrated Orientalists in England.”――_The Daily Review_, Edinburgh,
August 18, 1864.
[Illustration]
SPIRITUAL POEMS.
A very curious feature of the modern American press has been the rapid
growth of so-called Spiritual literature. Those who are incredulous in
regard to these Spiritual manifestations simply assert that a poetical
medium is one, who not having sufficient genius and originality to
make a name and a place in literature for himself, falls back on the
trick of imitating the style of some deceased popular author, and
proclaims his (often stupid) Parody the veritable production of the
spirit of the author imitated. Perhaps it is owing to the known
partiality entertained by Edgar A. Poe for alcohol during his
lifetime, or it may be due to the ease with which his style of
versification may be imitated, that his spirit has been so often
invoked, and his name so frequently used by the Spiritualists.
Without attempting to discuss the mode in which these poems have been
given to the world, it will be quite sufficient to quote a few, and
these of the very best, to show that Poe’s Spirit has not produced
anything at all equal in quality to the poems written by Poe whilst he
was still in the flesh. Power, freshness, and originality they seem to
lack entirely, but the quantity is superabundant; the chief difficulty
in making a selection that shall be at once illustrative and
interesting, is to avoid making it too voluminous. Few, indeed, of
these poems possess the attributes of Poe’s style,――his luxurious
reiteration of thought in similar lines,――his musical
alliteration――his exquisite sense of rhyme. Here and there occurs a
slight assumption of the mystical, but it is mere obscurity without
suggestiveness. It is asserted that most of these Spiritual Poems were
taken down from the lips of persons whilst in a state of trance.
One of the earliest Spirit Poems was said to be dictated through the
medium of Mrs. LYDIA TENNEY, of George Town, Mass., U.S.A., and was
triumphantly claimed as a proof that Poe’s Spirit had written a poem.
Mr. William Sawyer utterly demolished this poem in an article in the
_Brighton Herald_, and as it does not possess any resemblance to Poe’s
style, it would be out of place here.
The first Spirit poem to be quoted is a sequel to “The Raven,” by a
certain R. ALLSTON LAVENDER, who asserted that it was dictated to him
by the spirit of E. A. Poe. When last heard of Mr. Lavender was an
inmate of a lunatic asylum in the United States.
SEQUEL TO THE RAVEN.
Fires within my brain were burning,
Scorning life, despairing, yearning,
Hopeless, blinded in my anguish;
Through my body’s open door
Came a Raven, foul and sable,
Like those evil birds of fable,
Downward swooping where the drooping
Spectres haunt the Stygian shore.
Ghosts of agonies departed,
Festering wounds that long had smarted,
Broken vows, returnless mornings,
Griefs and miseries of yore;
By some art revived, undaunted,
I gazed steadfast: the enchanted,
Black, infernal Raven uttered
A wild dirge――not evermore.
Gazing steady, gazing madly
On the bird, I spoke, and sadly
Broke down, too deep for scorning,
Sought for mercy to implore.
Turning to the bird, I blessed it――
In my bosom I caressed it;
Still it pierced my heart, and revelled
In the palpitating gore.
I grew mad; the crowning fancies,
Black weeds they――not blooming pansies――
Made me think the bird a spirit.
Bird, I cried, be bird no more;
Take a shape――be man, be devil,
Be a snake; rise in thy revel!
From thy banquet rise――be human!
I have seen thee oft before;
Thou art a bird, but something more.”
* * * * *
Oh! thou huge, infernal Raven,
Image that Hell’s King hath graven,
Image growing more gigantic,
Nursed beyond the Stygian shore,
Leave me, leave me, I beseech thee,
I would not of wrong impeach thee;
I cried madly, then earth opened
With a brazen earthquake roar.
Downward, downward, circling, speeding,
Cries of anguish still unheeding,
Striking through me with his talons,
Still the Raven shape he bore;
Unto Erebus we drifted,
His huge wings by thunder lifted,
Beat ’gainst drifts of white-flamed lightning,
Sprinkled red with human gore――
’Twas a bird, but demon more.
* * * * *
Then I wakened, if to waken
Be to dwell by grief forsaken
With the God who dwelt with angels
In the shining age of yore.
And I stood sublime, victorious,
While below lay earth with glorious
Realms of angels shining,
Crown-like on her temples evermore,
Not an Earth, an Eden more.
Earth, I cried, thy clouds are shadows
From the Asphodelian meadows
Of the sky-world floating downward,
Early rains that from them pour;
Love’s own heaven thy mother bore thee,
And the Father God bends o’er thee,
’Tis His hand that crowns thy forehead;
Thou shalt live forever more,
Not on Earth, in Eden more.
As a gem hath many gleamings,
And a day hath many beamings,
And a garden many roses
Thrilled with sweetness to the core;
So the soul hath many ages,
And the life’s book many pages,
But the heart’s great gospel opens
Where the Seraphims adore,
Not on Earth, an Eden more.
There are in all sixteen verses in this imitation. The next example is
one of the numerous poems delivered by Miss LIZZIE DOTEN (a spiritual
trance speaker) whilst supposed to be under the influence of the
spirit of EDGAR A. POE.
A GRAND POEM.
From the throne of life eternal,
From the home of love supernal,
Where the angels make music o’er the starry floor,
Mortals, I have come to meet you,
And with words of peace to greet you,
And to tell you of the glory that is mine forevermore.
Once before, I found a mortal
Waiting at the heavenly portal――
Waiting out to catch some echo from that ever-opening door;
Then I seized this quickened being,
And through all his inward seeing,
Caused my burning inspiration in a fiery flood to pour.
Now I come more meekly human,
And the weak lips of a woman,
Touched with fire from off the altar, not with burning, as of yore,
But in holy love descending,
With her chastened being blending,
I will fill your soul with music from the bright celestial shore.
As one heart yearns for another,
As a child turns to its mother,
From the golden gates of glory, turn I to the earth once more;
Where I drained the cup of sadness,
Where my soul was stung to madness,
And life’s bitter, burning billows swept my burdened being o’er.
Here the harpies and the ravens,
Human vampires, sordid cravens,
Preyed upon my soul and substance, till I writhed in anger sore;
Life and I then seemed mismated,
For I felt accursed and fated,
Like a restless, wrathful spirit, wandering the Stygian shore.
Tortured by a nameless yearning,
Like a fire-frost, freezing, burning,
Did the purple, pulsing life-tide through its feeble channels pour;
Till the golden bowl, life’s token,
Into shining shards was broken,
And my chained and chafing spirit let from out its prison door.
