A READING MAN._Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. II

“One whose mind is devoted to nothing else but the study of

Mathematics; one who, though naturally, perhaps, of a peacable, quiet

temper, and disposition, so congenial to study, yet whose highest

ambition is to be accounted the greatest WRANGLER in the university!”

Hence, loathed MATHEMATICS!

Of lecturer and blackest tutor born,

In lecture-room forlorn,

Mongst horrid quizzes, bloods, and bucks unholy;

Find out some uncouth cell,

Where pallid study spreads his midnight wings,

And dismal ditties sings;

There, mid’st unhallow’d souls, with sapless brain,

Compose thy sober train,

And in the mind of READING Quizzes dwell

From _Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_, by a Brace of Cantabs, London, John

Hearne, 1824.

――――:o:――――

A SEASIDE SONNET.

_After Milton-Oysters._

How jaunty the jelly-fish frolic and roar,

How wildly the winkles express their delight,

Though ROBINSON CRUSOE would frown in affright.

On the footprints, by ocean all foam fizzled o’er,

Of an amber-shod maiden who looks to the Nore,

And heeds not her havoc――for heaving in sight

Is a barque, and on board her belovèd,――but “tight”

As never was British belovèd before.’

Alas! for that maiden awaiting her mate――

She knew not the ways of the sons of the wave,

When she bade him go ride at a rollicking rate

O’er the billow that bounds; and she knows not her brave

Hath struggled with “swipes” and sea sickness and fate,

Till gone with his “grub” is the joy that she gave.

_Judy_, September 8, 1880.

[Illustration]

JOHN DRYDEN’S EPIGRAM ON MILTON

Three Poets, in three distant ages born,

Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn:

The First in loftiness of thought surpassed;

The Next in majesty; in both the LAST.

The force of Nature could no farther go:

To make a third, she joined the former two.

――――:o:――――

The following parody is taken from “The Caricature History of the Four

Georges,” p. 219, where a full account will be found of the characters

referred to in it:

Three great wise men in the same era born,

Britannia’s happy island did adorn.

Henley in cure of souls displayed his skill,

Rock shone in physic, and in both John Hill;

The force of nature could no farther go,

To make a third she join’d the other two.

“Orator” Henley, and Rock, a noted quack doctor, were well known men,

Dr. John Hill was a surgeon, a botanist, an unprincipled satirical

writer, an actor, and finally a dramatic author, in which latter

character his want of success caused Garrick to remark:――

“For physic and farces, his equal there scarce is:

His farces are physic, his physic a farce is.”

Hill was knighted through the favour of Lord Bute, and died in 1775.

――――:o:――――

On page 156, Parodies, the Shakespearian forgeries of W. H. Ireland

were referred to, they gave rise to many bitter caricatures and

satires. Amongst others appeared the following parody, by some

ascribed to William Mason, by others to Steevens.

“Four forgers[53], born in one prolific age,

Much critical acumen did engage:

The first was soon by Doughty Douglas scar’d,

Tho’ Johnson would have screen’d him had he dar’d.

The next had all the cunning of a Scot,

The third, invention, genius――nay, what not?

Fraud now exhausted, only could dispense

To her fourth Son their threefold impudence.”

It is said that Ireland was so enraged at this publication that he

broke the shop windows where it was exposed for sale.

――――:o:――――

In the days of Daniel O’Connell beards were not usually worn, and in

the House of Commons, Col. Sibthorp, M.P. for Lincoln, was the only

member who wore one. O’Connell, wishing to retort to some attacks made

on him by Colonel Sibthorp, Col. Verner, M.P. for Armagh County, and

Col. Gore, M.P. for Sligo county, composed the following parody:――

“Three colonels in three distant counties born,

Armagh, Sligo, and Lincoln did adorn;

The first in direct bigotry surpass’d,

The next in impudence, in both the last.

The force of nature could no farther go,

To beard the third she shaved the other two.”

This version is taken from “Notes and Queries” of February 24, 1883,

but the Athenæum, in quoting the lines, said they referred to Cols.

Verner, Percival, and Sibthorp, thus omitting Col. Gore; whilst

another paper named three totally different constituencies:

“Three members, in three distant counties born,

Cork, Clare, and Tipperary did adorn:

The first in strength of impudence surpassed;

The next in lying; and in both the last.

The force of Nature could no further go――

To beard the third, she shaved the former two.”

――――:o:――――

A PEN-SIVE THOUGHT.

Three Pens for three essential virtues famed,

The _Pickwick_, _Owl_, and _Waverley_ were named,

The first in flexibility surpassed,

In ease the next, in elegance the last.

These points, united with attractions new,

Have yielded other boons, the _Phæton_ and _Hindoo_.

_Advertisement._

――――:o:――――

THE MEMORIAL FUNDS.

(_Mr. Punch’s Contribution._)

HEMANS. HALLAM. HOGG.

Three H’s, in three different countries born,

Hibernia, Albion, Caledon adorn.

The first in gentlest Poesy surpassed,

The next in Justice, Humour claims the last.

Send tribute to the Name most dear to you,

But, reader, don’t neglect the other two.

_Punch_, April 7, 1860.

――――:o:――――

The Editor of _Truth_ selected Dryden’s Epigram as the model for a

parody competition, and the replies were published in that paper on

March 27, 1884. They were very numerous, the following have been

selected from amongst them, as being the best parodies, on the most

interesting topics:――

Three brightest blessings of this thirsty race,

(Whence sprung and when I don’t propose to trace);

Pale brandy, potent spirit of the night,

Brisk soda, welcome when the morn is bright;

To make the third combine the other two,

The force of Nature can no further go.

SEXTON.

――――――――

Three wishes granted to a jolly tar,

Who east, and west, and south had travelled far.

First, “grog enough to float a fleet!” The next

Was, “all the baccy in the world!” Perplext,

Imagination could no further go;

“More grog and baccy!” was the final throw.

GUINEA PIG.

――――――――

Three Generals in three different counties born,

England, Madras, Suakin did adorn.

The first in science and success surpassed;

The next in timely dash; in all the last

The force of nature could no further go,

To frame[54] the third she joined the other two.

CAPTAIN ROCK.

――――――――

Athenian quidnuncs when they wished to fill

Their ears with gossip hastened to Mars’ Hill;

Whilst Romans (ever destitute of humour)

Denounced it as the lying tongues of Rumour.

Wiser than either, modern wit, forsooth,

Sells it for sixpence, and proclaims it TRUTH.

LONG LANE.

――――――――

Three coxcombs in three recent ages born,

France, Cambria, and England did adorn;

The first for cut and fit[55] was Fashion’s glass,

The next in mould of form[56] none could surpass;

Then Nature, travailing, with cunning tool,

Joined Form and Fashion[57] in the third, a fool.

OBSERVER.

――――――――

Three champion bats in distant counties born,

Kent, Nottingham, and Gloucester did adorn;

The first in strong defensive drives surpassed,

The next in grand leg-hits, in both the last.

Old England’s genius could no further go;

Australia boasts the champion batsman now.

HEGIRA.

――――――――

Three insects fell amid fair summer’s joy,

England and other countries do annoy;

The first is felt, alas! not seen nor heard;

The next seen, heard, and felt; but oh! the third!

Ferocious nature could no fiercer grow,

Joined midge and gnat to make the mosquito.

