'Now, Undergraduates,' he cried,_A Century of Parody and Imitation

'Our fun is nearly done,

Will anybody else come up?'

But answer came there none;

And this was scarcely odd, because

They'd ploughed them every one!

THE HEATHEN PASS-EE.

BEING THE STORY OF A PASS EXAMINATION. BY BRED HARD.

(BRET HARTE)

Which I wish to remark,

And my language is plain,

That for plots that are dark

And not always in vain,

The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,

And the same I would rise to explain.

I would also premise

That the term of Pass-ee

Most fitly applies,

As you probably see,

To one whose vocation is passing

The 'ordinary B.A. degree.'

Tom Crib was his name.

And I shall not deny

In regard to the same

What that name might imply,

But his face it was trustful and childlike,

And he had the most innocent eye.

Upon April the First

The Little-Go fell,

And that was the worst

Of the gentleman's sell,

For he fooled the Examining Body

In a way I'm reluctant to tell.

The candidates came

And Tom Crib soon appeared;

It was Euclid. The same

Was 'the subject he feared,'

But he smiled as he sat by the table

With a smile that was wary and weird.

Yet he did what he could,

And the papers he showed

Were remarkably good,

And his countenance glowed

With pride when I met him soon after

As he walked down the Trumpington Road.

We did not find him out,

Which I bitterly grieve,

For I've not the least doubt

That he'd placed up his sleeve

Mr. Todhunter's excellent Euclid,

The same with intent to deceive.

But I shall not forget

How the next day at two

A stiff paper was set

By Examiner U...

On Euripides' tragedy, Bacchae.

A subject Tom 'partially knew.'

But the knowledge displayed

By that heathen Pass-ee,

And the answers he made

Were quite frightful to see,

For he rapidly floored the whole paper

By about twenty minutes to three.

Then I looked up at U...

And he gazed upon me.

I observed, 'This won't do.'

He replied, 'Goodness me!

We are fooled by this artful young person,'

And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee.

The scene that ensued

Was disgraceful to view,

For the floor it was strewed

With a tolerable few

Of the 'tips' that Tom Crib had been hiding

For the 'subject he partially knew.'

On the cuff of his shirt

He had managed to get

What we hoped had been dirt,

But which proved, I regret,

To be notes on the rise of the Drama,

A question invariably set.

In his various coats

We proceeded to seek,

Where we found sundry notes

And--with sorrow I speak--

One of Bohn's publications, so useful

To the student of Latin or Greek.

In the crown of his cap

Were the Furies and Fates,

And a delicate map

Of the Dorian States,

And we found in his palms which were hollow,

What are frequent in palms,--that is dates.

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain,

That for plots that are dark

And not always in vain,

The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,

Which the same I am free to maintain.

OCTOPUS.[125]

BY ALGERNON CHARLES SIN-BURN.

(SWINBURNE)

Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed,

Whence camest to dazzle our eyes?

With thy bosom bespangled and banded

With the hues of the seas and the skies;

Is thy home European or Asian,

O mystical monster marine?

Part molluscous and partly crustacean,

Betwixt and between.

Wast thou born to the sound of sea-trumpets?

Hast thou eaten and drunk to excess

Of the sponges--thy muffins and crumpets,

Of the seaweed--thy mustard and cress?

Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral,

Remote from reproof or restraint?

Art thou innocent, art thou immoral,

Sinburnian or Saint?

Lithe limbs, curling free, as a creeper

That creeps in a desolate place,

To enrol and envelop the sleeper

In a silent and stealthy embrace,

Cruel beak craning forward to bite us,

Our juices to drain and to drink,

Or to whelm us in waves of Cocytus,

Indelible ink!

O breast, that 'twere rapture to writhe on!

O arms 'twere delicious to feel

Clinging close with the crush of the Python,

When she maketh her murderous meal!

In thy eight-fold embraces enfolden,

Let our empty existence escape;

Give us death that is glorious and golden,

Crushed all out of shape!

Ah! thy red lips, lascivious and luscious,

With death in their amorous kiss!

Cling round us, and clasp us, and crush us,

With bitings of agonized bliss;

We are sick with the poison of pleasure,

Dispense us the potion of pain;

Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure

And bite us again!

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER.

HOME, SWEET HOME, WITH VARIATIONS.

BEING SUGGESTIONS OF THE VARIOUS STYLES IN WHICH

AN OLD THEME MIGHT HAVE BEEN TREATED BY

CERTAIN METRICAL COMPOSERS.

FANTASIA.

THE ORIGINAL THEME, AS JOHN HOWARD PAYNE WROTE IT:

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,

Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.

Home, Home! Sweet, Sweet Home!

There's no place like Home!

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain!

Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!

The birds singing gaily that came at my call!

Give me them! and the peace of mind dearer than all.

Home, Home! Sweet, Sweet Home!

There's no place like Home!

II.

AS ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE MIGHT HAVE WRAPPED IT UP

IN VARIATIONS:

[_'Mid pleasures and palaces_--]

As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of brine that is drifted

Hither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze,

Though we wander on gusts of a god's breath shaken and shifted,

The salt of us stings, and is sore for the sobbing seas.

For home's sake hungry at heart, we sicken in pillared porches

Of bliss, made sick for a life that is barren of bliss,

For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that sears not nor

scorches,

Nor elsewhere than this.

[_An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain_--]

For here we know shall no gold thing glisten,

No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine;

Nor Love lower never an ear to listen

To words that work in the heart like wine.

What time we are set from our land apart,

For pain of passion and hunger of heart,

Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen,

Or sing at the Cytherean's shrine.

[VARIATION: _An exile from home_--]

Whether with him whose head

Of gods is honourèd,

With song made splendent in the sight of men--

Whose heart most sweetly stout,

From ravished France cast out,

Being firstly hers, was hers most wholly then--

Or where on shining seas like wine

The dove's wings draw the drooping Erycine.

[_Give me my lowly thatched cottage_--]

For Joy finds Love grow bitter,

And spreads his wings to quit her,

At thought of birds that twitter

Beneath the roof-tree's straw--

Of birds that come for calling,

No fear or fright appalling,

When dews of dusk are falling,

Or daylight's draperies draw.

[_Give me them, and the peace of mind_--]

Give me these things then back, though the giving

Be at cost of earth's garner of gold;

There is no life without these worth living,

No treasure where these are not told.

For the heart give the hope that it knows not,

Give the balm for the burn of the breast--

For the soul and the mind that repose not,

O, give us a rest!

III.

AS MR. FRANCIS BRET HARTE MIGHT HAVE WOVEN IT INTO

A TOUCHING TALE OF A WESTERN GENTLEMAN

IN A RED SHIRT:

Brown o' San Juan,

Stranger, I'm Brown.

Come up this mornin' from Frisco--

Be'n a-saltin' my specie-stacks down.

Be'n a-knockin' around,

Fer a man from San Juan,

Putty consid'able frequent--

Jes' catch onter that streak o' the dawn!

Right thar lies my home--

Right thar in the red--

I could slop over, stranger, in po'try

Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.

Stranger, you freeze to this: there ain't no kinder gin-palace,

Nor no variety-show lays over a man's own rancho.

Maybe it hain't no style, but the Queen in the Tower o' London

Ain't got naathin' I'd swop for that house over thar on the

hill-side.

Thar is my ole gal, 'n' the kids, 'n' the rest o' my live stock;

Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there's a griddle-cake br'ilin'--

For the two of us, pard--and thar, I allow, the heavens

Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.

Stranger, nowhere else I don't take no satisfaction.

Gimme my ranch, 'n' them friendly old Shanghai chickens--

I brung the original pair f'm the States in eighteen-'n'-fifty--

Gimme them and the feelin' of solid domestic comfort.

Yer parding, young man--

But this landscape a kind

Er flickers--I 'low 'twuz the po'try--

I thought thet my eyes hed gone blind.

* * * * *

Take that pop from my belt!

Hi, thar--gimme yer han'--

Or I'll kill myself--Lizzie!--she's left me--

_Gone off with a purtier man!_

Thar, I'll quit--the ole gal

An' the kids--run away!

I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard--

The griddle-cake's thar, anyway.

IV.

AS AUSTIN DOBSON MIGHT HAVE TRANSLATED IT FROM HORACE,

IF IT HAD EVER OCCURRED TO HORACE TO WRITE IT:

RONDEAU.

Palatiis in remotis voluptates

Si quæris...

FLACCUS, 2. HORATIUS, _Carmina, Lib. V._, 1

At home alone, O Nomades,

Although Maecenas' marble frieze

Stand not between you and the sky,

Nor Persian luxury supply

Its rosy surfeit, find ye ease.