But, whilst living, stirring, dying,
Never did my spirit cease crying:
“Ye who guide the fates and furies, give, oh! give me, I implore――
From the myriad host of nations,
From the countless constellations,
One pure spirit that can love me――one that I, too, can adore.”
Through this fervent aspiration
Found my fainting soul salvation;
Far from out its blackened fire quick did my spirit soar,
And my beautiful ideal,
Not too saintly to be real,
Burst more brightly on my vision than the fancy formed Lenore.
’Mid the surging sea she found me,
With the billows breaking round me,
And my saddened, sinking spirit in her arms of love upbore;
Like a lone one, weak and weary,
Wandering in the mid-night dreary,
On her sinless, saintly bosom, brought me to the heavenly shore.
Like the breath of blossoms blending,
Like the prayers of saints ascending,
Like the rainbow’s seven-hued glory, blend on souls forevermore;
Earthly lust and lore enslaved me,
But divinest love hath saved me,
And I know now, first and only, how to live and how to adore.
O, my mortal friends and brothers!
We are each and all another’s,
And the soul which gives most freely from its treasures hath the more.
Would you lose life, you must find it,
And in giving love you bind it,
Like an amulet of safety to your heart for evermore.
BALTIMORE, August, 1872.
In a volume entitled _Poems of the Inner Life_ written by the same
lady, and published by Colby and Rich, of Boston, U.S.A., there is a
long imitation of “Ulalume,” from which the following verses may be
quoted:――
THE KINGDOM.
’Twas the ominous month of October――
How the memories rise in my soul!
How they swell like a sea in my soul!――
When a spirit, sad, silent, and sober,
Whose glance was a word of control,
Drew me down to the dark Lake Avernus,
In the desolate Kingdom of Death――
To the mist-covered Lake of Avernus,
In the ghoul-haunted Kingdom of Death.
And there, as I shivered and waited,
I talked with the souls of the dead――
With those whom the living call dead;
The lawless, the lone, and the hated,
Who broke from their bondage and fled――
From madness and misery fled.
Each word was a burning eruption
That leapt from a crater of flame,
A red, lava-tide of corruption,
That out of life’s sediment came,
From the scoriac natures God gave them,
Compounded of glory and shame.
“Aboard!” cries our pilot and leader;
Then wildly we rush to embark,
We recklessly rush to embark;
And forth in our ghostly Ellida[11]
We swept in the silence and dark――
Oh God! on that black Lake Avernus,
Where vampires drink even the breath
On that terrible Lake of Avernus,
Leading down to the whirlpool of Death!
It was there the Eumenides[12] found us
In sight of no shelter or shore――
No beacon or light from the shore.
They lashed up the white waves around us,
We sank in the waters’ wild roar;
But not to the regions infernal,
Through billows of sulphurous flame,
But unto the City Eternal,
The Home of the Blessed, we came.
To the gate of the Beautiful City,
All fainting and weary we pressed,
Impatient and hopeful we pressed.
“O, Heart of the Holy, take pity,
And welcome us home to our rest!
Pursued by the Fates and the Furies,
In darkness and danger we fled――
From the pitiless Fates and Furies,
Through the desolate realms of the Dead.”
* * * * *
Like the song of a bird that yet lingers.
When the wide-wandering warbler has flown;
Like the wind harp by Eolus blown,
As if touched by the lightest of fingers,
The portal wide open was thrown;
And we saw not the holy Saint Peter,
Not even an angel of light,
But a vision far dearer and sweeter,
Not as brilliant nor blindingly bright,
But marvellous unto the sight!
In the midst of the mystical splendour,
Stood a beautiful, beautiful child――
A golden-haired, azure-eyed child,
With a look that was touching and tender,
She stretched out her white hand and smiled:
“Ay, welcome, thrice welcome, poor mortals,
O, why do ye linger and wait?
Come fearlessly in at these portals――
No warder keeps watch at the gate!”
* * * * *
Then out from the mystical splendour,
The swift-changing, crystalline light,
The rainbow-hued, scintillant light,
Gleamed faces more touching and tender
Than ever had greeted our sight――
Our sin-blinded, death-darkened sight;
And they sang: “Welcome home to the Kingdom,
Ye earth-born and serpent-beguiled;
The Lord is the light of this Kingdom,
And His temple the heart of a child――
Of a trustful and teachable child.
Ye are born to the life of the Kingdom――
Receive, and believe, as a child.”
Another long poem, entitled “Farewell to Earth,” was delivered by Miss
LIZZIE DOTEN at the conclusion of a Lecture at Clinton Hall, New York;
it purported to be E. A. POE’S final “Farewell to this World.” It was
printed in Number 2 of _Inspirational Poems_, and published by F. N.
Broderick, 1, St. Thomas’s Square, Ryde, Isle of Wight, for the small
price of one penny; alas! it was dear at that. But the culmination of
absurdity is to be found in a book entitled _Improvisations from the
Spirit_, published in London in 1857. This ridiculous work was the
production of Dr. J. J. Garth Wilkinson, a rather well known character
in St. John’s Wood about thirty years ago. If we are to credit this
author, the 400 closely printed pages of this curious jumble of
clerical cant terms, spiritualism, and Swedenborgianism, were written
under a kind of inspiration. Since August 1857 the inspired volume had
rested undisturbed on the library shelves of the British Museum, nor
had any sacrilegious paperknife disturbed its uncut edges until the
Editor of _Parodies_ assailed them. And there he found an “Imitation
of E. A. Poe,” a mad kind of poem, a dribbling in rhyme, of which, one
verse will surely be sufficient for even the most spiritualistic
reader:――
And that his feet were gaining
Strange features from below;
And that his toes were raining
Toe-nails upon his brow:
And that his heart and liver
Were shuffling in their seats;
And that he heard them quiver
And saw their anxious heats.
[Illustration]
POT-POURRI.
In the library of the British Museum there is a small octavo pamphlet
of 24 pages, entitled “Pot-Pourri.” It was apparently printed for
private circulation only. The author’s name is not given, but it bears
the imprint, “Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875,
by ABEL REID, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at
Washington.” “S. W. GREEN, Printer and Electrotyper, 16 & 18, Jacob
St., New York.” The eleven poems it contains are all parodies of Poe’s
writings, as the titles sufficiently indicate. Indeed many of the
lines are taken bodily, and without the slightest acknowledgement,
from Poe himself, whilst the stanzas, entitled, “Part of an Unfinished
Ghoul-Poem,” in “Poetic Fragments,” were written by Poe, and intended
by him to form the conclusion of “Ulalume.” He had, however,
suppressed these lines at the request of Mrs. Whitman, the lady to
whom he was engaged to be married, when his career was cut short by
his miserable excesses. The author of “Pot-Pourri,” though evidently
an admirer of the genius of Poe, utters a protest against the
excessive hero-worship of some American critics; but it is a pity that
he was not himself more candid and ingenuous in his treatment of the
dead poet’s works. The following is an exact reprint of this scarce
pamphlet; to facilitate comparison with the originals, a few stanzas
from Poe’s poems are quoted at the foot of several of the parodies.