MORDECAI.

――――――――

Three nations’ emblems in one posy twined――

Shamrock and thistle with the rose combined!

One humour hath, one shrewdness for her dower;

The third with both endowed, plus wealth and power!

E’en Nature’s self, will own herself outdone

When (happy exploit!) all are blent in one!

THE WHITE LILY.

――――――――

Three “savants” in this nineteenth century born

Have racked our brains with ethics night and morn;

One tunes his harp to sound in many ears;[58]

The next knows all, yet knows not what he fears.[59]

Exhausted nature felt her forces sink――

To make a third she found the “Missing Link.”[60]

ROSBEG.

――――――――

Three young men in distant cities born,

Did Paris, London, and New York adorn;

The first, a beau, in manners far surpassed,

The dandy next, in dress outdid the last;

The force of nature could no further go,

To make a Masher joined the other two.

DEUX NIGAUDS.

――――:o:――――

POLITICAL.

Three party leaders――Gladstone, Stafford North-

Cote, and for third the leader of the “fourth;”

the first in majesty of speech surpassed,

The next in courtesy, in nil the last.

Exhausted nature could no further go,

She’d spent her powers on the other two.

MIGGLES.

――――:o:――――

Three members as three trusty Jingoes sworn,

Eye, Bridport town, and Woodstock did adorn;

The first in rabidness of talk surpassed,

The next in idiocy, in both the last.

The force of Madness could no further go――

To make a third she joined the other two.

ARAMIS.

――――――――

Three leaders ’mong the Opposition stand,

Two with a “dual control” do guide that band,

The first, a haughty lord with fire doth speak,

The next, less eloquent, is mild and meek.

For long the Tories could no better show,

But now the last[61] will oust the other two.

ALFRED.

――――――――

Three Statesmen in our happy island dwell,

S. N. and C.――their names I may not tell.

The first a nobleman of high degree;

The next a commoner; each chief would be.

The force of folly could no higher go

Than that the third should try to be it too.

DRYASDUST.

――――――――

Three statesmen from three different hamlets sent,

Eye, Woodstock, Bridport, fitly represent;

The first excels in universal lore,

The next in impudence, the last a bore.

The force of nature nothing more could do,

’Twould have been merciful to make but two.

NEDYRD.

――――――――

Three statesmen wish to lead the Tory crowd;

The first’s a gartered Marquis, thundering loud,

His temper fiery as the days in June;

Then comes a courteous, mild, old pantaloon;

The third’s too saucy, and too full of cheek.

Name thy successor――shade of Dizzy speak!

W. A. P.

――――――――

Three Statesmen with three different “fads,” were born,

Two still our blood-stained Cabinet adorn;

The first in felling trees and men surpassed,

The next in frothy speech, Caucus the last.

Britannia’s patience can no further go,

For Will, and Jack, are “not a patch” on Joe!

J. MCGRIGOR ALLAN.

――――――――

Three statesmen in the age now waning born,

France, Germany, and England did adorn;

The first in wit and eloquence surpassed,

The next in statesmanship, in all the last;

For Nature in her gifts had been so free,

To make a third she had to join the three.

H. MARSH GREEN.

――――――――

Three Statesmen, by three rival parties sent,

North Devon, Cork, Midlothian, represent;

The first on apathy his censure cast,

The next on energy――on both the last.

Now hot, now cold, in doubt Dame Nature ran,

And mixed the two to form the Grand Old Man.

BRUM ROGERS.

――――――――

Three Irishmen on England’s downfall bent,

Cork, Monaghan, and Cavan represent;

The first delights in treasonable word,

The next in spitefulness, in both the third;

Though first and second as big traitors figure,

Nature has made the last and least a Biggar.

INDICUS.

――――――――

Three statesmen now the Tory party head――

Salisbury and Stafford, Randolph, too, ’tis said.

The first in weak verbosity surpassed,

The next in nothing, in untruths the last.

Nature was “stumped,” for join them as she can,

Out of the three she’ll never make a man.

ACTION FRONT.

――――――――

Three statesmen in one lucky cycle born,

Bucks, Lothian, and Woodstock did adorn;

The first in epigram and schemes surpassed,

The next in home affairs, in both the last.

The force of nature could no further go,

To make a third she joined the other two.

TIMON.

――――――――

Three members, at three different moments born,

The British House of Commons now adorn;

The first in “impudence” none can surpass,

The next would rob us of a “friendly glass;”

The third, to many known as “faithless Jo,”

Is “Biggar” far than both the other two.

GUELDER ROSE.

――――――――

Three leaders, in the nineteenth century born,

The Tories of the present time adorn.

For flouts and sneers Lord Salisbury’s not surpassed;

But Stafford’s slow and cautious to the last.

The force of nature could no further go――

To Churchill make she joined the other two.

MERCURY MAKER.

――――――――

Three Tories in two neighbouring Chambers placed,

Lords, Commons, and a “Four-in-hand” team graced;

The first in fire of eloquence surpassed,

The next in doggedness, in both the last;[62]

But bigger bodies nature could not grow――

To make the third she dwarfed the other two.

F. A. SW.

――――――――

Three parties did our Parliament adorn,

Whigs, Parnellites, and Tories (bigots born!)

The first verbose exuberance ne’er lack’d,

The next, when noisy, by the third were sack’d;

The force of nature could yet further go,

And made a “Fourth,” frail, frivolous, and few.

BEAUTIFUL SAM.

――――――――

SIR WILFRID LAWSON.

Three noodles in two distant countries born,

Iberia and England did adorn;

In one Quixote the Don――consummate ass!

In t’other――Colonel Sibthorpe did surpass;

The force of folly could no further go,

To make a third, she join’d the other two.

GRACE.

――――:o:――――

PITT. FOX. GLADSTONE.

Three famous statesmen by our England bred,

In turn her senate’s van have ably led;

The first in wealth of eloquence did shine,

The next in lore, the third doth these combine;

Last in succession, foremost in degree,

The Premier of Prime Ministers is he.

IVY GREEN.

――――:o:――――

DRAMATIC.

IRVING, BANCROFT, AND TOOLE.

Three actors on three London stages play,

Who, by their art, wile many hours away;

The first in tragedy is unsurpassed;

The next in comedy; in farce the last.

Tho’ Nature _works_ by neither line nor rule,

Whene’er at _play_ she needs must have a Toole.

JACK.

――――――――

Three actors on three different stages known――

Toole, Sullivan, and Irving thus are shown.

The first in comedy, his “forte” was cast;

The next in tragedy; in both the last;

And captious critics, here and o’er the main,

Admire, condemn, then praise him up again.

CRYSTAL PALACE.

――――――――

Three players in the lap of Genius born,

France, Italy, and England each adorn,

The first in brilliancy of style surpassed;

The next in dignity――in power the last.

Dramatic Art, when pressed to further go,

To make an “Irving” joined the other two.

SIVA.

――――――――

Three managers, the glory of our age,

Delight the patrons of the British stage.

High art to scenic glory Irving marries,

Extravaganza finds her home with Harris.

Whilst Wilson Barrett――enterprising man――

Combines them both, and gives us Claudian.

LA NINA.

――――――――

Three lovely women grace the modern stage,

A perfect face and form make one[63] the rage;

And one,[64] depicting passions strong or sweet,

Brings thousands breathless, spell bound to her feet.