Tempt not the far Ægean breeze;

With home-made wine and books that please,

To duns and bores the door deny

At home, alone.

Strange joys may lure. Your deities

Smile here alone. Oh, give me these:

Low eaves, where birds familiar fly,

And peace of mind, and, fluttering by,

My Lydia's graceful draperies,

At home, _alone_.

AS IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN CONSTRUCTED IN 1744,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, AT 19, WRITING THE

FIRST STANZA, AND ALEXANDER POPE,

AT 52, THE SECOND:

Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise;

Lift us from earth, and draw toward the skies!

'Mid mirag'd towers, or meretricious joys,

Although we roam, one thought the mind employs:

Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome,

Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home.

There, where affection warms the father's breast,

There is the spot of heav'n most surely blest.

Howe'er we search, though wandering with the wind

Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind,

Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know,

The light of heav'n upon our dark below.

When from our dearest hope and haven reft,

Delight nor dazzles, nor is luxury left,

We long, obedient to our nature's law,

To see again our hovel thatched with straw:

See birds that know our avenaceous store

Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar:

But, of all hopes the wanderer's soul that share,

His pristine peace of mind 's his final prayer.

VI.

AS WALT WHITMAN MIGHT HAVE WRITTEN ALL

AROUND IT:

You over there, young man with the guide-book, red-bound,

covered flexibly with red linen,

Come here, I want to talk with you; I, Walt, the Manhattanese,

citizen of these States, call you.

Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with oil'd

hair; a garlicky look about him generally; him, too, I take

in, just as I would a coyote, or a king, or a toad-stool, or a

ham-sandwich, or anything or anybody else in the world.

Where are you going?

You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good time;

in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a good time; you

want to see Venice.

Come with me. I will give you a good time; I will give you all

the Venice you want, and most of the Paris.

I, Walt, I call to you. I am all on deck! Come and loaf with

me! Let me tote you around by your elbow and show you things.

You listen to my ophicleide!

Home!

Home, I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspir'd by the

thought of home.

Come in!--take a front seat; the jostle of the crowd not

minding; there is room enough for all of you.

This is my exhibition--it is the greatest show on earth

--there is no charge for admission.

All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza.

1. The brown-stone house; the father coming home worried

from a bad day's business; the wife meets him in the

marble-pav'd vestibule; she throws her arms about him; she

presses him close to her; she looks him full in the face

with affectionate eyes; the frown from his brow disappearing.

_Darling, she says, Johnny has fallen down and cut his head;

the cook is going away, and the boiler leaks._

2. The mechanic's dark little third story room, seen in a

flash from the Elevated Railway train; the sewing-machine in a

corner; the small cook-stove; the whole family eating cabbage

around a kerosene lamp; of the clatter and roar and groaning

wail of the Elevated train unconscious; of the smell of the

cabbage unconscious.

Me, passant, in the train, of the cabbage not quite so

unconscious.

3. The French flat; the small rooms, all right angles,

unindividual; the narrow halls; the gaudy cheap decorations

everywhere.

The janitor and the cook exchanging compliments up and down

the elevator-shaft; the refusal to send up more coal, the

solid splash of the water upon his head, the language he sends

up the shaft, the triumphant laughter of the cook, to her

kitchen retiring.

4. The widow's small house in the suburbs of the city;

the widow's boy coming home from his first day down town;

he is flushed with happiness and pride; he is no longer a

school-boy, he is earning money; he takes on the airs of a man

and talks learnedly of business.

5. The room in the third-class boarding-house; the mean little

hard-coal fire, the slovenly Irish servant-girl making it,

the ashes on the hearth, the faded furniture, the private

provender hid away in the closet, the dreary back-yard out the

window; the young girl at the glass, with her mouth full of

hair-pins, doing up her hair to go downstairs and flirt with

the young fellows in the parlour.

6. The kitchen of the old farm-house; the young convict just

return'd from prison--it was his first offence, and the judges

were lenient to him.

He is taking his first meal out of prison; he has been

receiv'd back, kiss'd, encourag'd to start again; his lungs,

his nostrils expand with the big breaths of free air; with

shame, with wonderment, with a trembling joy, his heart too

expanding.

The old mother busies herself about the table; she has ready

for him the dishes he us'd to like; the father sits with his

back to them, reading the newspaper, the newspaper shaking

and rustling much; the children hang wondering around the

prodigal----they have been caution'd: _Do not ask where our

Jim has been; only say you are glad to see him_.

The elder daughter is there, pale-fac'd, quiet; her young man

went back on her four years ago; his folks would not let him

marry a convict's sister. She sits by the window, sewing on

the children's clothes, the clothes not only patching up; her

hunger for children of her own invisibly patching up.

The brother looks up; he catches her eye, he fearful,

apologetic; she smiles back at him, not reproachfully smiling,

with loving pretence of hope smiling --it is too much for him;

he buries his face in the folds of the mother's black gown.

7. The best room of the house, on the Sabbath only open'd;

the smell of horse-hair furniture and mahogany varnish; the

ornaments on the whatnot in the corner; the wax-fruit, dusty,

sunken, sagged in, consumptive-looking, under a glass globe;

the sealing-wax imitation of coral; the cigar boxes with

shells plastered over; the perforated card-board motto.

The kitchen; the housewife sprinkling the clothes for the fine

ironing to-morrow--it is Third-day night, and the plain things

are already iron'd, now in cupboards, in drawers stowed away.

The wife waiting for the husband--he is at the tavern, jovial,

carousing; she, alone in the kitchen sprinkling clothes--the

little red wood clock with peaked top, with pendulum wagging

behind a pane of gaily painted glass, strikes twelve.

The sound of the husband's voice on the still night air--he is

singing: _We won't go home till morning!_ --the wife arising,

toward the wood-shed hastily going, stealthily entering, the

voice all the time coming nearer, inebriate, chantant.

The wood-shed; the club behind the door of the wood-shed;

the wife annexing the club; the husband approaching, always

inebriate, chantant.

The husband passing the door of the wood-shed; the club over

his head, now with his head in contact; the sudden cessation

of the song; the temperance pledge signed the next morning;

the benediction of peace over the domestic foyer temporarily

resting.

I sing the soothing influences of home.

You, young man, thoughtlessly wandering, with courier, with

guide-book wandering,

You hearken to the melody of my steam-calliope.

Yawp!

JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN.

ODE ON A RETROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

(GRAY)

Ye bigot spires, ye Tory towers,

That crown the watery lea,

Where grateful science still adores

The aristocracy:

A happy usher once I strayed

Beneath your lofty elm trees' shade,

With mind untouched by guilt or woe:

But mad ambition made me stray

Beyond the round of work and play

Wherein we ought to go.

My office was to teach the young

Idea how to shoot:

But, ah! I joined with eager tongue

Political dispute:

I ventured humbly to suggest

That all things were not for the best

Among the Irish peasantry:

And finding all the world abuse

My simple unpretending views,

I thought I'd go and see.

I boldly left the College bounds:

Across the sea I went,

To probe the economic grounds

Of Irish discontent.

My constant goings to and fro

Excited some alarm; and so

Policemen girded up their loins,

And, from his innocent pursuits,--

Morose unsympathetic brutes,--

They snatched a fearful Joynes.

Escaped, I speedily returned

To teach the boys again:

But ah, my spirit inly burned

To think on Ireland's pain.

Such wrongs must out: and then, you see,

My own adventures might not be

Uninteresting to my friends:

I therefore ventured to prepare

A little book, designed with care,

To serve these humble ends.

Our stern head-master spoke to me

Severely:--'You appear

(_Horresco referens_) to be

A party pamphleteer.

If you _must_ write, let Cæsar's page

Or Virgil's poetry engage

Your all too numerous leisure hours:

But now annihilate and quash

This impious philanthropic bosh:

Or quit these antique towers.'

It seems that he who dares to write

Is all unfit to teach:

And literary fame is quite

Beyond an usher's reach.

I dared imprisonment in vain:

The little bantling of my brain

I am compelled to sacrifice.

The moral, after all, is this:--

That here, where ignorance is bliss,

'Tis folly to be wise.

A SONNET.

(WORDSWORTH)

Two voices are there: one is of the deep;

It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody,

Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,

Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:

And one is of an old half-witted sheep

Which bleats articulate monotony,

And indicates that two and one are three,

That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep:

And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times

Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,

The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst:

At other times--good Lord! I'd rather be

Quite unacquainted with the ABC

Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

SINCERE FLATTERY OF R. B.

(BROWNING)

Birthdays? yes, in a general way;

For the most if not for the best of men:

You were born (I suppose) on a certain day:

So was I: or perhaps in the night: what then?

Only this: or at least, if more,

You must know, not think it, and learn, not speak:

There is truth to be found on the unknown shore,

And many will find where few will seek.