POT-POURRI.
THE RUINED PALACE.
DREAM-MERE.
ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS.
THE GHOULS IN THE BELFRY.
HULLALOO.
TO ANY.
HANNIBAL LEIGH.
RAVING.
THE MONSTER MAGGOT.
POETIC FRAGMENTS.
UNDER-LINES.
――――:o:――――
* THE RUINED PALACE.
In a green depth, like a chalice,
By most sweet flowers tenanted,
Stood a fair and stately palace.
There a poet-soul――now dead――
Lived in days in vain lamented,――
Had lived to-day,
But was wayward――or demented,――
Weak, or worse,――who dares to say?
For his thought was streak’d with fancies,
To all simple truth untrue;
Bizarre, as the hues of pansies,――
The dark shades he knew;
And he wander’d from this Aidenn:
Wander’d, and was lost, alas!
Though his own beloved maiden
Track’d his footsteps through the grass.
He return’d not. Devastation
Housed in his disorder’d rooms;
On his couch lay Desolation;
Vampyres flitted through the glooms.
By the pure white Parian fountains
Lounged the ghouls, obscenely bare;
Never wind came from the mountains
To refresh the stagnant air.
O’er the garden walks neglected
Crawl’d the toad, the worm, the snail;
Droop’d the young buds unrespected:
Loving care could not avail.
For the poet-soul, the master,
Could alone that place
Make beautiful, and from disaster
Free――as Aidenn――by God’s grace.
When he the palace left, and garden,――
The moment that he would depart――
* * * * *
Speech is vain, and tears but harden
On the world’s ice heart.
――――――――
[*] THE HAUNTED PALACE.
I.
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace,
Radiant palace, reared its head.
In the Monarch Thought’s dominion,
It stood there;
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
II.
Banners――yellow, glorious, golden――
On its roof did float and flow
(This, all this, was in the olden
Time, long ago);
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A wingèd odour went away.
* * * * *
E. A. POE.
――――:o:――――
DREAM-MERE.
On a root, knobbed, gnarl’d, and lonely.
Overstruck with toadstools only,
Sits an Eidolon named NIGHT,――
On a toadstool half upright.
I have seen this sprite but newly,
And I look’d at him quite throughly,
In his ultimate dim Thulè
As he sate there half upright.
In a wild, weird clime, and singing sublime,
Out of TUNE――out of TIME.
Bottomless hollows and roaring floods,
And caves and chasms and haunted woods,
Forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Shoreless seas that still aspire,
Surging to hellish heavens of fire;
Boundless lakes all lone and dead,
Where sometimes Night lies outspread
In the waters still and chilly,
With his nose in a lolling lily.
By these shoreless lakes outspread,
These lone waters, lone and dead,
These lone waters, still and chilly
(Night’s nose in the lolling lily);
By these toppling crags,――no river
Murmurs near, no leaflets quiver――
All so dark and dead and chilly;
By these dank woods, by the swamp,
Where the toad and bull-frog romp;
By these dismal tarns, by the holes
Where dwell the Ghouls――
Poor damp souls!
By each corner most unjolly,
By each crevice melancholy,
By my own poetic folly――
Frenzy of poetic drift,
In an unexpected rift,
There, I swear, I met aghast
In a sheet the unmemoried Past,
In a shroud a Ghost, whose eye
Looking into vacancy
Made me shudder, start, and sigh,――
One forgotten, from thought outdriven,
I know not whether on Earth or in Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region――
This same desert drear of Night,
Where the Eidolon sits upright
On his toadstool, or outspread,
Lies lolling on his lily-bed.――
For the spirit that likes a shadow
’Tis, O, ’tis an Eldorado,――
Though the traveller, travelling through it,
Ever fails to interview it
(No one ever openly knew it),
For its mysteries all are closed
By the darkness superposed
Of the Eidolon, who, I ween,
Wills not the formless should be seen:
And thus the sad soul that here passes
Is like a blind ass without glasses.
On his root, knobb’d, gnarl’d, and lonely,
Overstruck with toadstools only,
Squats the Eidolon named Night,
Squats in sad poetic plight.
Is there more, and would you know it?
Fix the headgear of the Poet,
Wandering God knows where, but newly
From this ultimate dim Thulè. *
――――――――
[*] DREAMLAND.
I.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, namèd Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule――
From a wild weird clime that lieth sublime
Out of SPACE――out of TIME.
II.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms and caves and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging into skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,――
Their still waters, still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
* * * * *
E. A. POE.
――――:o:――――
ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS.
_The Angel Israfel, whose heart strings are a fiddle._
In heaven a Spirit doth dwell
Whose heart strings are a fiddle,
(The reason he sings so well――
This fiddler Israfel),
And the giddy stars (will anyone tell
Why giddy?) to attend his spell
Cease their hymns in the middle.
On the height of her go
Totters the Moon, and blushes
As the song of that fiddle rushes
Across her bow.
The red Lightning stands to listen,
And the eyes of the Pleiads glisten
As each of the seven puts its fist in
Its eyes, for the mist in.
And they say――it’s a riddle――
That all these listening things,
That stop in the middle
For the heart strung fiddle
With which the Spirit sings,
Are held as on a griddle
By these unusual strings.
Wherefore thou art not wrong,
Israfel! in that thou boastest
Fiddlestrings uncommon strong;
To thee the fiddle strings belong
With which thou toastest
Other hearts as on a prong.
Yes! heaven is thine, but this
Is a world of sours and sweets,――
Where cold meats are cold meats,
And the eater’s most perfect bliss
Is the shadow of him who treats.
If I could griddle
As Israfiddle
Has griddled――he fiddle as I,――
He might not fiddle so wild a riddle
As this mad melody,
While the Pleiads all would leave off in the middle
Hearing my griddle-cry. *
――――――――
* ISRAFEL.
“_And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has
the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures._”――KORAN.
I.
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell,
“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel;
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
II.