Nature, by stint, to mar perfection loth,

Upon the last[65] has showered the charms of both.

_Truth, March_ 27, 1884.

[Illustration]

Matthew Arnold,

(_Born at Laleham, near Staines, December_ 24, 1822.)

――――――――

In 1879 the Editor of _The World_ commenced a series of Prize Parody

Competitions, the sixth of which had for its subject “Mr. Charles

Warner in _Drink_,” and the poem chosen as the model was Matthew

Arnold’s Sonnet on George Cruikshank’s picture, “The Bottle.”

The first and second prizes were awarded to V.A.C.A. and FESS-GULES,

and two other parodies were also printed.

Matthew Arnold’s original sonnet is here given, followed by the

parodies, which appeared in _The World_, August 20, 1879.

TO GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

On seeing, in the Country, his Picture of “The Bottle.”

Artist, whose hand, with horror winged hath torn

From the rank life of towns this leaf! and flung

The prodigy of full-blown crime among

Valleys and men to middle fortune born,

Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn――

Say, what shall calm us, when such guests intrude,

Like comets on the heavenly solitude?

Shall breathless glades, cheered by shy Dian’s horn,

Cold-bubbling springs, or caves! Not so! The soul

Breasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says:

‘Why tremble? True, the nobleness of man

May be by man effaced; man can control

To pain, to death, the bent of his own days.

Know thou the worst! So much, not more, he _can_.’

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

FIRST PRIZE.

Actor, whose horror-moving power hath been

The wonder of the town this many a night――

A realistic prodigy, delight

Of those who from the upper galleries lean,

Eager to watch that dread delirium scene,――

Say, what exciting thing’s similitude

Upon our startled stage will next intrude,

And make us breathless? Dion’s fair Colleen,

Half-drowning in the cave? Not so; the gods

Now loudly clamour for some fiercer play

More horrors! True, the drama’s noble plan

May be by such defaced; but what’s the odds?

Let pain and death be mimicked, if they pay:

Degrade us more not even Zola can!

(V. AMCOTTS.) V.A.C.A.

――――――――

SECOND PRIZE.

Actor, whose art, with horror clothed, hath torn

From rank Parisian life this leaf, and flung

This portraiture of loathsome curse among

Women and men in calmer Britain born,

Not guiltless of excess, yet not quite lorn

Of decent instincts,――what shall calm us, say,

When ghastly sights like these brood o’er our way?

Shall _Corneville’s_ hackneyed chimes, or jokes well worn

From _Pinafore_? Not so! Each reasoning soul

Speaks for itself, and, fiercely shuddering, says,

‘Why nauseate us thus? The drama’s plan

May be to paint vice black; but, O, control

Of pain and death these sickening displays!

_Can_ they do good? We know that _harm_ they can.’

FESS-GULES.

(GOYMOUR CUTHBERT., A.R.I.B.A.)

――――――――

Artist in acting, who hast seized a part

From the black dens of Paris for your own,

Wherein the perfect work of drink is shown

To eager lookers shivering at heart――

Some drunken, none too brutalised to start,――

Can subtlest skill excuse the hideous tale,

And fine perception calm the inner wail,

In breathless watching of victorious art

And well-trained imitation? Nay, the soul

Is wroth at last, and, strained too greatly, cries,

‘Record it not! Man that was made so fair

Can sink below all apedom, till control

Of self is lost, and soul and body dies;

But mimicry of this we will not bear.’

NOCTURNE.

――――――――

Actor, whose art, like a fell grapnel, drags

Down on the bottom of the stream of crime,

Sinks and returns, producing every time

Some shape deform of misery and rags,

Steeped in pollution, overgrown with flags,

Weeds of debauchery,――let a drunkard’s cries

Grate on our ears no longer! Must our eyes

Gaze on his death pang? Hast no other gags

To move thy hearers’ laughter but his speech?

Stirs else no toothpick in their languid lips?

Else will no crutch be lifted to applaud?

Have they such souls no milder sight can teach,

Save glorious manhood’s absolute eclipse?

How foul is vice, how much to be abhorred!

CARAWAY.

TRACY TURNERELLI’S GOLDEN WREATH.

On page 188, _Parodies_, a history was given of the wreath which was

offered to Lord Beaconsfield by Mr. Tracy Turnerelli, and some

parodies of Shakespeare, and of Ben Jonson, descriptive of the

circumstances which induced Lord Beaconsfield to refuse the offer.

The Editor of _The World_ selected the topic for a parody competition,

entitled “Mr. Tracy Turnerelli in the Provinces,” the model proposed

for imitation being Mr. Matthew Arnold’s beautiful poem, “The Forsaken

Merman,” and the compositions were limited to forty lines.

A short extract is given below from the original poem:――

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.

Come, dear children, let us away;

Down and away below!

Now my brothers call from the day,

Now the great winds shoreward blow,

Now the salt tides seaward flow;

Now the wild white horses play,

Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.

Children dear, let us away!

This way, this way!

Call her once before you go――

Call once yet!

In a voice that she will know:

‘Margaret! Margaret!’

Children’s voices should be dear,

(Call once more) to a mother’s ear;

Children’s voices, wild with pain――

Surely she will come again!

Call her once and come away;

This way, this way!

Mother dear, we cannot stay!

The wild white horses foam and fret!

Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down;

Call no more!

One last look at the white-wall’d town,

And the little grey church on the windy shore;

Then come down!

She will not come though you call all day;

Come away, come away!

* * * * *

But children, at midnight,

When soft the winds blow,

When clear falls the moonlight,

When spring-tides are low;

When sweet airs come seaward

From heaths starr’d with broom,

And high rocks throw mildly

On the blanch’d sands a gloom;

Up the still, glistening beaches,

Up the creeks we will hie,

Over banks of bright seaweed

The ebb-tide leaves dry.

We will gaze, from the sand hills,

At the white, sleeping town;

At the church on the hill-side――

And then come back down.

Singing: “There dwells a loved one,

But cruel is she!

She left lonely for ever

The kings of the sea.”

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

The first and second prizes were awarded to the two following

parodies, which appeared in _The World_, September 24, 1879:――

FIRST PRIZE.

REJECTED ADDRESSES, BY TRACY TURNERELLI.

Come, dear Dizzy, nor say me nay――

Come, ere I go distraught;

Take the garland of golden bay,

Take what the people’s pennies bought,

Take what the goldsmith richly wrought.

_Must_ I carry the gift away

Into the shires to make it pay?

Dizzy dear, ah, why not say,

This way, this way?

I call again with a conscience clear

(’Tis no sin)――

Call aloud till the deaf might hear――

Benjamin! Benjamin!

Flattering voices should be dear

(One call more) to statesman’s ear;

Flattering voices fired by zeal

For the statesman’s weal.

Benjamin! Benjamin!

Can it be true he means that nay?

(One call more ere I go away.)

Once he was poor as poor as could be,

And he wore no Garter below his knee;

He worked his way to the top of the tree,

For the Earl is clever and scholarly.

He swayed, like others, from side to side,

And was apt at taking the turn of tide.

Then came Berlin and the Jingoes’ King

Wed ‘Peace with Honour,’ like gold the ring;

And now the Prime Minister says me nay

To my honeyed words and my wreath of bay.