For many are called and few are chosen,

And the few grow many as ages lapse:

But when will the many grow few: what dozen

Is fused into one by Time's hammer-taps?

A bare brown stone in a babbling brook:--

It was wanton to hurl it there, you say:

And the moss, which clung in the sheltered nook

(Yet the stream runs cooler), is washed away.

That begs the question: many a prater

Thinks such a suggestion a sound 'stop thief!'

Which, may I ask, do you think the greater,

Sergeant-at-arms or a Robber Chief?

And if it were not so? still you doubt?

Ah! yours is a birthday indeed if so.

That were something to write a poem about,

If one thought a little. I only know.

P.S.

There's a Me Society down at Cambridge,

Where my works, _cum notis variorum_,

Are talked about; well, I require the same bridge

That Euclid took toll at as _Asinorum_:

And, as they have got through several ditties

I thought were as stiff as a brick-built wall,

I've composed the above, and a stiff one _it_ is,

A bridge to stop asses at, once for all.

SINCERE FLATTERY OF W. W. (AMERICANUS).

(WHITMAN)

The clear cool note of the cuckoo which has ousted the legitimate

nest-holder,

The whistle of the railway guard dispatching the train to the

inevitable collision,

The maiden's monosyllabic reply to a polysyllabic proposal,

The fundamental note of the last trump, which is presumably D

natural;

All of these are sounds to rejoice in, yea to let your very ribs

re-echo with:

But better than all of them is the absolutely last chord of the

apparently inexhaustible pianoforte player.

TO A. T. M.

(F. W. H. MYERS)

See where the K., in sturdy self-reliance,

Thoughtful and placid as a brooding dove,

Stands, firmly sucking, in the cause of science,

Just such a peppermint as schoolboys love.

Suck, placid K.: the world will be thy debtor;

Though thine eyes water and thine heart grow faint,

Suck: and the less thou likest it the better;

Suck for our sake, and utter no complaint.

Near thee a being, passionate and gentle,

Man's latest teacher, wisdom's pioneer,

Calmly majestically monumental,

Stands: the august Telepathist is here.

Waves of perception, subtle emanations,

Thrill through the ether, circulate amain;

Delicate soft impalpable sensations,

Born of thy palate, quiver in his brain.

Lo! with a voice unspeakably dramatic,

Lo! with a gesture singularly fine,

He makes at last a lucid and emphatic

Statement of what is in that mouth of thine.

He could detect that peppermint's existence,

He read its nature in the book of doom;

Standing at some considerable distance;

Standing, in fact, in quite another room.

Was there a faint impenetrable essence

Wafted towards him from the sucking K.?

Did some pale ghost inform him of its presence?

Or did it happen in some other way?

These are the questions nobody can answer,

These are the problems nobody can solve;

Only we know that Man is an Advancer:

Only we know the Centuries revolve.

FRANCIS THOMPSON.

WAKE! FOR THE RUDDY BALL HAS TAKEN FLIGHT.

(EDWARD FITZGERALD)

Wake! for the Ruddy Ball has taken flight

That scatters the slow Wicket of the Night;

And the swift Batsman of the Dawn has driven

Against the Star-spiked Rails a fiery Smite.

Wake, my Belovèd! take the Bat that clears

The sluggish Liver, and Dyspeptics cheers:

To-morrow? Why, to-morrow I may be

Myself with Hambledon and all its Peers.

To-day a Score of Batsmen brings, you say?

Yes, but where leaves the Bats of yesterday?

And this same summer day that brings a Knight

May take the Grace and Ranjitsinjh away.

Willsher the famed is gone with all his 'throws,'

And Alfred's Six-foot Reach where no man knows;

And Hornby--that great hitter--his own Son

Plays in his place, yet recks not the Red Rose.

And Silver Billy, Fuller Pilch and Small,

Alike the pigmy Briggs and Ulyett tall,

Have swung their Bats an hour or two before,

But none played out the last and silent Ball.

Well, let them Perish! What have we to do

With Gilbert Grace the Great, or that Hindu?

Let Hirst and Spooner slog them as they list,

Or Warren bowl his 'snorter'; care not you!

With me along the Strip of Herbage strown,

That is not laid or watered, rolled or sown,

Where name of Lord's and Oval is forgot,

And peace to Nicholas on his bomb-girt Throne.

A level Wicket, as the Ground allow,

A driving Bat, a lively Ball, and thou

Before me bowling on the Cricket-Pitch--

O Cricket-pitch were Paradise enow!

II.

I listened where the Grass was shaven small,

And heard the Bat that groaned against the Ball:

Thou pitchest Here and There, and Left and Right,

Nor deem I where the Spot thou next may'st Fall.

Forward I play, and Back, and Left and Right,

And overthrown at once, or stay till Night:

But this I know, where nothing else I know,

The last is Thine, how so the Bat shall smite.

This thing is sure, where nothing else is sure,

The boldest Bat may but a Space endure;

And he who One or who a Hundred hits

Falleth at ending to thy Force or Lure.

Wherefore am I allotted but a Day

To taste Delight, and make so brief a stay;

For Meed of all my Labour laid aside,

Ended alike the Player and the Play?

Behold, there is an Arm behind the Ball,

Nor the Bat's Stroke of its own Striking all;

And who the Gamesters, to what end the Game,

I think thereof our Willing is but small.

Against the Attack and Twist of Circumstance

Though I oppose Defence and shifty Glance,

What Power gives Nerve to me, and what Assaults,--

This is the Riddle. Let dull bats cry 'Chance.'

Is there a Foe that [domineers] the Ball?

And one that Shapes and wields us Willows all?

Be patient if Thy Creature in Thy Hand

Break, and the so-long-guarded Wicket fall!

Thus spoke the Bat. Perchance a foolish Speech

And wooden, for a Bat has straitened Reach:

Yet thought I, I had heard Philosophers

Prate much on this wise, and aspire to Teach.

Ah, let us take our Stand, and play the Game,

But rather for the Cause than for the Fame;

Albeit right evil is the Ground, and we

Know our Defence thereon will be but lame.

O Love, if thou and I could but Conspire

Against this Pitch of Life, so false with Mire,

Would we not Doctor it afresh, and then

Roll it out smoother to the Bat's Desire?

ROBERT FULLER MURRAY.

THE POET'S HAT.

(TENNYSON)

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,

He passed through the doorway into the street,

A strong wind lifted his hat from his head,

And he uttered some words that were far from sweet.

And then he started to follow the chase,

And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet,

It made the people pause in a crowd,

And lay odds as to which would beat.

The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat,

The errand-boy shouted hooray!

The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand,

And smiled in a very rude way;

And the clergyman thought, 'I have heard many words,

But never, until to-day,

Did I hear any words that were quite so bad

As I heard that young man say.'

A TENNYSONIAN FRAGMENT.

[Inserted by special permission of the Proprietors of _Punch_.]

(TENNYSON)

So in the village inn the poet dwelt.

His honey-dew was gone; only the pouch,

His cousin's work, her empty labour, left.

But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung

And lingered all about the broidered flowers.

Then came his landlord, saying in broad Scotch

'Smoke plug, mon,' whom he looked at doubtfully.

Then came the grocer, saying, 'Hae some twist

At tippence,' whom he answered with a qualm.

But when they left him to himself again,

Twist, like a fiend's breath from a distant room

Diffusing through the passage, crept; the smell

Deepening had power upon him, and he mixt

His fancies with the billow-lifted bay

Of Biscay and the rollings of a ship.

And on that night he made a little song,

And called his song 'The Song of Twist and Plug,'

And sang it; scarcely could he make or sing.

'Rank is black plug, though smoked in wind and rain;

And rank is twist, which gives no end of pain;

I know not which is ranker, no, not I.

'Plug, art thou rank? then milder twist must be;

Plug, thou art milder: rank is twist to me.

O twist, if plug be milder, let me buy.

'Rank twist that seems to make me fade away,

Rank plug, that navvies smoke in loveless clay,

I know not which is ranker, no, not I.

'I fain would purchase flake, if that could be;

I needs must purchase plug, ah, woe is me!

Plug and a cutty, a cutty, let me buy.'

ANDREW M'CRIE.

(FROM THE UNPUBLISHED REMAINS OF

EDGAR ALLAN POE)

It was many and many a year ago,

In a city by the sea,

That a man there lived whom I happened to know

By the name of Andrew M'Crie;

And this man he slept in another room,

But ground and had meals with me.

I was an ass and he was an ass,

In this city by the sea;

But we ground in a way which was more than a grind,

I and Andrew M'Crie;

In a way that the idle semis next door

Declared was shameful to see.