Tottering above
In her highest noon
The enamoured Moon
Blushes with love;
While to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiades even,
Which were seven)
Pauses in heaven.
III.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli’s fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings,――
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
* * * * *
VII.
Yes, heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
VIII.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
E. A. POE.
――――:o:――――
THE GHOULS IN THE BELFRY.[13]
Hear the story of the Ghouls!
Who will tell us of the Ghouls?
Who has been told?
Of the Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls,――
Who are neither man nor woman.
Who are neither beast nor human,
Who are neither fish nor cayman,――
Who will tell us, clerk or layman?
They are Ghouls;
Live in holes
Like moles
Under the boles, boles, boles
Of old trees, where the forest rolls
Of the mouldy days of old;
Or in tarns, tarns, tarns,
Dull and dismal as the yarns
Of morbific spools,――
Dank tarns and dismal pools,
There dwell the Ghouls,
With other tarn’d fowls,――
Not to say fools.
But the high tarn nation place is
The dank tarn of Auber
In the Ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
There they sit, with their faces
Bow’d down to their knees,
At the feet of dead trees.
With the dew dropping down from their hair,
They sit there from the end of October,
To the end of the winter next year,
These are woodlandish Ghouls,
Damp, desolate souls
Who have nothing to do
But be haunting the dank tarn of Auber
Through the mildewest part of the year,
That begins at the end of October,
In the woodlandish Ghouldom of Weir.
Yes! these are the woodlandish Ghouls――
Ghouls――Ghouls――Ghouls――
With no business kind of controls――
Mere shoals.
But busier――ah! much busier polls
Have the Churchyard Ghouls,
Prowling there for the bodies of poor dead souls;
And who after supper
Take an upper
Climb to their goal in the steeple!
Where they sit, where they brood, where they heap ill
On the people undergone;
Sitting cheeks by jowls.
Now and then they roll a stone,
Having set the bells a-tolling
In a muffled monotone,
On the people undergone.
And their King it is who tolls,
As he lolls, lolls, lolls
On his throne all carved with scrolls
In his palace in the steeple.
Where he lolls among his people!
Ah! his people who roll stones,
In muffled monotones,
On the hearts of the underfolk,
In the dead of night awoke
By the melancholy yells,
By the miserable howls,
To say nothing of the growls,
Of these Ghouls,
Of these tollers of the bells,
As they toll, toll, toll
Toll;
Toll;
Toll
A pæan from the bells:
And the merry bosom swells
Of the Ghoul-King as he tolls,
As he dances and he yells
To the throbbing of the bells
As they toll,
Toll,
Toll.
It is so the poet tells
Who has heard these Ghoulish bells;
And whose rheumy running rhyme,
Bowl’d in time, time, time,
With the throbbing and the sobbing
And the bobbing and hobnobbing
And sense-robbing of the bells,
Could alone expound their yells
For the clamor each expels,
From the loud full-hammer’d tone,
Sometime hoarsening to a groan,
Sometime worsening to a moan,
Till one bell tolls out alone
In a muffled monotone
Between murmuring and moan,――
Till the King lolled there, as shown,
On his scroll-becarven throne,
Grown weary of the yells
And the bowling of the bells
(Well! well! to be so bold)
As they moan and groan and yell
Pell-mell,
Would be fain to be unthroned,
For the pain too wholly own’d,
Untold but wholly known,
(Toll de roll!)
Of the moans, groans, yells,
As they shake the steeple stone,
And awake the undergone
(Rest his soul!)
With the tolling of their knells,
Roll’d like blood-drops from heart wells,
Misereres out of cells,
Or weird witch-moulded spells
Under fells!
The bells, bells, bells,
Whose tolling ever tells
Of Ghouls, of hells, of knells,
Told by bells, bells, bells
Bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
The unholy yelling, knelling, wholly sense dispelling,
Moaning, groaning, all-atoning,
Rolling, tolling of the bells,
Bells,
Bells.
――――:o:――――
HULLALOO.[14]
The eves were as grey as grey embers,
The leaves dirty yellow and sere,――
They were yellow, but dusky and sere;
That eve was the worst of November’s,
And they are the worst of the year.
’Twas an eve that one surely remembers,
Being out in the dusk with my dear;
For the fire was gone out to weak embers;
So I went out too, with my dear.
Hear then! Through an alley Satanic――
Of hemlock, I roam’d with my love,――
Of hemlock with Sarah, my love.
O my passion was quite oceanic,
With waves like the wind in a grove,
When the wind maketh waves in a grove――
And the leaves with a sort of a panic
Seem taken; I thought of the stove,
And, shivering, as if with a panic
Was taken, at thought of the stove.
Our talk at the first had been jolly,
But our words soon were slow as our walk,――
Our young memories scarcely could walk;
Then we thought it was right melancholy
To be out in the dark without talk――
For we knew that we came out to talk
Still we felt in our hearts it was folly
The vast dream of silence to baulk,
Till, whispering at last, I said――Golly!
And Sarah back whisper’d me――Lawk!
And now as the night was senescent,
And some roosters were hinting of morn,――
Foolish roosters then hinting of morn!――
As the night grew more old and unpleasant,
We saw in the distance a horn,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
To the sides of the road was outborne;
’Twas Sal’s father’s horn lanthorn there present,
The crescent distinct from the horn.
And I said――He is better than Dian;
But I wish that his light had more size,――
And the light wasn’t much for its size;
He has guess’d――that’s a thing to rely on――
Has father, the way our walk lies,
And he has come out like Orion,
The fellow up there in the skies,――
Yes, Sally! those stars in the skies――
Come out like another Orion
To help me take care of my prize,
To take her safe home bye-and-bye on
The pathway that fatherward lies.
But Sarah, uplifting her finger,
Said――Surely that light I mistrust,――
That lanthorn I strangely mistrust;
O hasten! O let us not linger!
O fly! let us fly! for we must.
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Voice,――O, he’ll make such a dust!
In anguish she sobbed, letting sink her
Sweet voice, as if fearing a bust,――
O but father’ll kick up such a dust!
I replied――This is nothing but dreaming;
We need but keep out of the light,――
But he kept dodging us with the light;
And Sarah would soon have been screaming――
She shook like a leaf with affright,
Like a leaf, or a bird in a fright;
So I lifted her out of the gleaming,
Through a gap in the hedge, out of sight:
And her father went on, never dreaming
He left us behind in the night.
Then to pacify Sarah I kiss’d her,
And soon took her out of the gloom,――
It was getting quite cold in the gloom,
And she cried; but I said――Dear! desist, or
I never shall get you safe home.