Dizzy dear, why say me nay?

(One call more.)

He will not come, though I call all day――

Shut is the door.

I go, I leave him, I call no more;

I call no more, yet my heart is sore;

The loved one rejects me――

How cruel is he!

He leaves us for ever――

The wreath and T. T.

(MRS. WINSLOE.) OBSERVER.

――――――――

SECOND PRIZE.

TURNERELLI _loq._

Come, my people, let us go hence,

Bearing the wreath of gold;

Back to the towns that gave sums immense,

Back with a tale that must be told;

Back with a wreath that mayn’t be sold,

E’en to defray the vast expense

Of raising fifty thousand pence.

Come, my people, let us go hence.

Away, away!

Call him once more by his name

Pleadingly,

By the name best known to fame――

Disraeli, Disraeli.

That name surely should be dear

To the commoner grown a peer――

Dizzy (call him once again)!

Try to rouse some olden strain;

Only once, and then away,

We will not stay.

Disraeli, do you quite forget

The people’s crown for the coronet?

Away, away!

Golden leaves, that golden turn

When autumn’s glories begin to burn,

Will turn dull brown and fade away.

But the wreath that in my hands I hold

Was copper first, and turned to gold,

And shall be gold for aye.

People dear, is it but three years

Since he went to join the Peers?

Once he sat where I would be,

Where still meets the august confraternity

Of the Commons in conclave free;

But his dreams were ever of gilded halls,

And he sighed for a crown with eight golden balls,

Though his race mostly hang o’er their doors but three.

(MISS M. C. KILBURN.) VRITRA.

――――:o:――――

THE WREATH.

(The figure of the wreath lies before us, as we write, in all its fair

outlines. The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle are blended in it in

sign of the nationalities of the donors. The circle of the wreath is

of laurel leaves.)

_The Times_, June 28, 1879.

O Tracy, twine no wreath for me,

Or twine it of some other tree!

Dust from a dusty Olive’s sprays

Has dimmed the lustre of those days.

I would my laurels were forgot――

O Turnerelli, twine them not!

The thistle, shamrock――leave me those;

There’s sense in them――and, yes, the rose;

’Twill symbolise――its thorns at least――

Our future pathway in the East;

The shamrock, too, recals to thought

The “false Gibraltar” we have bought;

And I would spare the thistle’s loss

To those who cheered at Charing Cross,――

These I can stand, but laurel, no;

The laurel’s hardly _apropos_;

So Tracy, if that wreath’s for me,

Pray twine it of some other tree!

_The World_, July 2, 1879.

[Illustration]

FURTHER PARODIES

William Shakespeare.

――――:o:――――

MACBETH.

M. ALEXIS SOYER’S SOUP FOR THE POOR.

Since the ingenious gastronomic regenerator of the Reform Club issued

his receipt for his cheap soup, every man has become his own cook, in

his anxiety to produce a specimen of the popular _potage_.

Discussions, also, have arisen upon the cost, as stated by the

inventor, and opinions of every kind have been launched at it,

principally, however, by those who expected to make mock turtle at

three-half-pence a quart, out of nothing, and were disappointed

therein. Its manufacture has suggested the following scene:――

SCENE.――_The Kitchen of the Reform Club. In the middle a Copper

boiling._

_Enter M. SOYER and two Cooks._

_Soyer._――Thrice the Palace clock hath chim’d.

_2nd Cook._――Thrice: and members all have dined.

_3rd Cook._――Ireland cries: ’tis time――’tis time!

_Soyer._――Round about the copper go,

In the cheap ingredients throw.

Dripping that in gallipot

Days and nights has been forgot;

Boneless beef in square bits cut,

In two-gallon saucepan put.

_All._――Don’t mind trouble, were it double,

Stir the copper till it bubble.

_Soy._――Fifteen leaves of celery top;

In with turnip peelings pop.

Green of two leeks on them hurl;

Half a pound of barley pearl;

Common flour next half a pound,

In eight quarts of water drown’d.

Whitest salt and sugar brown;

That will make the soup go down,

Then a penny charge for fuel.

And for SIXPENCE make the gruel.

_All._――At a trifling cost of trouble,

You may make the copper bubble.

_Soy._――Give it to the poor as food

And ’twill be found cheap and good.

AIR――M. SOYER.

From “La Sonnambula.”

Still so gently onions peeling,

The smell will bring out the feeling,

Spite of all their sneers revealing,

That the beef――that the beef is wholesome still.

Though mock turtle soup may charm thee,

And mulligatawny warm thee,

Sure my soup will never harm thee:

If it feed not――if it feed not――it will fill.

_2nd Cook._――By the licking of my thumbs,

Something weighty this way comes.

Open locks, whoever knocks.

_Enter_ John Bull.

_John._――How now you knowing gastronomic wags,

What is’t you brew?

_All._――A soup without a name.

_John._――I conjure you by that which you profess

(Howe’er you came to know it), answer me.

Though you tie up the winds in pudding bags,

And into _soufflées_ whip the yesty waves――

Compound and swallow all creation up――

Even till repletion sicken, answer me

To what I ask you.

Soy.―― _Parlez_.

2_nd Cook._―― Ask.

3_rd Cook._―― Cut on.

_Soy._――Say would’st thou rather hear it from our mouths,

Or from our platters?

_John._―― Let me see the _carte_.

_Thunder._[66] _The Apparition of a Boar’s Head rises._

_App._――John Bull! John Bull! beware an Irish stew!

Corn riots dread! dismiss me. That will do.

[_Descends._

_John._――Thanks for the caution. Much obliged I feel.

The corn-laws altogether I’ll repeal.

_Thunder. The Apparition of a Turkey, trussed, with a carrot

in its hand, rises._

_John._―― What’s this,

That, like the scutcheon of the Prussian King,

Holds in its claw a vegetable sceptre

And chain of sausage-meat?

_All._――Hish! hold your row.

_App._――Make lots of metal, John, and take no care

Who spends, who wastes, or who conspires to share.

John Bull shall never bankrupt be, until

Great Hornsey Wood shall come to Primrose Hill.

[_Descends._

_John._――Had I three mouths I’d eat thee. It can’t be.

Had it been Alderman Wood and Rowland Hill,

They might have met; but trees can’t cut their sticks,

Nor Chalk Farm walk its chalk from Primrose Hill.

Yet, tell me one thing more. Shall famine ever

Reign in this kingdom.

_Soy._―― Show!

2_nd Cook._―― Show!!

3_rd Cook._―― Show!!!

_Eight Cooks appear. The two last being Captain Cook and

Mr. T. P. Cooke._

_Soy._――Whilst these great Cooks――the present and the past,

Who, although many, will not spoil the broth――

_Vatel_, who died for fish that came too late;

_Carême_, who cooked Napoleon’s goose; and _Ude_

Whom, if you’d known you’d have respected much.

Facetious _Mrs. Glass_, who recommends

That you should catch your hare ere you do cook it.

And _Francatelli_; who hath done a book

As well as I; and _Doctor Kitchiner_,

Oracular professor of his art.

And _Captain Cook_, who found out foreign roots,

(Though not by nature, yet a Cook by name).

And T. P. Cooke, who says “Avast! belay!”