And this was the reason that, one dark night,

In this city by the sea,

A stone flew in at the window, hitting

The milk-jug and Andrew M'Crie.

And once some low-bred tertians came,

And bore him away from me,

And shoved him into a private house

Where the people were having tea.

Professors, not half so well up in their work,

Went envying him and me--

Yes!--that was the reason, I always thought

(And Andrew agreed with me),

Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year,

Chilling and killing poor Andrew M'Crie.

But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts

Of many more famous than he--

Of many more gory than he--

And neither visits to foreign coasts,

Nor tonics, can ever set free

Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith

Of the injured Andrew M'Crie.

For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream,

'Have mercy, Mr. M'Crie!'

And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes,

And the very first thing they will see,

When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls,

Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals,

With a volume of notes on its knee,

Is the spectre of Andrew M'Crie.

UNKNOWN.

THE TOWN LIFE

(ROGERS)

Mine is a house at Notting Hill:

The Indian's tum-tum smites my ear;

A crowd enjoys a casual 'mill'

With no policeman lingering near.

The thief attempts the chain and watch

Conspicuous in my spacious vest;

Their balls of brass the tumblers catch,

In soiled and spangled garments dressed.

Around my steps street-organs bring

The dirtiest brats that can be seen;

And boys turn wheels, and niggers sing

To banjo and to tambourine.

The dustman bawls; the beggars tease

When coppers are not duly given;

Whilst papers, flowers, and fusees,

Annoy me six days out of seven.

FISH HAVE THEIR TIMES TO BITE.

(MRS. HEMANS)

Fish have their times to bite--

The bream in summer, and the trout in spring,

What time the hawthorn buds are white,

And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering.

The pike bite free when fall

The autumn leaves before the north-wind's breath,

And tench in June, but there are all--

There are all seasons for the gudgeon's death.

The trout his ambush keeps

Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne's eddying pools,

And patient still in Marlow deeps

For the shy barbel wait expectant fools.

Many the perch but small

That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought

Like Cookham's pike, but, oh! in all--

Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught.

The old man angles still

For roach, and sits red-faced and fills his chair;

And perch, the boy expects to kill,

And roves and fishes here and fishes there.

The child but three feet tall

For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply

His bending hazel, but by all--

Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.

ANOTHER ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND

(KINGSLEY)

Hang thee, vile North Easter:

Other things may be

Very bad to bear with,

Nothing equals thee.

Grim and grey North Easter,

From each Essex-bog,

From the Plaistow marshes,

Rolling London fog--

'Tired we are of Summer'

Kingsley may declare,

I give the assertion

Contradiction bare,

I, in bed, this morning

Felt thee, as I lay:

'There's a vile North Easter

Out of doors to-day!'

Set the dust clouds blowing

Till each face they strike,

With the blacks is growing

Chimney-sweeper like.

Fill our rooms with smoke gusts

From the chimney-pipe.

Fill our eyes with water,

That defies the wipe.

Through the draughty passage

Whistle loud and high,

Making doors and windows

Rattle, flap and fly;

Mark, that vile North Easter

Roaring up the vent,

Nipping soul and body,

Breeding discontent!

Squall, my noisy children;

Smoke, my parlour grate;

Scold, my shrewish partner;

I accept my fate.

All is quite in tune with

This North Eastern Blast;

Who can look for comfort

Till this wind be past?

If all goes contrary,

Who can feel surprise,

With this Rude North Easter

In his teeth and eyes?

It blows much too often.

Nine days out of ten,

Yet we boast our climate,

Like true English men!

In their soft South Easters

Could I bask at ease,

I'd let France and Naples

Bully as they please,

But while this North Easter

In one's teeth is hurled,

Liberty seems worth just

Nothing in the world.

Come, as came our fathers

Heralded by thee,

Blasting, blighting, burning

Out of Normandy.

Come and flay and skin us,

And dry up our blood--

All to have a Kingsley

Swear it does him good!

A GIRTONIAN FUNERAL.

(BROWNING)

The _Academy_ reports that the students of Girton College have

dissolved their 'Browning Society,' and expended its remaining funds,

two shillings and twopence, upon chocolate creams.

Let us begin and portion out these sweets,

Sitting together.

Leave we our deep debates, our sage conceits,--

Wherefore? and whether?

Thus with a fine that fits the work begun

Our labours crowning,

For we, in sooth, our duty well have done

By Robert Browning.

Have we not wrought at essay and critique,

Scorning supine ease?

Wrestled with clauses crabbed as Bito's Greek,

Baffling as Chinese?

Out the Inn Album's mystic heart we took,

Lucid of soul, and

Threaded the mazes of the Ring and Book;

Cleared up Childe Roland.

We settled Fifine's business--let her be--

(Strangest of lasses;)

Watched by the hour some thick-veiled truth to see

Where Pippa passes.

(Though, dare we own, secure in victors' gains,

Ample to shield us?

Red Cotton Night-cap Country for our pains

Little would yield us.)

What then to do? Our culture-feast drag out

E'en to satiety?

Oft such the fate that findeth, nothing doubt,

Such a Society.

Oh, the dull meetings! Some one yawns an _aye_,

One gapes again a _yea_.

We girls determined not to yawn, but buy

Chocolate Ménier.

Fry's creams are cheap, but Cadbury's excel,

(Quick, Maud, for none wait)

Nay, now, 'tis Ménier bears away the bell,

Sold by the ton-weight.

So, with unburdened brains and spirits light,

Blithe did we troop hence,

All our funds voted for this closing rite,--

Just two-and-two-pence.

Do--make in scorn, old Crœsus, proud and glum,

Peaked eyebrow lift eye;

Put case one stick's a halfpenny; work the sum;

Full two and fifty.

Off with the twine! who scans each smooth brown slab

Yet not supposeth

What soft, sweet, cold, pure whiteness, bound in drab.

Tooth's bite discloseth?

Are they not grand? Why (you may think it odd)

Some power alchemic

Turns, as we munch, to Zeus-assenting nod

Sneers Academic.

Till, when one cries, ''Ware hours that fleet like clouds,

Time, deft escaper!'

We answer bold: 'Leave Time to Dons and Dowds;

(Grace, pass the paper)

Say, boots it aught to evermore affect

Raptures high-flying?

Though _we_ choose chocolate, will the world suspect

Genius undying?'

NOTES

P. 1. _Rejected Addresses._ First published anonymously in the

autumn of 1812. The authors, James Smith (1775-1839) and Horace

Smith (1779-1849) were brothers, the former a solicitor, the latter

a stockbroker. James wrote a number of 'entertainments' for Charles

Mathews, who described him as 'the only man in London who can

write good nonsense.' Horace wrote more than a score of novels and

collections of stories, of which, perhaps, _Brambletye House_ is the

best remembered. It was of him that Shelley wrote, in the _Letter to

Maria Gisborne_:

Wit and sense,

Virtue and human knowledge; all that might

Make this dull world a business of delight,

Are all combined in Horace Smith.

How the _Rejected Addresses_ came to be written is told in the authors'

prefaces:

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

On the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement appeared in

most of the daily papers:--

'_Rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre._

'The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair

competition for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of

the Theatre, which will take place on the 10th of October

next. They have, therefore, thought fit to announce to

the public, that they will be glad to receive any such

compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the Treasury

Office, in Drury Lane, on or before the 10th of September,

sealed up; with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, on

the cover, corresponding with the inscription on a separate

sealed paper, containing the name of the author, which will

not be opened unless containing the name of the successful

candidate.'

Upon the propriety of this plan, men's minds were, as they

usually are upon matters of moment, much divided. Some thought

it a fair promise of the future intention of the Committee to

abolish that phalanx of authors who usurp the stage, to the

exclusion of a large assortment of dramatic talent blushing

unseen in the background; while others contended, that the

scheme would prevent men of real eminence from descending into

an amphitheatre in which all Grub Street (that is to say, all

London and Westminster) would be arrayed against them. The

event has proved both parties to be in a degree right, and in

a degree wrong. One hundred and twelve 'Addresses' have been

sent in, each sealed and signed, and mottoed, 'as per order,'

some written by men of great, some by men of little, and some

by men of no, talent.

Many of the public prints have censured the taste of the

Committee, in thus contracting for 'Addresses,' as they would

for nails--by the gross; but it is surprising that none should

have censured their _temerity_. One hundred and eleven of the

'Addresses' must, of course, be unsuccessful: to each of the

authors, thus infallibly classed with the _genus irritabile_,

it would be very hard to deny six staunch friends, who

consider his the best of all possible 'Addresses,' and

whose tongues will be as ready to laud him, as to hiss his

adversary. These, with the potent aid of the Bard himself,

make seven foes per Address; and thus will be created seven

hundred and seventy-seven implacable auditors, prepared to

condemn the strains of Apollo himself--a band of adversaries

which no prudent manager would think of exasperating.