Then we ran, and in good time got home.
Father said――How on earth have I miss’d her?
She said――I was never from home.
No, Pa! I was never from home.
I have been all the night in my room.
Now my head is as grey as an ember;
And my heart is all crisped and sere,――
Like a crisp leaf that’s wither’d and sere;
And yet I am fain to remember
Above all the nights in the year――
Ah, Sally! if you were but here――
That night of all nights in the year――
Ah, Sally! if you were but here――
That cold dreamy night of November,
That night of all nights in the year,
That long ago night of November,――
The night we were out in, my dear!
――――:o:――――
TO ANY.
Thank heaven! the crisis
Of hunger is past;
And you can’t guess how nice is
This little breakfast,
Now the thing call’d good living
Is come to at last.
I eat what I love
And recover my strength;
And my jaws only move
As I lie at full length.
I might sit――but I feel
I am better at length.
And I lie so composedly,
Feeding and fed,
A careless beholder
Might fancy me dead.
Not seeing my jaws work
Might fancy me dead.
The grunting and groaning,
The writhing and raving,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible craving
At stomach――that horrible
Stomachic craving.
The sickness, the faintness,
The emptiness――pain
Have ceased; and my stomach’s
A stomach again,
And feels like a stomach
Not living in vain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated,――the terrible
Torture of Thirst,
For a napthaline river
Or fusil lake burst:
I’d have drunk dirty water,
For quenching that thirst.
Of a puddle that flows
With a smell, and no sound
From a hole but a very few
Feet underground,
Though I holded my nose
As I stoop’d to the ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That this my mahogany
Is not well spread!
With such victual before me
I call it a spread;
And such drink――my cosmogony
Knows nought instead.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes:
The upsetting or ever
’Twas wetting one’s nose is
All over. Sweet spirit!
Thy scent in my nose is.
And now while so pleasantly
Curl’d up it fancies,
A fragranter odour
Than rue has, or pansies,――
Or even than rosemary
Mingled with pansies,――
The beautiful bourbon,
The Puritan fancies.
And so I lie happily
Drinking a many
And eating a few,
It will cost a big penny;
I don’t mind the cost;
For I have not a penny. *
* * * * *
* FOR ANNIE.
I.
Thank heaven, the crisis,
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last;
And the fever called “living”
Is conquered at last.
* * * * *
IV.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart――Ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
V.
The sickness, the nausea,
The pitiless pain,
Have ceased, with the fever,
That maddened my brain――
With the fever called “living,”
That burned in my brain.
VI.
And, O! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated――the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the napthaline river
Of Passion accurst.
I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst.
* * * * *
E. A. POE.
Hannibal Leigh.[15]
It was many and many a year ago――
It seems so long to me,
That there lived in a city which you may know
A man named Hannibal Leigh;
And this man he seem’d to have nothing to do
But to drink and get drunk with me.
I was a fool and he was a fool,
In this city by the sea
For we drank and got drunk till we made it a rule
That neither should drunker be;
And we drank till we might have lesson’d a school
Of fishes, such drinkers were we.
And this was the reason that long ago
In this city by the sea
A fusilier spirit of ill distilling
Destroy’d my Hannibal Leigh.
’Twas a spirit of ill when my pal was willing
To drink for ever with me;
And some were saying it was fulfilling
A kind o’ warning to me.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying him and me――
Yes! that was the reason, whatever was given
In that city by the sea,
Why the fusilier spirit came out a-killing
My still-swilling Hannibal Leigh.
But I drink all the longer and drink it more strong,
For the two, for I drink like three,――
For myself once and twice for Leigh;
And no fusil here nor in heaven along,
Nor spirit down under the sea,
Shall ever dissever our drinks to do wrong
To the spirit of Hannibal Leigh.
For whenever I drink I endeavour to think,
I am drinking with Hannibal Leigh;
And my hand never raise but to drink to the praise
Of my drink-Kaiser Hannibal Leigh;
And in all the night tide I hold on to the side
Of the counter, the counter where Hannibal died;
And I think that I Hannibal see
And I’m Hannibal, Hannibal’s me.
――――:o:――――
RAVING.[16]
Once upon a midnight, weary,
As I maundered, gin-and-beery,
O’er an oft-repeated story,
Till my friends thought me a bore――
Sitting weeping, and half sleeping,
Something set my flesh a-creeping,
And I saw a Raven peeping
Through my room’s unopen’d door.
“See that Raven,” said I to them,
“Trying to get through the door,――
A Black Raven――nothing more?”
Now, I was not drunk, but weary,
For my head was out-of-geary
With close study of quaint volumes,
Curious in forgotten lore;
(Though they said delirium tremens)
I’d been reading bits of Hemans,
And some leaves of Jacob Behmen’s,
Two or three――perhaps a score;
And I said――“It is a Raven
Rampant just outside the door――
Striding through,” I said――and swore.
I insisted, and I twisted,
And resisted and persisted
Though they held me and, close-fisted,
Saw no Raven at the door:
I forgot all I had read of,
For that ill bird took my head off,
Like a coffin lid of lead off
The dead brain of one no more.
Would I trust their words instead of
What I saw right through the door?
Through the door,――I said――and swore.
Yes! it is a Raven surely,
Though he does look so demurely
Like a doctor come to assure me
I am drunk: Not so,――I swore.
Drunk? I drunk? I’ve not been drinking;
I’m but overcome with thinking;
There I saw that Raven winking
In the middle of the floor.
Doctor! there’s the Raven rampant
In the middle of the floor;
He has hopp’d straight through the door.
Look! his curst wings brush the dust off
That fallen, broken, batter’d bust of
Psyche,――where it lies in the shadow,
Shatter’d flung down on the floor.
See! he spurns the broken pieces.
Catch him, Doctor! When he ceases
He will rend me. Past release is――
Nothing! Nothing on the floor?
Yes! The Psyche lies in the shadow,
Lieth shatter’d on the floor――
To be lifted nevermore.
――――:o:――――
THE MONSTER MAGGOT.[17]
A Poet! With never a single theme
Of glory or delight;
He folds his wings for a gloomy dream
Of death, despair, bedight;
And, willing not that Beauty use
His wilderness of soul,
He chooseth, for his daintier muse
Raven or Ghoul.
And now a “Conqueror Worm” he sings,
A blood-red crawling shape,
Invisible woe from its condor wings
Out-flapping, all agape;
While angels bewing’d, bedight in veils,
Watch mumbling mimes, with tears,
In a play, where a maniac, Horror, wails
To the music of the spheres.
