Chapter XI: Letter VIII: The Rejected “national Hymns.” (5)

Fair Hebe was haunted with sorrow
And died ’mong the faded flowers,
While, alas! on the sad to-morrow,
Phœbus trod through the dreamy hours――
Sought alone the blighted bowers.
Not a glimpse of hope could he borrow――
Ever lost to this world of ours!
While Venus ne’er stayed to console him
But fled in the night and the gloom;
E’en Love never stayed to condole him,
But fled when young Hope lost her bloom;
E’en Somnus no more can control him――
Death’s darkness before him doth loom,
And pale death must soon be _his_ doom;
And they’ll bury him deep in Hope’s tomb.

And fair Hebe no more can return,
Until the death of life is done,
Until the race of life is run,
And the future vanquish’d, yet won,
And the goal eternal won――
Till she’s drunk of the Letheian river,
And Phœbus and Hope have for ever
Mingled their beings in one.

This imitation of _Ulalume_, written by Mr. John H. Ingram, was published in 1863, when its author was in his teens. The little volume which contained it, entitled “Poems by Dalton Stone,” has been suppressed, and is now very scarce.

――――:o:――――

LENORE.

I.

Ah! broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for ever!
Let the bell toll! a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?――weep now, or nevermore!
See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love Lenore!
Come, let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be sung;
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young,――
A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so young.

II.

“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health ye blessed her, that she died!
How _shall_ the ritual, then, be read――the requiem how be sung,
By you――by yours, the evil eye――by yours, the slanderous tongue,
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young.”

III.

_Peccavimus_; but rave not thus; and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong:
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride;
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair, but not within her eyes,――
The life still there upon her hair, the death upon her eyes.

IV.

“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days.
Let _no_ bell toll; lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnèd earth.
To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven;
From hell unto a high estate far up within the heaven,
From grief and groan, to a golden throne beside the King of heaven.”

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

This poem was published in 1844, and it has been suggested that it was probably founded on the melancholy fate of Lady Flora Hastings. This lady, who was attached to the Royal Household, became the victim of rumours affecting her reputation, and was very severely treated by the Queen and the Duchess of Kent. Although the innocence of Lady Flora was subsequently clearly established, she was unable to survive the disgrace and injustice inflicted on her, and died in July, 1839. But _Lenore_ although published in 1844 was merely a revision of a poem which had appeared in an early volume of Poe’s writings, before the Lady Flora Hastings scandal.

――――:o:――――

THE SUPPER OF THE FOUR.

_Remiges quinque a Nunehamo reversi in Ricardi hospitis
cœnaculum intrant, ex quibus quidam sic loquitur_:

“Ah! ’pon my word, you fellows, I’m as tired as I was ever!
For supper shout, and let the scout know we’re come from the river;
And a cushion quick! a cushion, Dick, give now or nevermore,
For on this bare cane-bottom chair I will not sit: I’m sore.
Come let the mackerel soused be brought, the pigeon-pie, the tongue,
The cider-cup and straws, and let the radishes be young;
Oh! William, bring the radishes, and William, bring them young.”

_Cui Speculator._

“Commons for five, sir, pigeon-pie, I’m ordered to provide,
And beer as usual, I suppose, and cider-cup beside.
The mackerel soused, sir, shall be brought, and ham, and lamb, and
tongue,
And potted meats, and salad too, and radishes, sir, young;
I’ll get them if I can, and, sir, I’ll try to get them young.”

_Horrenda post cœnam voce cantantes cœteros sic excipit
Ricardus hospes_:

“Cœnavimus; but howl not thus: let our Noachian song
Float on the air so tunefully the dean may feel no wrong.”

_Noachii Carminis epitome_:

“St. James’s Park received the ark on its primeval tide,[6]
All creatures wild thereto beguiled were stabled safe inside;
By ones, by pairs, they mount the stairs, they mount by threes and
fours,
Fowls came from perches, beasts from lairs, and thronged about the
doors,
By five, by six, by seven, by eight, by nine, by ten, by scores.”