But, leaving the Committee to encounter the responsibility

they have incurred, the public have at least to thank them

for ascertaining and establishing one point, which might

otherwise have admitted of controversy. When it is considered

that many amateur writers have been discouraged from becoming

competitors, and that few, if any, of the professional authors

can afford to write for nothing, and, of course, have not

been candidates for the honorary prize at Drury Lane, we may

confidently pronounce that, as far as regards NUMBER,

the present is undoubtedly the Augustan age of English

poetry. Whether or not this distinction will be extended to

the QUALITY of its productions, must be decided at

the tribunal of posterity; though the natural anxiety of our

authors on this score ought to be considerably diminished when

they reflect how few will, in all probability, be had up for

judgement.

It is not necessary for the Editor to mention the manner

in which he became possessed of this 'fair sample of the

present state of poetry in Great Britain.' It was his first

intention to publish the whole; but a little reflection

convinced him that, by so doing, he might depress the good,

without elevating the bad. He has therefore culled what had

the appearance of flowers, from what possessed the reality

of weeds, and is extremely sorry that, in so doing, he has

diminished his collection to twenty-one. Those which he has

rejected may possibly make their appearance in a separate

volume, or they may be admitted as volunteers in the files

of some of the Newspapers; or, at all events, they are sure

of being received among the awkward squad of the Magazines.

In general, they bear a close resemblance to each other;

thirty of them contain extravagant compliments to the immortal

Wellington and the indefatigable Whitbread; and, as the

last-mentioned gentleman is said to dislike praise in the

exact proportion in which he deserves it, these laudatory

writers may have been only building a wall against which they

might run their own heads.

The Editor here begs leave to advance a few words in behalf

of that useful and much abused bird the Phœnix; and in

so doing he is biased by no partiality, as he assures the

reader he not only never saw one, but (_mirabile dictu!_)

never caged one in a simile in the whole course of his life.

Not less than sixty-nine of the competitors have invoked the

aid of this native of Arabia; but as, from their manner of

using him after they had caught him, he does not by any means

appear to have been a native of _Arabia Felix_, the Editor has

left the proprietors to treat with Mr. Polito, and refused

to receive this _rara avis_, or black swan, into the present

collection. One exception occurs, in which the admirable

treatment of this feathered incombustible, entitles the author

to great praise; that address has been preserved, and was

thought worthy of taking the lead.

Perhaps the reason why several of the subjoined productions

of the MUSÆ LONDINENSES have failed of selection,

may be discovered in their being penned in a metre unusual

upon occasions of this sort, and in their not being written

with that attention to stage effect, the want of which, like

want of manners in the concerns of life, is more prejudicial

than a deficiency of talent. There is an art of writing for

the Theatre, technically called _touch and go_, which is

indispensable when we consider the small quantum of patience

which so motley an assemblage as a London audience can be

expected to afford. All the contributors have been very exact

in sending their initials and mottoes. Those belonging to the

present collection have been carefully preserved, and each

has been affixed to its respective poem. The letters that

accompanied the Addresses having been honourably destroyed

unopened, it is impossible to state the real authors with

any certainty; but the ingenious reader, after comparing the

initials with the motto, and both with the poem will form his

own conclusions.

We do not anticipate any disapprobation from thus giving

publicity to a small portion of the _Rejected Addresses_; for

unless we are widely mistaken in assigning the respective

authors, the fame of each Individual is established on much

too firm a basis to be shaken by so trifling and evanescent a

publication as the present:

----neque ego illi detrahere ausim

Hærentem capiti multa cum laude coronam.

Of the numerous pieces already sent to the Committee for

performance, we have only availed ourselves of three vocal

Travesties, which we have selected, not for their merit,

but simply for their brevity. Above one hundred spectacles,

melodramas, operas, and pantomimes have been transmitted,

besides the two first acts of one legitimate comedy. Some

of these evince considerable smartness of manual dialogue,

and several brilliant repartees of chairs, tables, and other

inanimate wits; but the authors seem to have forgotten that in

the new Drury Lane the audience can hear as well as see. Of

late our theatres have been so constructed, that John Bull has

been compelled to have very long ears, or none at all; to keep

them dangling about his skull like discarded servants, while

his eyes were gazing at piebalds and elephants, or else to

stretch them out to an asinine length to catch the congenial

sound of braying trumpets. An auricular revolution is, we

trust, about to take place; and as many people have been much

puzzled to define the meaning of the new era, of which we

have heard so much, we venture to pronounce, that as far as

regards Drury Lane Theatre, the new era means the reign of

ears. If the past affords any pledge for the future, we may

confidently expect from the Committee of that House everything

that can be accomplished by the union of taste and assiduity.

The text of the _Rejected Addresses_ here given is that of the

eighteenth edition with Horace Smith's annotations. The footnotes from

the _Edinburgh Review_ were taken from an article by Lord Jeffrey in

the number for November, 1812. It may be mentioned that the actual

addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Committee are preserved with

their covering letters in the Manuscript Department of the British

Museum, and that on the immediate success of the Smiths' parodies an

enterprising publisher issued a volume of _Genuine Rejected Addresses_

from the forty-three competitors who responded to his appeal for such.

The following is from the Preface to the eighteenth edition:

Our first difficulty, that of selection, was by no means a

light one. Some of our most eminent poets, such, for instance,

as Rogers and Campbell, presented so much beauty, harmony, and

proportion in their writings, both as to style and sentiment,

that if we had attempted to caricature them, nobody would

have recognized the likeness; and if we had endeavoured to

give a servile copy of their manner, it would only have

amounted, at best, to a tame and unamusing portrait, which

it was not our object to present. Although fully aware that

their names would, in the theatrical phrase, have conferred

great strength upon our bill, we were reluctantly compelled

to forgo them, and to confine ourselves to writers whose

style and habit of thought, being more marked and peculiar,

was more capable of exaggeration and distortion. To avoid

politics and personality, to imitate the turn of mind, as

well as the phraseology of our originals, and, at all events,

to raise a harmless laugh, were our main objects: in the

attainment of which united aims, we were sometimes hurried

into extravagance, by attaching much more importance to the

last than to the two first. In no instance were we thus

betrayed into a greater injustice than in the case of Mr.

Wordsworth--the touching sentiment, profound wisdom, and

copious harmony of whose loftier writings we left unnoticed,

in the desire of burlesquing them; while we pounced upon

his popular ballads, and exerted ourselves to push their

simplicity into puerility and silliness. With pride and

pleasure do we now claim to be ranked among the most ardent

admirers of this true poet; and if he himself could see the

state of his works, which are ever at our right hand, he

would, perhaps, receive the manifest evidences they exhibit of

constant reference, and delighted re-perusal, as some sort of

_amende honorable_ for the unfairness of which we were guilty,

when we were less conversant with the higher inspirations of

his muse. To Mr. Coleridge, and others of our originals, we

must also do a tardy act of justice, by declaring that our

burlesque of their peculiarities, has never blinded us to

those beauties and talents which are beyond the reach of all

ridicule.

One of us had written a genuine Address for the occasion,

which was sent to the Committee, and shared the fate it

merited, in being rejected. To swell the bulk, or rather to

diminish the tenuity of our little work, we added it to the

Imitations; and prefixing the initials of S. T. P. for the

purpose of puzzling the critics, were not a little amused, in

the sequel, by the many guesses and conjectures into which

we had ensnared some of our readers. We could even enjoy the

mysticism, qualified as it was by the poor compliment, that

our carefully written Address exhibited no 'very prominent

trait of absurdity,' when we saw it thus noticed in the

_Edinburgh Review_ for November, 1812. 'An Address by S. T.

P. we can make nothing of; and professing our ignorance of

the author designated by these letters, we can only add, that

the Address, though a little affected, and not very full of

meaning, has no very prominent trait of absurdity, that we

can detect; and might have been adopted and spoken, so far

as we can perceive, without any hazard of ridicule. In our

simplicity we consider it as a very decent, mellifluous,

occasional prologue; and do not understand how it has found

its way into its present company.'

Urged forward by hurry, and trusting to chance, two very bad

coadjutors in any enterprise, we at length congratulated

ourselves on having completed our task in time to have

it printed and published by the opening of the theatre.