The play is the play of Human Woes,
Of Madness, Sin, and Death!
There is nothing else the Poet knows
God’s azure sky beneath,
But Madness, Horror, and Sin
Death and Sorrow, and Wrong:
Even so doth the singer begin,
So ends his song.
“It writhes”――the Worm――“with mortal pangs
“The mimes become its food;
“And the angels sob at vermin fangs
“In human gore imbued,”
This monster terrible, formless, huge,
Means――put in plainest terms:
Our Poet needs a vermifuge.
The child’s disease is _worms_.
POETIC FRAGMENTS.
PART OF AN UNFINISHED GHOUL――POEM――
Said _we_ then――the two, then――Ah! can it
Have been that the woodlandish Ghouls――
The pitiful, the merciful Ghouls,
To bar up our way and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds――
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds――
Have drawn up the spectre of a planet,
From the limbo of lunary souls――
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the hell of the planetary souls?
――――:o:――――
POT-POURRI.
“A Rosemary odour
“Commingled with pansies――
“With rue:”――
Your poet has fancies.
But methinks such an odour
Were odious to more than a few.
――――:o:――――
UNDER LINES.
_On a Poet’s Tomb._
Tomb’d in dishonor! Not like thine own Ghoul
Have I thus dug thee out, Unhappy One!
For critical devouring; but some words
Writ heedlessly above thee call for words
Of answering rebuke. If Israfel
In heaven needs his own heart-strings for his lyre――
The only organ of harmonious worth――
Shall not earth’s poet? And if he be weak,
Rent by ill memories, harsh with sour desire,
Untunable, rejoicing not in good,
Can aught but discord issue? Speech absurd
Of “art for art’s sake!” when art is not art
Out of the circles of the universe,
Out of the song of the eternities,
Or unfit to attend the ear of God.
My mocking words aim at, not thee, but those
Who would strain praise for thee, disgracing Truth.
[CONCLUSION OF POT-POURRI.]
[Illustration]
The Art Of Parody.
Many good and honest souls, neither prigs nor pedants, are disposed to
look with suspicion on the parody. They are not incapable of
appreciating its good points; they will even allow it, when it is so,
to be very good fun of its kind; but it is the _kind_ they cannot away
with. Nor are they always of that sort――a numerous and flourishing
sort in our day――which, being itself one monstrous parody, is
naturally prone to look with dislike on all who are blessed――or
cursed, as some would say――with a sense of the ridiculous. But they
regard it as an abuse of the gifts both of nature and of art; as apt
to degrade and vulgarize what should really elevate and refine; as
itself intrinsically an injustice; and, indeed, the more unjust as it
is the more skilful.
There is so much both of justice and reason in this dislike that one
cannot but respect it, though seeing how unreasonably it may be pushed
and how unjust it may become. It is based, primarily, of course, upon
sentiment――but it is a sentiment, in its original shape, both
honourable and true. The word sentiment has come in these days to have
a ridiculous twang in our ears partly through the silly and perverted
uses to which the thing itself is too often applied, and partly
through a confusion between the two qualities, _sentiment_ and
_sentimentality_, which may best be distinguished perhaps by defining
the latter as the abuse of the former. It is sentiment which leads us
to mark the houses where great men have been born or lived; it is
sentiment which leads us to gaze with reverent admiration on that
place of honour in the British Museum wherein are enshrined the
handwritings of so many of our illustrious dead; all the care we take
to preserve the memorials of the past is inspired by sentiment. But it
is a sentiment which every right-thinking man would be far more
ashamed to miss than to share. It is a very different feeling, for
example, from that which induced a young lady on the other side of the
world to preserve under a glass case the cherry-stones which she had
snatched from the plate of a Royal Duke; it is a very different
feeling from that which induces so many pious souls to play such
fantastic tricks at the knees of living men. This objection, then we
are not disposed in the first instance to quarrel with, especially as
most of the so-called parodies, burlesques, or “perversions” of to-day
are certainly bad enough to cover even a greater intolerance. They are
bad both in art and tactics. They deal too often with subjects which
should be kept free even from the most good-natured ridicule, and they
deal with them clumsily. There is a sort of mind to whom every
success, however lawfully and honourably gained, is sufficient cause
for mockery; the higher a great figure towers above their heads the
more active are their monkeyish gambols at its feet. The living and
the dead are alike the objects of their impish regard, and if they
perhaps enjoy a livelier pleasure in the thought of the irritation
they can cause to the living, they seem to share a peculiar
satisfaction in showing themselves superior to any feeling of
reverence for the dead――to say nothing of the fact that in the latter
case the game is apt to be a little the safest. The most part of
mankind will sooner laugh at their more successful fellows than try to
imitate, or, at least, to respect them; it is easy, then, to
understand why the most witless and illiberal parody will never want
an audience.
Nevertheless, the parody in itself is not only capable of increasing
the gaiety of nations by perfectly harmless and legitimate means, but
can also, when properly handled and directed, be made to play the part
of a chastener and instructor. It has been often said that to parody a
writer is really to pay a compliment to his popularity; and this is so
far true that no one would think it worth his while to parody any work
which was not tolerably well known, for half the point of any
imitation must always lie in the readiness with which its resemblance
to the original is recognized; if the original be not known the
imitation must necessarily fall flat. No really good writer was ever
injured by a parody; few, we may suppose, have ever been annoyed by
one. No one, for example, was more quick to recognize the cleverness
and laugh at the fun of “A Tale of Drury Lane” in the _Rejected
Addresses_ than Scott himself; Crabbe, though he thought there was a
little “undeserved ill-nature” in the prefatory address owned that in
the versification of “The Theatre” he had been “done admirably.” On
the other hand, we can fancy that Messieurs Fitzgerald and Spencer saw
very little fun or wit, or anything but “undeserved ill-nature” in
“The Loyal Effusion” and “The Beautiful Incendiary.” The paradoxical
saying attributed to Shaftesbury, which so puzzled and irritated
Carlyle, that ridicule is the test of truth, finds its true
explanation in his real words, “A subject which will not bear raillery
is suspicious.” Nothing good was ever destroyed by raillery; where it
plays the part of iconoclast, the images it breaks are the images of
false gods. Nay, and even to the true it may sometimes prove of
service. It may gently admonish, for instance, the best and most
established writer, when, from haste, from carelessness, from
over-confidence, he is in danger of forfeiting his reputation; it may
gently lead the tiro, while there is yet time, from the wrong into the
right path. Nor on writers only may it be exercised with advantage.