Whilst in the sailor’s locker there’s a shot

No swab shall starve whilst these great cooks exist

(Or others like them) Famine ne’er shall reign.

[_They disappear._

_John._――Where are they? Gone! No matter; I’m at rest,

Though cat’racts may destroy potatoes’ eyes――

Though years may come and bring no ears of corn――

Though meat may rise as high as Green’s balloon――

Still, whilst our brave cooks can make all ends meat,

No famine e’er shall harm us.

_Chorus from “Macbeth,” “We Fry by Night.”_

_The Man in the Moon_, Vol I.

[Illustration]

Why, what the deuce is that before my nose?

It’s like a dagger now I see it close;

And, rat it too, the handle turn’d this way!

But come, I’ll have a grip, cost what it may.

By Jove, I’ve missed it! yet I see it still,

It’s cursed odd――but find it out I will.

“Thou fearful, fatal vision, tell me why,

“You thus elude me――is it ‘_all my eye_?’

“Or art thou coin’d in this thick skull of mine,

“A phantom from the fumes of heat and wine?”

Death, fire, and furies! why I see thee here

In form as plain and palpable, I swear,

As this I’m drawing;――on thy blade and dudgeon

Are gouts of blood;――but, mark me! I’m no gudgeon!

It’s all a lie!――I’ll not be humbugg’d thus,――

’Tis this curs’d business puts me in a fuss!

_The Gownsman_, Cambridge, 1830.

[Illustration]

SHAKESPEARE’S GHOST ON THE NEW APOCALYPSE.

THE THREE WITCHES (_as represented by three eminent

dignitaries._)

SCENE I.

Where shall we three meet again?

In br-th-l, hall, or sacred fane?――

Ere our hurly-burly’s done,

Pestilence by us begun

Spread from east to set of sun!――

Where the place?――

The road to h――l!

Let us go at it pall-mall!――

I come, Salvation!――

T-mps-n calls!――

Anon!

Fair is foul, and foul is fair;

Wallow in the drains and filthy air!

SCENE II.

Round about the office go,

In the poisonous savours throw!

Anecdote of rankest taste,

Far too saleable to waste,

Sweltered venom, creeping got,

Boil those first i’ the T-mps-n pot!

Double, double, stench and trouble,

Pot boil, and poison bubble!

Fragment of some juicy lie,

Stew and flourish by and by;

Dash of philanthropic twist,

Tongue of sentimentalist,

Breath of skunk and adder’s sting,

Feathers of the Church’s wing,

Winkings of the powers that be,

Palate of the debauchee,

For a chance of deadly trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Gushings of hysteric craze,

Prayers of saints of latter days,

Latest rags of virgin veil,

Little coins of blackest mail,

War-cry of blaspheming throats,

Politician’s bid for votes,

Army stock and rubble stones,

Christy banjo, Christyan bones,

Platform ranter’s purchased shriek,

Blushes robbed from woman’s cheek,

Blasted charm of household joys,

Ruined souls of girls and boys,

Birthright of mind-poisoned babe

To the profit of a drab,

Make the gruel thick and slab.

Add the shield of State paternal

For the ingredients of our journal!

Double, double, stench and trouble,

Pot boil, and poison bubble!

_The World_, August 26, 1885.

The agitation to which this Parody calls attention may have been

initiated with all sincerity and purity of motives, but it has

directly encouraged the hawking about of some of the most abominable

publications which have ever yet been publicly exposed for sale.

To protect “fallen” women is, no doubt, a most laudable and

philanthropic object, but it should be possible to do this without

either annoying other members of the community, or outraging public

decency. Some of the best streets of London were recently rendered

impassable to modest women by the foul-mouthed ruffians who exposed

these filthy publications for sale, and touted their wares in language

more vile and repulsive than even the publications they disposed of

dared to venture on.

――――:o:――――

“ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE.”

On the 27 August, 1885, _Truth_ contained no less than twenty parodies

of the well known speech commencing――“all the World’s a Stage, and all

the men and women merely players.”

The following are the most interesting, the one signed ORCHIS, (by Mr.

T. B. Doveton,) being, on the whole, a closer parody than any of the

others:――

DINNER-PARTIES.

――――Dinner is a stage

With knives and forks the company are players;

Courses have exits and swift entrances;

And each guest, in his time, plays many parts,

His acts being seven epochs. At first the soup

Steaming and seething in the grand tureen,

Then comes the whiting tasty, or the salmon

With shining silver scales, sleeping serene

Upon the lordly dish; and then the venison,

Done to a turn, and worthy of a ballad,

As any lady’s eyebrow. Then the pasties

Full of rich fruits, and not too much of lard,

Jellies delicious, wholesome and quickly eaten,

Melting――a great desideratum――

Even in the diner’s mouth――and then the stilton

In fair round form, and with a napkin bound,

With rind full thick, and taste extremely strong,

Full of strange mites, and microscopic things;

So each guest plays his part. The sixth course shifts

Into the rare luxurious dessert,

With sherry on this side, and port on that;

A vintage good, well saved, a world too old

To be much drunk; the host’s loud manly voice

Turning at length quite husky, cherished pipes

And weeds with coffee come. Last scene of all

That ends this dinner’s faithful history,

Is simple maundering and sheer oblivion,

Sans sense, sans eyes, sans speech, sans every thing.

ORCHIS.

――――――――

(Jack soliloquizes.) All go off alike,

And all the wines and dishes seldom alter;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And each guest in his turn tastes many things,

His share being seven courses. At first the turtle,

Seething with richness in the bright tureen;

And then the princely turbot, with the lemon

And shrimp or oyster sauce, making it glide

Most palatably down; and then the entrées,

Smelling divinely in their shallow basins

Made of the shining metal; then a turkey,

Full of forcemeats and roasted to a turn,

Swimming in gravy garnished thick with sausage,

Raising the tide of expectation

Even in the bishop’s mouth; and then the pudding

In grand round belly, and with holly crown’d;

With eyes intent we watch each slice that’s cut,

Full of good things and spicy substances;

And so we take a part. The sixth course drifts

Into the plain and usual dessert,

With walnuts ’neath one’s nose, and port each side;

Our evening clothes were made on purpose wide

To hold such stuff. And now some manly voice,

Turning towards politics and meerschaum-pipes,

Makes ladies leave the room. Last course of all

That ends this dinner-party history

Is coffee, cognac, weeds, and utter bliss,

Sans flirts, sans prudes, sans wife, sans womankind.

CRYSTAL PALACE.

――――――――

――――All the world’s away,

And all the men and women on the tramp;

They have their tourist tickets and bank credits,

And each man grumbling with his bullion parts

To keep his household moving. First, the infant

Squalling and struggling in the nurse’s arms,

And then the schoolboy with his rod and basket,

Changing from place to place, at large on bail

Most willingly from school. And then the matron

Scolding like a fishwife, with a woful look

Upon the piles of baggage; then the cabby,

Full of strange oaths standing on guard,

Daring the porters, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Clamouring for double his remuneration

Even in the tariff’s face; and then the bobby,

In regulation tunic strapped and belted,

With eyes severe and an imperial strut,

Quoting the law, refers to modern instances,

And so he plays his part. Then the “gov’nor,” drest

In shooting jacket and check pantaloons,

With spectacles on nose, jeered at, defied,

Elbowed and buffeted on every side,

On a trunk sinking, lifts his voice no more,

Wipes his moist brow, and, as he fills his pipe,

Whistles despairingly. Last scene of all

That ends poor paterfamilias’s history,

Is the home-coming, and more chivying

(_Sans doute_) _en route_――ennuied, wrong everything.