But, alas! our difficulties, so far from being surmounted,

seemed only to be beginning. Strangers to the arcana of

the bookseller's trade, and unacquainted with their almost

invincible objection to single volumes of low price,

especially when tendered by writers who have acquired no

previous name, we little anticipated that they would refuse

to publish our _Rejected Addresses_, even although we asked

nothing for the copyright. Such however, proved to be the

case. Our manuscript was perused and returned to us by several

of the most eminent publishers. Well do we remember betaking

ourselves to one of the craft in Bond Street, whom we found in

a back parlour, with his gouty leg propped upon a cushion, in

spite of which warning he diluted his luncheon with frequent

glasses of Madeira. 'What have you already written?' was

his first question, an interrogatory to which we had been

subjected in almost every instance. 'Nothing by which we can

be known.' 'Then I am afraid to undertake the publication.'

We presumed timidly to suggest that every writer must have

a beginning, and that to refuse to publish for him until he

had acquired a name, was to imitate the sapient mother who

cautioned her son against going into the water until he could

swim. 'An old joke--a regular Joe!' exclaimed our companion,

tossing off another bumper. 'Still older than Joe Miller,'

was our reply; 'for, if we mistake not, it is the very first

anecdote in the facetiæ of Hierocles.' 'Ha, sirs!' resumed

the bibliopolist, 'you are learned, are you? So, soh!--Well,

leave your manuscript with me; I will look it over to-night,

and give you an answer to-morrow.' Punctual as the clock we

presented ourselves at his door on the following morning, when

our papers were returned to us with the observation--'These

trifles are really not deficient in smartness; they are well,

vastly well for beginners; but they will never do--never. They

would not pay for advertising, and without it I should not

sell fifty copies.'

This was discouraging enough. If the most experienced

publishers feared to be out of pocket by the work, it was

manifest, _a fortiori_, that its writers ran a risk of being

still more heavy losers, should they undertake the publication

on their own account. We had no objection to raise a laugh

at the expense of others; but to do it at our own cost,

uncertain as we were to what extent we might be involved, had

never entered into our contemplation. In this dilemma, our

_Addresses_, now in every sense rejected, might probably have

never seen the light, had not some good angel whispered us to

betake ourselves to Mr. John Miller, a dramatic publisher,

then residing in Bow Street, Covent Garden. No sooner had this

gentleman looked over our manuscript, than he immediately

offered to take upon himself all the risk of publication,

and to give us half the profits, _should there be any_; a

liberal proposition, with which we gladly closed. So rapid and

decided was its success, at which none were more unfeignedly

astonished than its authors, that Mr. Miller advised us to

collect some _Imitations of Horace_, which had appeared

anonymously in the _Monthly Mirror_, offering to publish

them upon the same terms. We did so accordingly; and as new

editions of the _Rejected Addresses_ were called for in quick

succession, we were shortly enabled to sell our half copyright

in the two works to Mr. Miller, for one thousand pounds!! We

have entered into this unimportant detail, not to gratify any

vanity of our own, but to encourage such literary beginners as

may be placed in similar circumstances; as well as to impress

upon publishers the propriety of giving more consideration to

the possible merit of the works submitted to them, than to the

mere magic of a name.

To the credit of the _genus irritabile_ be it recorded, that

not one of those whom we had parodied or burlesqued ever

betrayed the least soreness on the occasion, or refused to

join in the laugh that we had occasioned. With most of them

we subsequently formed acquaintanceship; while some honoured

us with an intimacy which still continues, where it has not

been severed by the rude hand of Death. Alas! it is painful

to reflect, that of the twelve writers whom we presumed to

imitate, five are now no more; the list of the deceased

being unhappily swelled by the most illustrious of all, the

_clarum et venerabile nomen_ of Sir Walter Scott! From that

distinguished writer, whose transcendent talents were only to

be equalled by his virtues and his amiability, we received

favours and notice, both public and private, which it will

be difficult to forget, because we had not the smallest

claim upon his kindness. 'I certainly must have written this

myself!' said that fine-tempered man to one of the authors,

pointing to the description of the Fire, 'although I forget

upon what occasion.' Lydia White, a literary lady, who was

prone to feed the lions of the day, invited one of us to

dinner; but, recollecting afterwards that William Spencer

formed one of the party, wrote to the latter to put him off;

telling him that a man was to be at her table whom he 'would

not like to meet.' 'Pray who is this whom I should not like

to meet?' inquired the poet. 'Oh!' answered the lady, 'one

of those men who have made that shameful attack upon you!'

'The very man upon earth I should like to know!' rejoined the

lively and careless bard. The two individuals accordingly met,

and have continued fast friends, ever since. Lord Byron, too,

wrote thus to Mr. Murray from Italy--'Tell him we forgive him,

were he twenty times our satirist.'

It may not be amiss to notice, in this place, one criticism of

a Leicestershire clergyman, which may be pronounced unique: 'I

do not see why they should have been rejected,' observed the

matter-of-fact annotator; 'I think some of them very good!'

P. 1. _Loyal Effusion._ By Horace Smith. Fitzgerald (1759?-1829) was a

ready versifier who was self-appointed laureate of public events for a

number of years. He was especially notable for his persistent recital

of patriotic lines at the annual dinners of the Royal Literary Fund.

The piece of his which Smith possibly had more particularly in mind was

the 'Address to every Loyal Briton on the Threatened Invasion of his

Country.'

P. 2. _By Wyatt's trowel._ James Wyatt (1746-1813) was the architect of

the rebuilt Drury Lane Theatre.

_Let hoarse Fitzgerald bawl._ Byron (_English Bards and Scotch

Reviewers_, line 1) wrote 'shall,' not 'let.'

P. 4. _The Baby's Debut._ By James Smith.

P. 6. _the Young Betty mania._ William Henry West Betty (1791-1874)

first appeared on the stage in his twelfth year, and retired with a

fortune in his seventeenth. Though he occasionally reappeared on the

boards in manhood, he never repeated his early success.

P. 7. _An Address without a Phœnix._ This was the genuine address

which Horace Smith had sent in for competition (see p. 397).

P. 9. _Cui Bono._ The opening stanza by James, the rest by Horace Smith.

P. 13. _The Tradesman duns._ Originally, 'The plaintiff calls.'

P. 15. _To the Secretary_ and _a Hampshire Farmer_. By James Smith.

William Cobbett (1762-1835) became Member of Parliament for Oldham in

1832.

P. 16. _Mr. Whitbread._ Samuel Whitbread (1758-1815), brewer and

politician, Member of Parliament for Bedford, was Chairman of the

Committee for the rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre.

P. 19. _The Living Lustres._ By Horace Smith.

The following three stanzas were originally included:--between the

third and fourth:

Each pillar that opens our stage to the circle is

Verdant antique, like Ninon de l'Enclos;

I'd ramble from them to the pillars of Hercules,

Give me but Rosa wherever I go.

Between the fourth and fifth:

Attun'd to the scene when the pale yellow moon is on

Tower and tree they'd look sober and sage.

And when they all winked their dear peepers in unison,

Night, pitchy night would envelop the stage.

Ah! could I some girl from yon box for her youth pick,

I'd love her as long as she blossomed in youth;

Oh! white is the ivory case of her toothpick,

But when beauty smiles how much whiter the tooth!

P. 21. _The Rebuilding._ By James Smith.

P. 29. _Laura Matilda._ Horace Smith, the author of _Drury's Dirge_,

wrote that 'the authors, as in gallantly bound, wish this lady to

continue anonymous,' and as a consequence there have been several

attempts to pierce the veil of anonymity. One annotator boldly 'assumes

the lady to have been' Letitia Elizabeth Landon (1802-1836), who was

ten years of age when the _Rejected Addresses_ were published. The

motto from _The Baviad_ which stands at the head of the parody is

sufficient indication that the original was to be found among the

'Della Cruscans,' whose 'namby-pamby' verses, after appearing in the

_World_, were published in two volumes as _The British Album_ in 1790

(see the note on p. 405). The chief lady among those sentimentals was

'Anna Matilda,' otherwise Hannah Cowley (1743-1809), a dramatist of

considerable, and a poet of but little, ability. As Mrs. Cowley had

died three years before the Addresses were sent in, it is probable

either that the parodists did not know of her death or that they merely

meant to make fun of the school of which she was a leader. The passage

from Gifford's _Baviad_ given by way of motto is taken from that part

of the satire in which the writers of _The British Album_ are more

particularly castigated.

P. 32. _A Tale of Drury Lane._ By Horace Smith.

P. 38. _Johnson's Ghost._ By Horace Smith.

P. 42. _The Beautiful Incendiary._ By Horace Smith. Spencer's

best-remembered work is the tragic ballad of _Beth Gelert_.

P. 46. _Fire and Ale._ By Horace Smith.

P. 49. _Playhouse Musings._ By James Smith.

P. 52. _Drury Lane Hustings._ By James Smith. The 'Pic-Nic Poet,' in

parodying the popular songs of the day, seems a very good imitation

of the improvisings for which Theodore Hook came to be famous. The

description suggests, however, that no particular writer was aimed at

in the parody. Both James and Horace Smith had ten years before been

contributors to a short-lived magazine entitled the _Pic-Nic_.