All men who have in any capacity become, as it were, the property of
the public may by its means be warned that they are trespassing too
far on their popularity, that they are in danger of becoming not only
ridiculous themselves, but harmful to others; for every strong man who
presumes upon his strength is capable of becoming a source of injury
to his weaker brethren. We do not say that its lessons are always, or
even often, taken to heart; but that does not detract from their
possible virtue. If such a plea were allowed, what, in the name of
humanity, would become of so many of us? What would become of our
lawyers, our statesmen, our philosophers, our doctors, our policemen,
our――appalling thought!――our critics, if the failure of their
endeavours to set and to keep their erring brethren in the straight
path were to be taken as a right reason for their abolition? Their
resistance to error may seem hopeless, may be often ineffectual, but
not for that should they abandon it; rather should they cry, with the
author of _Obermann_, “Let us die resisting.”
But whatever may be the moral virtue of a parody, there can be no
question that to show any reason for its existence at all it must be
very good. There is nothing in the world so pitiful as poor fun, and a
bad parody is perhaps the poorest kind of fun. In his review of the
famous _Addresses_, Jeffrey discussed the various sorts of parody at
some length, and with a good deal of acuteness, distinguishing between
the mere imitation of externals, mere personal imitation, so to
speak――and that higher and rarer art which brings before us the
intellectual characteristics of the original. “A vulgar mimic,” he
says, “repeats a man’s cant phrases and known stories, with an exact
imitation of his voice, look, and gestures; but he is an artist of a
far higher description who can make stories or reasonings in his
manner, and represents the features and movements of his mind as well
as the accidents of his body. It is a rare feat to be able to borrow
the diction and manner of a celebrated writer to express sentiments
like his own――to write as he would have written on the subject
proposed to his imitator――to think his thoughts, in short, as well as
to use his words――and to make the revival of his style appear a
natural consequence of the strong conception of his peculiar ideas.”
And he goes on, “The exact imitation of a good thing, it must be
admitted, promises fair to be a pretty good thing in itself; but if
the resemblance be very striking, it commonly has the additional
advantage of letting us more completely into the secret of the
original author, and enabling us to understand far more clearly in
what the peculiarity of his manner consists, than most of us would
ever have done without this assistance.” Jeffrey here carries the
parody into the regions of very high art indeed, if he does not, as we
are rather inclined to think he does, lay more upon its shoulders than
it can bear. In a note to the same review, when reprinted in the
collected edition of his essays, he remarks of these _Addresses_ that
“some few of them descend to the level of parodies, but by far the
greater part are of a much higher description;” from which it would
seem that he draws a distinction between a parody and something “of a
much higher description,” which we must confess to being a little in
the dark about, unless it be an imitation, and that we should be
disposed to rank very much below a good parody. Many of our minor
bards, for example, have produced extraordinarily close imitations of
Mr. Swinburne’s style; but we should certainly rank these far below a
clever parody, such a one, for instance, as that on _Locksley Hall_ in
the “Bon Gaultier Ballads,”[18] or as Mr. Calverley’s inimitable “The
Cock and the Bull,” or “Lovers,” and “A Reflection.” No better
imitations, both of style and substance, have ever been written in
prose than Thackeray’s “Codlingsby” and “George de Barnwell;” but they
are most unquestionably parodies. Indeed it is hard to see what virtue
there can be in an imitation which is not also a parody――that is, as
we take it, a consciously exaggerated imitation; an imitation which is
not that, surely, instead of, as Jeffrey says, descending to the level
of a parody, goes near to descend to the much lower level of a
plagiarism.
If we wished to distinguish between the parody designed to ridicule
and that designed only to amuse, we should be inclined to say that,
while the latter contents itself with an imitation of the style, the
former aims also at an imitation of the thought and substance. In the
parodies we have noticed, for example, Thackeray unquestionably
intended to ridicule the authors of _Eugene Aram_ and _Coningsby_.
Both their subjects and the manner of handling those subjects seemed
to him such as deserved ridicule and he ridiculed them accordingly, as
no one but Thackeray could. On the other hand, we do not for a moment
suppose that the clever Oxford parodist who sang the labours and
ultimate triumph of “Adolphus Smalls of Boniface” intended to ridicule
Macaulay. He took _The Lays of Ancient Rome_ as his model, because
they were more familiar probably to his readers than any other form of
verse, and because their external characteristics were most easy to
reproduce. We read such lines as――
Now thickly and more thickly
To the Five Orders gates,
In cap and gown throng through the town
White-chokered candidates.
Stunner of Christ Church, ne’er before
In academics seen;
And Nobby of the collars high,
Girt with the scarf none else may tie;
Loud-trowsered Boozer, stripes and all;
And whiskered Tomkins from the hall
Of seedy Magdalene;
or as――
They gave him his _testamur_,
Which was a passman’s right;
He was more than three examiners
Could plough from morn to night,――
we read such lines, and laugh at them without feeling that any
injustice is done to Macaulay. Again, when we read of another and less
fortunate sufferer,――in the schools of Cambridge this time――how
In the crown of his cap
Were the Furies and Fates,
And a delicate map
Of the Dorian States;
And they found on his palms, which were dirty,
What is frequent on palms――that is dates――[19]
we entirely acquit the writer of any design to laugh at Mr. Bret
Harte. In both these cases the parodies are really no more than proofs
of the universal popularity of the writers parodied. But when we read
in _Rejected Addresses_ the parodies on Wordsworth and Coleridge, we
feel that the writers were intentionally casting ridicule on certain
trivialities, certain commonplaces both of diction and thought, to
which these great men did occasionally sink.
It seems to us, also, that Jeffrey has rated the virtue of _sound_ in
a parody too low――which is, perhaps, only to say that he rates the
whole art of parody higher than we do. Surely it is an essential of
this sort of imitation that the words should strike the ear with the
very echo of the original. For this reason the specimens we have
quoted seem to us so particularly good; and for the same reason, with
the exception of the “Lay of the Lovelorn,” the clever ballads of Bon
Gaultier do not seem to us to really come under the definition of
parodies at all. And it is this quality which gives the point to Mr.
Bromley Davenport’s “Lowesby Hall.”[20] In such lines as
these――though, indeed, the whole parody is so good that selection is
difficult――it is the _sound_ which does everything, but how inimitably
it does it!――
Here at least I’ll stay no longer, let me seek for some abode,
Deep in some provincial country far from rail or turnpike road;
There to break all links of habit, and to find a secret charm
In the mysteries of manuring and the produce of a farm.