PRIMA DONNA.

――――――――

――――Parliament’s a stage,

And honourable members merely players;

They have their prompters, cues, and call-boys too,

And some men while they sit play many parts,

Their acts being seven stages. At first the novice,

Trembling and blushing while he’s introduced,

And then the grumbling sportsman leaving moors

Or salmon-streams behind, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to vote. Then the enthusiast,

Spouting like sperm-whale, with a wistful eye

Fixed on his leader’s hat. Then a debater,

Full of false facts and smart in repartee,

Careless of courtesy, rash and quick in general.

Seeking the bubble reputation

By an unbridled tongue. And then the Minister,

In pleasant sinecure, with good salary lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and feeble platitudes;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into a sleek and useless peer o’ the realm,

With coronet on brow and ermine robes.

His earlier wit, though dulled, a world to bright

For his new sphere, and his once manly voice

Turning again towards childish accents, drones

And falters in his words. Last scene of all

That ends the strange eventful history

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans power, sans fame, sans friends, sans everything.

BART.

――――――――

――――All Parliament’s a stage,

The Lords mere supers, and the Commons players,

Coming and going on and off the scenes;

And each one plays a different character

In seven phases. First the canvasser,

Bowing and scraping, free with purse and alms;

Then the young candidate, with laboured speech

And blushing face, weak-kneed and pale,

Creeps to the platform. Then the strong member,

Like lover with his mistress, wins the mob

With honied words. Then the great orator,

Full of unmeaning phrases, hard to beard,

Zealous in argument, fierce in retort,

Seeking a wordy reputation

E’en in high councils. Then the Minister,

Sleek with good living, with rich income primed,

Austere with knitted brow, and courtly gard,

Full wise in laws and ancient precedents,

And so displays high art. The sixth phase shifts

Into the scarlet-robed and gartered Peer,

A spectacle in pose, touched with the pride

Of titled state from all the world to hide

His youthful pranks; his late commanding voice,

Toned down to softest accents, mildly speaks

In gentle pleadings. The last phase of all

Is the poor part of intellect decayed

In second childhood of extreme old age;

Sad sight! sad hearing; sad the end of all!

OLD LOG.

――――――――

――――All the night’s a stage,

And all the singers on it merely cats;

They have their solos and their choruses,

And one cat in the night sings many tunes,

Her songs being seven tortures. At first a purring,

Mewing and scratching at the kitchen door,

Then a whining scuffle with a neighbour’s tom

About an ancient bone, bleached in the mud,

Each claiming shares: and then the love duet,

Burning with passion, rising to my window,

In hideous cadences; then the war song

Betwixt two rivals to Miss Muffet’s favour

Starts up, eloquent with hisses and mad

Careering up and down the area stairs

Even to my very door; and then the tabby,

In sleek fat form, with good grey coat of fur,

With twinkling eyes and well-trimmed whiskers,

Lifts her voice in wild, untuneful melody,

And so she sings her part. The sixth song falls

To the lean and half-starved tortoiseshell,

All scratched on nose and wounded side,

Her youthful freshness faded years too soon,

And gone for aye, but her strong feline voice,

With hideous likeness to infantile howls,

Still screeches in the night. Last scene of all

That ends this awful, maddening night,

Is one last howl――then day breaks in upon us,

Sans sleep, sans rest, sans peace, sans breakfast.

ZENAS DYKES.

――――――――

――――All the day’s a plague,

And all the people merely peace-disturbers,

They have their exits and their entrances,

And each one plays his own discordant part

Till the brain madly rages. At first the sweep,

Screeching and shouting loud his wild alarm;

Then that morning nuisance, with his basket

And tinkling muffin-bell, shouting “all ’ot”

When all his store is cool. And then the beggar,

Singing, like saw-mill, a hymn or a tender ballad

Smugly, yet winking his eyebrow. Then the “Army,”

Causing wild oaths as, clad in monstrous garb,

With drum and cornet, gaily they preach or quarrel,

Seizing the soldier’s designation,

But facing no cannon’s mouth, And then th’ Italian,

His poor pinched belly seldom with square-meal lined,

With coal-black eye and hair that should be cut.

And organ belching nigger melodies.

And so he plays his part. The next plague springs

From German deep trombone and wild bassoon,

From flute, from clarionet, and ophecleide,

Teutonic youths, ill-taught, with English airs

Playing strange pranks, who, from the lowest bass

Alike even to the highest treble, yield

Most irritating sounds. Till last of all,

To close the days tormenting history.

The prayer for death, and sweet oblivion

Of sweeps, of bands, of Booth, of everything.

NOMAD.

――――――――

――――All the world’s a stable,

And all its denizens are merely horses;

They have their hardships and their pleasures,

And one horse in his time sees many changes,

His life being seven ages, At first, the foal,

Frisking and skipping in the breeder’s yard;

Then the “whinnying” colt, with curb and rein,

And smack of whip, pacing, like schoolboy,

Unwillingly in trammels. And then the racer,

Flying like lightning for the cup or plate

Given by the Jockey Club. Then the hunter,

Full of high keep, and coat as sleek as silk,

Perfect in shape, and proud of pedigree,

Gaining a wide-spread reputation

For being “in at the death.” And then to mailcoach,

In splendid show indignantly is harness’d,

By critics scanned at formal “meet”; then urg’d

To th’ instant point of modern expedition;

And so he runs his stage. “Sold up,” he shifts

Into the shafts of jaunty hansom cab,

With fare inside, and driver perch’d aloft;

His early vigour gone, a shower of blows

Are rain’d on his shrunk back; his wind is bad

And he has turned a “piper” and oftimes

Loudly whistles in his sound. The next phase ends

His cruel and unpitied destiny;

To Knacker’s yard for slaughter he is led,

Sans eyes, sans hoofs, mere carcase――fit for dogs.

EAST ANGLIA.

――――――――

――――All the world’s a field,

And all the men and women cricket-players,

They have their innings and their fielding out,

And one man in his time plays many games,

His life being seven matches. First, the infant,

Mowing and poking at his nurse’s slows;

And then the school-boy, boundless in ambition,

But green in judging lengths, slogging like fun,

And bowled by yorkers; then the undergrad,

Smoking strange weeds, and blazer’d like the Turk,

Heedless of honours, puppet of every fancy,

Seeking a college reputation

Even in the schools despite; and then the lover,

Shying like Frenchman, with a woeful habit,

Of dropping all his catches; then the husband,

With waist expanding, to short runs inclined,

With eyes correct, and coat of formal cut,

Full of old joys, and new incumbrances,

And so he meets his match. The sixth is played

By the stiff pater with his growing lads,

With spectacles on nose, and bat in hand;

They trundle at the stumps a world too fast

For his sore shins; yet his big, manly heart,

Turning again toward youthful pleasure, glows

And revels at each ball. Last match of all,

Which ends the sturdy cricketer’s career,

Is played in his arm-chair at second hand,

Sans bat, sans ball, sans stumps, sans everything.

TUB.