P. 54. _Architectural Atoms._ By Horace Smith. Thomas Busby

(1755-1838), organist, musical composer, and man of letters. By way of

supplement to the authors' note it may be said that the Address printed

in the newspapers at the time as that sent in by Dr. Busby, and

parodied by Lord Byron (see p. 174), was not the Address actually sent

in, for that (preserved in the British Museum) begins:

Ye social Energies! that link mankind

In golden bonds--as potent as refined!

Byron used quotation effectively in _Don Juan_, Canto I, ccxxii.:

'Go, little book, from this my solitude!

I cast thee on the waters--go thy ways!

And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,

The world will find thee after many days.'

When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood,

I can't help putting in my claim to praise--

The four first rhymes are Southey's, every line:

For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine!

BYRON: _Don Juan_, Canto I., ccxxii.

P. 62. _Theatrical Alarm Bell._ By James Smith.

_committee of O.P.'s, etc._ Referring to the tumultuous scenes at

Covent Garden Theatre in 1809, when for sixty-seven successive nights

there was uproar due to the attempt of the management to raise the

prices of admission. Both James and Horace Smith appear to have written

verse contributions to the newspaper warfare which accompanied, and

served to stimulate, the disturbance in the theatre in favour of Old

Prices.

P. 64. _The Theatre._ By James Smith. Spencer, referred to in the

footnote, is the writer of society verse parodied in _The Beautiful

Incendiary_ (p. 42).

P. 69. _To the Managing Committee, etc._ By James Smith.

_The Hamlet Travestie._ By John Poole. Was published in 1810, and acted

at Drury Lane in 1813.

_The Stranger_, translated by Benjamin Thompson from _Menschenhass und

Reue_, by August von Kotzebue (1761-1819)--one line is remembered:

'There is another and a better world'--and _George Barnwell_, by George

Lillo (1693-1739), based on the ballad in Percy's _Reliques_, were

sensational plays that enjoyed considerable popularity in the early

part of the nineteenth century.

P. 72. _Mrs. Haller._ One of the principal characters in _The Stranger_.

P. 76. _Punch's Apotheosis._ By Horace Smith. Theodore Hook wrote a

number of light plays and farces before he was out of his teens, and

was long notable for the way in which he could improvise such false

gallop of verses as is parodied in _Punch's Apotheosis_.

P. 82. _Can Bartolozzi's... Could Grignion's._ The work of the

engravers, Francesco Bartolozzi (1725-1815) and Charles Grignion

(1717-1810), was much in use for sumptuously illustrated books.

_The epic rage of Blackmore._ Sir Richard Blackmore (d. 1729), a

physician-poet, who wrote _Prince Arthur, an Heroick Poem_; _Eliza, an

Epic Poem_; _Alfred, an Epic Poem_; and various other works which the

world has willingly let die.

P. 83. _With Griffiths, Langhorne, Kenrick, etc._ Ralph Griffiths

(1720-1803) was founder, proprietor, publisher, and sometime editor

of _The Monthly Review_, the contributors to which included John

Langhorne (1735-1779), the translator of Plutarch, and William Kenrick

(1725?-1779).

P. 86. The first lines are an imitation of Pope's _Dunciad_:

The mighty Mother, and her son, who brings

The Smithfield Muses to the ears of Kings, etc.

_Lo! the poor toper_ is imitated from Pope's _Essay on Man_:

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind

Sees God in clouds, and hears Him in the wind, etc.

P. 87. _Catherine Fanshawe._ The parody on Gray was sent by Miss

Fanshawe to her friend, Miss Berry (one of Walpole's Misses Berry),

with a letter purporting to be a letter of thanks to her for permission

to read the verses, which, it was pretended, had been sent by Miss

Berry, their author, to Miss Fanshawe for approval. The reference to

Sydney Smith is to his lectures on 'Moral Philosophy' delivered at the

Royal Institution, 1804-1806. Payne was a fashionable milliner of the

period.

P. 92. _A Fable._ Dryden's _The Hind and the Panther_:

A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged,

Fed on the lawns and in the forest ranged.

_The Course of Time._ Robert Pollok's poem, despite this parody, was so

popular that from its first publication in 1827 to 1868 it attained a

sale of 78,000 copies.

P. 93. _Canning and Frere._ _The Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin_, 1852 and

1854, has been followed in attributing the authorship of the various

parodies to Canning and others. The authority consists of Canning's own

copy of the _Anti-Jacobin_, that of Lord Burghersh, that of Wright the

publisher, and information given by Upcott.

_Inscription._ Southey's poem was an 'inscription for the apartment in

Chepstow Castle where Henry Marten, the regicide, was imprisoned for

thirty years.'

For thirty years secluded from mankind,

Here Marten linger'd.

It was written in 1795, but Southey excluded it from later editions

of his works issued when he was no longer in sympathy with the French

Revolution. Mrs. Brownrigg, the wife of a house-painter, was hanged at

Tyburn for murder.

P. 94. _The Soldier's Wife._ Southey's _The Soldier's Wife_:

Weary way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart,

Travelling painfully over the rugged road;

Wild-visaged wanderer! Ah, for thy heavy chance.

Coleridge wrote the third stanza, indicated by asterisks in the second

imitation. Southey finally suppressed this poem also.

_Dilworth and Dyche._ A reference to Thomas Dilworth's _Guide to the

English Tongue_ (1761) and Thomas Dyche's _Guide to the English Tongue_

(1709).

P. 95. _Sapphics._ Southey's _The Widow_:

Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell;

Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,

When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey,

Weary and way-sore.

George Tierney was the 'Friend of Humanity.' The original shared the

fate of the other two poems in being finally suppressed.

P. 97. _The Loves of the Triangles._ Darwin's _Loves of the Plants_.

Frere wrote the first lines to 'And liveried lizards wait upon her

call' (p. 99); Ellis from that point to 'Twine round his struggling

heart, and bind with endless chain' (p. 101); Canning, Ellis, and Frere

were the joint-authors of the portion from 'Thus, happy France' to

'And folds the parent-monarch to her breast' (p. 102), Canning alone

being responsible for the following twelve lines; and the trio finished

the parody together. As a rule only portions of this masterpiece _sui

generis_ have hitherto been reprinted.

P. 104. _Lodi's blood-stained Bridge._ Napoleon beat the Austrians at

Lodi on May 10, 1796.

P. 105. _Muir, Ashley, etc._ Thomas Muir (1765-1798) was a

Parliamentary reformer; Thomas Paine (1737-1809), author of the _Rights

of Man_; Archibald Hamilton Rowan (1751-1834), a prominent United

Irishman; Ashley and Barlow evade identification.

P. 107. _Song by Rogero._ _The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement_, was

a travesty of German drama, in particular of Schiller's _Robbers_,

Kotzebue's _The Stranger_, and Goethe's _Stella_, and it was performed

at the Haymarket Theatre in 1811. It is the work of Canning, Ellis,

and Frere, but only the first two wrote this 'song' (according to some

authorities Pitt is credited with the last verse), having in mind

Pitt's friend, Sir Robert Adair, who was educated at Göttingen. The

editors of the _Anti-Jacobin_ say: 'The song of Rogero with which the

first act concludes is admitted on almost all hands to be in the very

first taste, and if no German original is to be found for it, so much

the worse for the credit of German literature.' This parody has itself

often been parodied--by, among others, R. H. Barham, whose topic was

the newly established London University.

P. 109. _James Hogg._ The Ettrick Shepherd's _Poetic Mirror, or the

Living Bards of Great Britain_, was published anonymously in 1816,

and it is generally admitted that his parodies of style are among the

finest in the language. They are, however, overlong, and we have been

obliged to be content with the 'song' alone from the parody of Scott,

which, complete, would occupy more than seventy pages.

P. 115. _The light-heel'd author of the Isle of Palms._ John Wilson

('Christopher North') who published _The Isle of Palms and other Poems_

in 1812.

P. 124. _Joan I chose._ Southey's _Joan of Arc_ was published in 1796.

_The next, a son, I bred a Mussulman. Thalaba the Destroyer_, 1801.

_A tiny thing... from the north... with vengeful spite_ was probably

meant for the _Edinburgh Review_.

P. 125. _My third, a Christian and a warrior true. Madoc_, 1805.

_And next, his brother, a supreme Hindu. The Curse of Kehama_, 1810.