To deplore the fall of barley, to admire the rise of peas,
Over flagons of October, giant mounds of bread and cheese;
Never company to dinner, never visitors from town,
Just the Parson and the Doctor (Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown).
Droops the heavy conversation to an after-dinner snort,
And articulation dwindles with the second flask of port.
We are very far from saying that parody is a matter of sound only; to
borrow a well-known line,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
But certainly it strikes us as being a very important point, and we
doubt whether any really clever parody ever was written, or ever will
be, in which it does not play a conspicuous part, if not the most
conspicuous. And this, perhaps, is the reason why those greatest works
of poetry, where the style strikes one as the natural and inevitable
vehicle of the thought, are really above the reach of parody; why all
attempts to parody them, however clever, lose their cleverness in the
larger consciousness of bad taste. But to place all parodies under
this ban is surely unreasonable. It is unreasonable, as depriving the
world of a great deal of harmless amusement, and also, as we have
said, of a method, often more truly efficacious than more serious
castigation, of exposing incompetence and affectation.
_The Saturday Review_, February 14, 1885.
[Illustration]
Miss Ann Taylor’s “My Mother.”
MY MOTHER.
Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush’d me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My Mother.
When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet hushaby,
And rock’d me that I should not cry?
My Mother.
Who sat and watched my infant head,
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My Mother.
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.
Who dress’d my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?
My Mother.
Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother.
Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God’s holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way?
My Mother.
And can I ever cease to be,
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was’t so very kind to me,
My Mother?
Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,
My Mother.
When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My Mother.
And when I see thee hang thy head,
’Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,
My Mother.
For God, who lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance in His eyes,
If I should ever dare despise
My Mother.
_The Athenæum_ of May 12, 1866, contained a note speaking favorably of
the general tone of the poem “My Mother,” but stating that it was
spoilt by the last verse, in which the only reason given why a child
should not despise its mother is _the fear of God’s vengeance_. The
writer proposed that Mr. Tennyson should be asked to compose a final
verse more in accordance with the sentiments contained in the
preceding lines.
In the following number of _The Athenæum_ (May 19, 1866), appeared a
reply from the authoress of “My Mother,” then a very old lady:――
COLLEGE HILL, NOTTINGHAM,
_May_ 15, 1866.
“Allow me to thank your Correspondent of last Saturday for
both his praise and blame; I am grateful for one and confess
to the other, in his notice of a little poem――‘My Mother,’
of which I was the author, it may be something more than
sixty years ago. I see now, so much as he does, though _not
in all its implications_, that, should another edition pass
through the press, I will take care that the offending verse
shall be omitted; or, as I may hope (without troubling the
Laureate), replaced. I have regarded our good old
theologian, Dr. Watts, as nearly our only predecessor in
verses for children; and his name――a name I revere――I may
perhaps plead in part, though not so far as to accept now,
what did not strike me as objectionable then. There has been
an illustrated edition of our ‘Original Poems’ recently
published by Mr. Virtue, and I am sorry to see it retained
there; but, as still the living author, I have sufficient
right to expunge it.
“Possibly you may have heard the names of Ann and Jane
Taylor, of whom _I_ am the _Ann_; and remain, yours, &c.,
ANN GILBERT.”
The Editor added: “She sends us the following alteration of the
verse:――
For could our Father in the skies,
Look down with pleased or loving eyes,
If ever I could dare despise,
My Mother?”
This suggested alteration, does not, however, remove the objectionable
word “despise,” which is utterly absurd as applied to such a mother as
the poem describes.
It may be added that the original last verse is still very generally
printed with the poem.
The history of the poem was thus given in that valuable storehouse of
literary facts, “Notes and Queries,” in August 30, 1884.
“In 1798, Ann Taylor, then residing with her family in
Colchester, aged about sixteen, made a purchase of _A
Minor’s Pocket-Book_, a periodical published by Harvey and
Darton, 55, Gracechurch Street, London. This contained
enigmas, and the solutions of previous ones, and poetical
pieces to which prizes were adjudged. Fired with enthusiasm,
she set to work, and unravelled enigma, charade, and rebus,
and forwarded the results under the signature of
‘Juvenilia.’ They were successful, and obtained the first
prize――six pocket-books. She continued her contributions for
some years, at first anonymously, assisted by her younger
sister Jane, and subsequently she became the editor during
twelve or fourteen years, up to the time of her marriage in
1813.
“On July 1, 1803, Darton and Harvey wrote requesting some
specimens of easy poetry for young children. The letter
proceeds: ‘If something in the way of moral songs (though
not songs) or short tales turned into verse, or――but I need
not dictate. What would be most likely to please little
minds must be well known to every one of those who have
written such pieces as we have already seen from thy
family,’ &c. Their father (Isaac Taylor, afterwards of
Ongar) did not quite approve of the proceeding, remarking,
‘I do not want my girls to become authors.’
“The commission was undertaken by the two sisters, and, at
the end of 1803, a small volume appeared, with the title,
_Original Poems for Infant Minds_, by several Young Persons.
The work did not consist exclusively of the Taylor
contributions. Ann remarks, ‘Having written to order, we had
no control over the getting out of the volumes, and should
have been better pleased if contributions from other hands
had been omitted.’ The sisters received five pounds for the
first volume, which succeeded so well that a commission was
given in November, 1804, for a second volume, for which they
were paid another five pounds. It is in the first volume
that ‘My Mother,’ entirely written by Ann, appears.
“Jane Taylor continued to devote herself to literature until
her decease, in April, 1824, at the age of forty-one. Ann
married the Rev. Joseph Gilbert, in December, 1813, and
withdrew from literary work for the rest of her life, except
very occasionally. This is much to be regretted, as she
possessed rare talents; many of the most popular poems
usually ascribed to Jane having been really written by Ann.
Mrs. Gilbert survived to a happy and honoured old age, and
died Dec. 20, 1866, within a month of the completion of her
eighty-fifth year.
“Only a fortnight before her death she wrote, ‘You remember
that in May last there was a discussion in the _Athenæum_ on
my poem, ‘My Mother,’ which surprised everybody as an
announcement and advertisement of my continued existence, so
that the Post Office has gained all but a revenue from
letters addressed to me, which, kindly complimentary as they
are, I have, of course, had to answer.’
“The above brief notices of an estimable member of a
talented family may not be without interest in connexion
with the poem to which allusion has been made.
“Sandyknowe, Wavertree. J. A. PICTON.”