――――――――

――――All the world’s a feast,

And all the men and women merely gourmands;

Few have their _chef_, they mostly pot-luck share,

But all guests in their turn try many _plats_,

The courses being seven, At first the Soup,

Unsatisfactory, greasy, and cold;

Then Fish, whose shining face is seen too long,

Proclaims his advent ere he comes in sight.

Entrèes as twins appear; you choose of one,

To wish your choice had fallen on the other.

Mutton disguised with mint to pass for lamb,

Taking his dubious imposture

Into our plates, but not beyond our palates,

A bird comes next――a bird that crowed too long;

Crestfallen warrior, done to death and tough;

And so we sit and eat, while cheap champagne

Goes round with tedious jokes, both flat and stale.

At length the scene is changed――the Sweets appear;

Misshapen, quiv’ring jellies, doughy tarts,

The fruit but scant, the paste too thick by far.

(Pale cream accompanies, whose “turn” is come,)

Dessert――a prematurely-shrivelled pine,

Tom from its tropic soil in early youth;

Dried fruits, and nuts that, cracking, leave but dust.

The end of this unpalatable dinner

Is coffee weak and full of grounds; and so

Our last hope flies, our time is come. We go

With teeth, with eyes, with taste, unsatisfied.

CHUM-CHUM.

――――――――

――――A State Church is a stage,

Its well-paid priests and bishops often players;

They have their stipends and emoluments,

And each man, if he plays his part with skill,

May gain preferment. At first the student,

Reading or larking at his Alma Mater;

And then the genteel curate, with chasuble,

And early morning prayers, with Oxford twang,

Invincible at croquet. Then the incumbent,

Preaching like furnace, with a shilling pamphlet,

On some new-fashioned high-go. Then the rector,

Full of strange whims, robed like a queer old barb,

Sudden and quick to seize the next preferment,

Seeking the bubble reputation

E’en in a canon’s stall. And then the bishop,

In fair lawn sleeves and with a purse well lined;

His youthful friends now get the formal cut,

Full of anxiety to keep things pleasant;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the grand and courtly Archbishop;

A spectacle he grows of pride and pomp,

And thinks the Church well saved, and world beside,

By his tall talk; with namby-pamby voice,

Pointing again to Becket and to Laud,

Like whom he would be found. Last scene of all

That best will cure this curious history,

Is Disestablishment and Disendowment,

Sans worldly power, sans many an evil thing.

A. MEERAM.

――――――――

――――All the land’s a booth,

And all the men and women merely voters,

They have their franchise and their ballot-box,

And one man in his time gives many votes.

He votes for seven parties. The first, a Whig,

Frightened and cautious in the Liberal ranks;

And then the so-called Liberal, with his promises,

And sheep-like party-gait, creeping like snail

Towards long-sought reform. Then the Home Ruler

Roaring for freedom, with a piteous tale

Told of his country’s misery. Then a Radical

Full of reform and moving with the time,

Scenting abuses, sudden and quick to right ’em,

Seeking the people’s happiness

Even at the lordling’s cost. And then the Independent

With smooth-tongued speech, and pocket well lined,

With views severe and stuck-up formal mien,

Full of advice and smug hypocrisy.

And so he serves his turn. The sixth vote’s given

Unto the mighty Tory landowner,

With a fine porty nose, and gout beside,

His ancient views――grown old――an age too late

For this sharp world; and his high handed mode

Turn ’gainst him all but sycophants, who’ll pipe

And whistle at his bid. Last vote of all,

To end this string of partisans, is given

To worthless “Turncoats,” mere title hunters,

Sans pride, sans shame, sans soul, sans principle.

W. VAL. ENGLISH.

――――――――

――――All the world’s insane,

And all the men and women fools of fancy;

They have their whims and monomanias,

And each man in his life hath many moods,

His lot being seven crazes. And first the infant,

Squealing and squalling for the distant moon:

And then the schoolboy, with his breaking voice

And cheap cigar, acquiring other lore

Than what is taught at school. And then the lover

With Richmond dinners, “fizz,” and lobster salad,

To win Aspasia’s favour. Then the soldier,

Full of himself, and glorious on parade,

Solemn and warlike in another’s quarrel,

Seeking to gain a killing reputation

E’en from the sex’s mouth. And then the justice,

One of the great infallible unpaid,

With books of law intact and leaves uncut,

Gath’ring wise utt’rance from the whisp’ring clerk,

And so displays his art. The sixth craze shifts

Into the fogy of the Tory club,

With well-dress’d jasey and with glass in eye,

The march of progress spreading far too wide

For his near views; or, haply, seen by choice

In some snug hostelry with port and pipe,

Where Tory talk abounds. Worst craze of all,

That seems the strangest in its mystery,

Is the ascetic zeal miscalled religion――

Saint This, Saint That, Saint T’other――Any one.

B. H. D.

――――――――

――――All the world’s a ship,

And all the men and women merely sailors;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And each one in his ship plays many parts,

The number being seven stages. First, the cabin boy,

Groaning and puking in the stewards’ arms;

And then the midshipman, with his cutlass

And shining, genial face, going, in doubt,

Unwillingly on board. And then the boatswain,

Swearing, by all that’s hot, he’ll use his rope’s end

Upon some laggard’s shoulders. Then the lieutenant,

Full of strange hopes and visions like the bard,

Eager for honour, longing for war and quarrel,

Seeking the bubble, merited advancement,

E’en in an iron clad. And then the captain,

In handsome uniform, with honour worn,

With bright, clear eyes, and mouth that’s often shut,

Full of old yarns and deeds that tell of duty.

Then comes the proud and boastful admiral,

With spectacle on nose and sword by side,

His well-saved uniform a world to wide

For his shrunk form, and his big, manly voice

Turning again to peevish feebleness.

And so he struts his part. Last stage of all,

That ends this strange and restless history,

Comes the ex-admiral, prey to oblivion,

Sans fame, sans wealth, sans hope, sans everything.

TIB.

――――――――

――――The world’s a fashion-plate,

And all the men and women tailors’ dummies,

Who note the march of time by changing clothes,

A masher once, a man’s a masher always,

No matter what his age is. At first a baby

In a lace gown ogling his ancient nurse;

And then the public schoolboy, with his collar

Broad and snow-white, who gives his mind to ties,

And has no love for school-books. Then the dandy

Bored at eighteen, but hovering around

The sacred lamp of burlesque. Then the guardsman,

Thin-waisted, tall, and with well-waxed moustache,

Driver of drags and tandems, quick at polo,

Gaining a dreadful reputation,

Nightly at crowded balls. Then the swell middle-aged,

With fair white waistcoat of bow-window shape,

With shiny boots and well trimmed close-cut beard,

Full of himself, and tales of his own feats,

And how he play’d his part. The sixth age shows

The lean and shaky, wicked, gay old boy,

With gold pin and cane, with hat worn on one side;

His padded coat and tight strapped pantaloons

Hide his shrunk form, and his swaggering tone

Changed to a grumbling whine that everything

Is worse than it once was. While the last scene

Is tottered through by an old doting swell,

Who herds with boys, and tries to cheat death with

False teeth, false hair, false calves, false everything.

ROUNDABOUT.

[Illustration]

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

A Parody of the speech of _Claudio_ in the first scene of the third

act, commencing:――

“Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;

This sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod.”