P. 128. _The Curse._ The closing lines are a faithful imitation of 'the

Curse' in _The Curse of Kehama_, which ends:

Thou shalt live in thy pain

While Kehama shall reign,

With a fire in thy heart,

And a fire in thy brain;

And Sleep shall obey me,

And visit thee never

And the Curse shall be on thee

For ever and ever.

P. 128. _And C--t--e shun thee._ Possibly Cottle, the publisher and

friend of Southey.

P. 129. _The Gude Greye Katt._ A parody of Hogg's own narrative, _The

Witch of Fyfe_.

P. 142. _Sonnets Attempted, etc._ These appeared originally in the

second number of the _Monthly Magazine_ in November, 1797, with the

signature of 'Nehemiah Higginbottom.' Coleridge described them as

written--

'in ridicule of my own Poems, and Charles Lloyd's and Lamb's,

etc., etc., exposing that affectation of unaffectedness, of

jumping and misplaced accent in commonplace epithets, flat

lines forced into poetry by italics (signifying how well and

mouthishly the author would read them), puny pathos, etc.,

etc. The instances were almost all taken from myself and Lloyd

and Lamb.'

The first sonnet, Coleridge said,

had for its object to excite a good-natured laugh at the

spirit of doleful egotism and at the recurrence of favourite

phrases, with the double object of being at once trite and

licentious. The second was on low creeping language and

thoughts under the pretence of _simplicity_. [Lamb had written

some months earlier, 'Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge.'] The

third, the phrases of which were borrowed entirely from my own

poems, on the indiscriminate use of elaborate and swelling

language and imagery.... So general at that time and so

decided was the opinion concerning the characteristic vices

of my style that a celebrated physician (now, alas! no more)

speaking of me in other respects with his usual kindness to

a gentleman who was about to meet me at a dinner-party could

not, however, resist giving him a hint not to mention _The

House that Jack Built_ in my presence, for that I was as sore

as a boil about that sonnet, he not knowing that I was myself

the author of it. (_See_ the Oxford Coleridge.)

P. 144. _Amatory Poems._ It is curious that Southey, who had taken

offence at Coleridge's sonnet _To Simplicity_, signed 'Nehemiah

Higginbottom,' believing it directed against himself, should

himself have turned parodist and adopted the similar name of 'Abel

Shufflebottom' a couple of years later. Coleridge wrote, so he

declared, that he might do the young poets good; Southey, it may

be believed, merely to make fun of that band of vain and foolish

versifiers who came to be known as 'the Della Cruscans.' Haunters

of the book-stalls may yet occasionally light upon two small volumes

entitled _The British Album, containing the Poems of Della Crusca, Anna

Matilda, Arley, Benedict, the Bard, etc., etc. Which were originally

published under the Title of the Poetry of the World, revised and

corrected by the Respective Authors_. The second edition was dated

1790, and the work was still current when the brothers Smith gave their

Laura Matilda parody in the _Rejected Addresses_ (see p. 29). A few

stanzas of one of 'Della Crusca's' poems addressed to 'Anna Matilda'

will suffice to indicate the stuff which Southey was satirising:

While the _dear Songstress_ had melodious stole

O'er ev'ry sense, and charm'd each nerve to rest,

_Thy Bard_ in silent ecstasy of soul,

Had strain'd the _dearer Woman_ to his breast.

Or had she said, that _War's the worthiest grave_,

He would have felt his proud heart burn the while,

Have dar'd, perhaps, to rush among the brave,

Have gain'd, perhaps, the glory--of a smile.

And 'tis most true, while Time's relentless hand,

With sickly grasp drags _others_ to the tomb,

The Soldier scorns to wait the dull command,

But springs impatient to a nobler doom.

Tho' on the plain _he_ lies, outstretch'd, and pale,

Without one friend his steadfast eyes to close,

Yet on his honour'd corse shall many a gale,

Waft the moist fragrance of the weeping rose.

O'er that dread spot, the melancholy Moon

Shall pause a while, a sadder beam to shed,

And starry Night, amidst her awful noon,

Sprinkle light dews upon his hallow'd head.

There too the solitary Bird shall swell

With long-drawn melody her plaintive throat,

While distant echo from responsive cell,

Shall oft with fading force return the note.

Such recompense be Valour's due alone!

To me, no proffer'd meed must e'er belong.

To me, who trod the vale of life unknown,

Whose proudest boast was but an idle song.

'Della Crusca,' the chief of the band, was Robert Merry (1755-1798).

The 'Della Cruscans' may be said to have been killed by ridicule by

Gifford's _Baviad_ and _Maeviad_.

P. 151. _Epicedium._ This appeared originally under the title 'Gone or

Going' in Hone's _Table Book_ (1827), and was reprinted by Lamb in his

_Album Verses_. It is an echo rather than a close parody of Michael

Drayton's _Ballad of Agincourt_, of which the fifth stanza runs:

And for myself (quoth he)

This my full rest shall be,

England ne'er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me.

Victor I will remain,

Or on this earth lie slain,

Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

P. 153. _Hypochondriacus._ This formed part of some imitations (mostly

prose) which Lamb described as _Curious Fragments extracted from a

Commonplace Book which belonged to Robert Burton, the famous Author of

the Anatomy of Melancholy_ (1801). Though it is parody of matter more

than of manner, it has echoes of Burton's _Abstract of Melancholy_,

which prefaces the _Anatomy_.

P. 154. _Nonsense Verses._ Here Lamb parodies the sentiment which had

inspired his own poem, _Angel Help_, written on a picture showing a

girl who had been spinning so long for the support of a bed-ridden

mother that she had fallen asleep, while angels were shown finishing

her work and watering a lily.

P. 155. _The Numbering of the Clergy._ Sir Charles Hanbury Williams's--

Come, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses,

For sweeter sure never girl gave;

But why, in the midst of my blisses,

Do you ask me how many I'd have?

P. 156. _Peacock._ All these parodies but the last (the Byron) are from

Peacock's _Paper Money Lyrics_ published in 1837, but written ten or

twelve years earlier 'during the prevalence of an influenza to which

the beautiful fabric of paper-credit is periodically subject.'

P. 160. _Prœmium of an Epic._ Southey's _Thalaba the Destroyer_:

'How beautiful is night!'

P. 165. _Song by Mr. Cypress._ The quintessence of Byron as distilled

by Peacock into what Swinburne calls 'the two consummate stanzas which

utter or exhale the lyric agony of Mr. Cypress.' The lines occur in

_Nightmare Abbey_.

P. 166. _The Patriot's Progress._ Shakespeare, _As You Like It_, Act

II., Scene 7.

P. 167. _Our Parodies are Ended. The Tempest_, Act. IV., Sc. 1.

P. 167. _Fashion._ Milton's _L'Allegro_.

P. 171. _Verses._ The 'Editor' was Leigh Hunt, editor of the

_Examiner_, imprisoned for two years (1814-15) in Surrey Gaol for

libelling the Prince Regent. The authorship of this parody is often

wrongfully attributed.

_Never hear Mr. Br----m make a speech._ Henry, afterwards Lord,

Brougham.

_Law._ Edward Law Baron Ellenborough, Lord Chief Justice.

P. 172. _But Cobbett has got his discharge._ William Cobbett had been

imprisoned for two years (1810-12) for his strictures on the Government

of the day.

_To Mr. Murray_. John Murray was 'Bookseller to the Admiralty and the

Board of Longitude.' He had possessed, and parted with, a share in

_Blackwood's Magazine_.

_Strahan, Tonson, Lintot_, the publishers and booksellers of the

eighteenth century.

P. 174. _Busby._ Dr. Busby had been one of the unsuccessful writers

of an Address for the opening of Drury Lane (see p. 54 and note). The

lines and words in inverted commas were from the Address which Busby

printed as having been sent in, not from the one that he did send in,

which is preserved in the British Museum.

_As if Sir Fretful._ Sir Fretful Plagiary, of course, from Sheridan's

_The Critic_.

P. 176. _Margate._ Two stanzas, complete in themselves, from Mr.

Peters's story, 'The Bagman's Dog,' in the _Ingoldsby Legends_. Byron's

_Childe Harold_, Canto IV.

P. 177. _Not a sous had he got._ Barham notes that during the

controversy in 1824 as to the authorship of 'The Burial of Sir John

Moore,' a--

claimant started up in the person of a _soi-disant_ 'Dr.

Marshall,' who turned out to be a Durham blacksmith and

his pretensions a hoax. It was then that a certain 'Doctor

Peppercorn' put forth _his_ pretensions, to what he averred

was the 'true and original' version--the somewhat vulgar

parody reprinted from _The Ingoldsby Legends_.

Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.--Virgil.

I wrote these lines--... owned them--he told stories!

THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

P. 178. _The Demolished Farce._ Bayly's own popular song:

Oh no, we never mention her,

Her name is never heard.