Aye, but to love, and not be loved again,

To nurse a hopeless passion, and to pine,

This body strong and healthy to become

A walking mummy――and the once cheerful mind

To feel keen torturing doubts, or to despair

And moping sit in melancholy mood,

To feel the gusts of love and wild desire,

And know friends, fortune, person, all combine

To blast our hopes――or to feel tortures keener still,

To see a rival snatch away the prize;

Heavens! ’tis too horrible――the keenest pangs

That e’er the body felt, stone or rheumatic,

Amputated limb, nay, even gout itself

Is perfect ease compared with hopeless love.

From _Poems_ by Edward Rushton. London――T. Ostell, 1806.

[Illustration]

“AS YOU LIKE IT,” AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON.

The following Parody appeared in _Gaiety_. August 29, 1885, in

reference to Miss Mary Anderson’s performance of the part of

_Rosalind_, in the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, Stratford-on-Avon.

If your heart for joy hath pined,

Go and seek out Rosalind.

In W. S.’s town you’ll find

Mary A. as Rosalind;

In “tights” most gracefully designed

Will appear fair Rosalind.

Methinks a damsel to your mind

Will be Mary’s Rosalind.

We hope she will not be maligned

When she playeth Rosalind,

But that critics will be kind

To that fair Yankee’s Rosalind.

[Illustration]

YOUNG ENGLAND’S VERSION OF HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY.

To smoke, or not to smoke, that is the question:

Whether a mild cigar assists digestion;

Or, whether it begets a kind of quaintness,

Which some would say was nothing but a faintness;

To smoke――to drink and then to go to bed;

To find a pillow for an aching head;

To snore――perchance to dream! and half your senses scare

With visionary demons or nightmare;

To wake, in perspiration nicely dished,

’Tis a consummation hardly to be wished;

For who would bear the kicks, cuffs, and abuse

Of this base world, when he might cook his goose

Upon his toasting fork? Or who would care

For half the motley groups which at him stare,

Some morning early, stuck before the bench,

When soda-water would his fever quench,

But that a little thing within doth call?

Thus porter doth make rum ’uns of us all!

And thus our resolution to keep sober

Is drown’d and soon forgot in good October.

But hush! my ’Phelia comes, the pretty dear!

Oh! think of me love――when you fetch your beer.

ANONYMOUS.

[Illustration]

FURTHER PARODIES

Bret Harte.

――――:o:――――

THAT GREENWICH M.P.

Which I wish to declare,

And my story is sad,

That for dealings unfair,

And for ways that are bad,

The Greenwich M.P. is peculiar――

Which the same is a terrible “Rad.”

’Twas an October day,

But a week or two back,

When the mob yelled “Hurray”

On the heath that is Black,

As they gazed from afar upon WILLIAM,

And harked to his voluble clack.

Which this W. G.,

You will all understand,

Is the Greenwich M.P.,

And his promise is bland;

But then, over his sinister shoulder,

He points with the thumb of his hand.

So free from all guile,

From intent to deceive,

He seem’d all the while,

You could hardly believe

How, when talking to people of Greenwich,

He chuckled and laughed in his sleeve.

He was greatly concern’d

For the Greenwichers’ weal,

And he twisted and turn’d

With his words like an eel――

Praised himself, and the Radical party;

It little――himself a great deal.

Which is why I declare,

And my feelings are sad,

That for dealings unfair,

And for ways that are bad,

The Greenwich M.P. is peculiar――

Which that same is a stone that is glad.

_Judy_, November 22, 1871.

――――:o:――――

THE HEATHEN M.P.

Which I wish to remark,

And my language is plain,

That for words that are dark

And for tricks that are vain

The Heathen M.P. is peculiar,

Which the same I would wish to explain.

Ben D―――― was his name,

And I shall not deny

That who went by the same

Was exceedingly sly;

But his smile it was pensive and child-like,

As I often remarked to Bill-_y_;

It was April the third,

And quite soft were the skies;

Let it not be inferred

That Ben D―――― was likewise;

Yet he played it that day upon William

In a way too adroit to be wise.

Which we had a debate,

And Ben D―――― took a part,

After begging to state

That it came from his heart;

But he smiled as he stood by the table

With a smile that was hollow and tart.

Now his speech it was stocked

In a way that I grieve,

(And my feelings were shocked

As you cannot believe,)

It was stuffed full of stories and crammers,

And the same with intent to deceive.

But the points that were made

By that Heathen Ben D――――,

And the fibs he essayed

Were quite frightful to see,

Till at last he came out with a crammar

That was known to be such unto G――――.

G―――― looked to the skies,

(Which was sad for to see,)

And he rose up likewise,

And said, “Darling Ben D――――,

“This is false what you say about Russia!”

And he went for that Heathen M.P.

In the scene that ensued

William took a large part,

For the way he’d been Jewed

Had gone straight to his heart,

Like the fibs that Ben D―――― had been telling

In the speech that had come “from his heart.”

In which speech, which was long,

He had twenty-four _packs_,

Which was coming it strong

As departing from facts;

And they found in that speech, which was rant,

What is frequent in speeches――that’s cant?

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain,

That for words that are dark

And for tricks that are vain

_The_ Heathen M.P. is peculiar,

And the same I am free to maintain.

BENJAMIN D――――. HIS LITTLE DINNER, 1876.

――――:o:――――

THE POLITICAL HEATHEN CHINEE.

Ben Diz was his name,

And it were vain to deny

In respect of the same

What the name might imply:

For his nose had a hook that meant mischief,

But the hook was a fool to his eye.

“Heads I win, tails you lose,”

Was the “lie” of his game.

Turks, Afghans, Zulus――

No matter who came――

It was “beggar my neighbour” all round,

Which all neighbours got treatment the same.

Which he euchred the Turk――

For he played from a hand

Of “reserves,” that did lurk

Underneath his wristband;

And an island he quietly nobbled,

With a smile diplomatic and bland.

_Bits of Beaconsfield, or a new Series of Disraeli’s Curiosities of

Literature._

(Abel Heywood and Son, Manchester.)

――――:o:――――

ON CHANG, THE CHINESE GIANT.

Which I beg you won’t doubt,

As you listen to me,

A man longer drawn out

You’re not likely to see

Than this very remarkable giant,

Which same was a heathen Chinee.

Mister CHANG was his name,

All alive! O, alive!

From Fychow he came

In eighteen-sixty-five,

On the shillings of sight-loving public

For some time to gleefully thrive.

It was August, eighteen,

That he first came to town,

And by thousands was seen,

And won highest renown;

But so lofty was he, and so haughty,

On all of his friends he looked down.

When invited to sup

He’d not touch flesh of cows,

And he turned his nose up

At an English carouse,

For he swallowed at dinner and breakfast

But bird’s-nests and little bow-wows.

But he fretted and fumed

As the shillings got few,

And his features assumed

A cerulean hue,

And he looked like a piece of blue china

Of a size that you don’t often view.

_Judy_, August 20, 1879.

――――:o:――――

ON BRET HARTE.

(After “Jim”)

Say there, then,

Some of you men

Might read Bret Harte,

Not p’raps all through

But one or two,

Just a part?

Try first that one

Heathen Chinee,

Then just for fun

Take two or three