_Tum solito hilarior factus hospes olim tristissimus exclamat_:

“Hurrah! to-night my heart is light! no blues I’ll conjure up,
But drown the demons out of sight in a draught of cider-cup;
We’ll drain it dry, then let us try to soothe our temperate mirth,
The comfort of post-prandial pipe, ere each one seek his berth,
May health to all our friends and bane to all our foes be given!”

_Propinant omnes._

Now for the pipe and then to sleep, like to the sleepers seven,
From toil and boose to snore and snooze sound as the sleepers seven.

_Odd Echoes from Oxford_, by A. MERION, B.A.
London, J. C. Hotten, 1872.

FOR ANNIE.

I.

Thank Heaven, the crisis,
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last;
And the fever called “living”
Is conquered at last.

II.

Sadly I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length;
But no matter; I feel
I am better at length.

* * * * *

VIII.

And, ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed――
And, to _sleep_, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
* * * * *
EDGAR A. POE.

――――:o:――――

TRISTAN AND ISOLDE.
(_By one who does not appreciate Wagner._)

Thank heaven the music
Is silent at last,
And the howling trombones
Have ended their blast;
And the opera called ‘Tristan’
Is finished at last.

Sadly I know
Of its “wonderful strength”
As I dared not to move
Through its wearisome length;
But no matter I feel
It is quiet――at length.

For I could not be dozing,
Nor yet nod my head,
Lest any stall holder
Should fancy me dead;
To the beauty of Wagner
(Alas! I _was_ dead.)

The moaning and groaning,
The shrieking and sobbing,
All quieted now
With that horrible throbbing
Of fiddles,――that horrible
Horrible throbbing.

The noise and the bluster,
The leitmotif’s pain;
The pitiless torture
Of melody vain;
The “melody endless,”
That torturing strain.

For oh! of all tortures,
That motif was worst,
That creepingly crawling
Motif at first;
That writhed like a serpent
And did all its worst
To crush all one’s senses
Of tune, from the first.

The music roared on
An inferno of sound,
That’s heard by a few
Very far underground,――
In a place that’s not quoted
Far under the ground.

And oh! let it never
Be foolishly said,
That Wagner’s not gloomy,
Altho’ he be dead,――
And nothing but good
Should be said of the dead;
Yet that were too awful
A lie, tho’ he’s dead.

Tho’ my heart is a stout one
And feels passing bold, a
World full of perils
I’d dare, but for gold, a
Fortune past counting
I’d shrink to behold, a――
Again that mad opera
Tristan and Isolde.
J. W. G. W., 1884.
(Written expressly for this collection).

COVENT GARDEN.
_By a Lover of Poe-try._

A Garden of gardens it teaches
The bard, ever blatant, to bless
The pumpkins, the plums, and the peaches,
The salads not easy to dress;――
Pears, pumpkins, and pulpiest peaches,
Camelia, cabbage, and cress,
The pumpkins, the pippins, the peaches
Cut cabbage, and crisply curled cress!
Oh, of luscious luxurious lunches,
The poet loves _one_ lunch, and that’s
Of bananas in bountiful bunches,
And melons as big as your hats,
Black currants, bananas in bunches,
And cocoa nuts, mothers of mats――
For of science if you are a lover
You’ll know they’re the mothers of mats,
That the cocoa nut’s cortical cover
Machinery makes into mats,
Into fuscous and fibre-fringed mats.

_Fun_, July 20, 1867.

――――:o:――――

HYGIEA.

(A sanitary Lyric, imitated from Edgar Poe’s “Ligiea,”
and dedicated by Mr. Punch to Dr. Richardson.)

Hygiea! Hygiea!
Most exigent one!
I have an idea
Thou pokest thy fun.
Oh! is it thy will
To make noodles of us,
By urging us still
So to worry and fuss
Concerning our bodies,
What’s eaten, what’s drunk,
Until we’re mere noddies
In chronic blue funk?

Hygiea, thou’rt clever;
But, ’twixt you and me,
To fidget for ever
Is fiddle-de-dee.
We mustn’t eat this,
And we mustn’t drink that,
Lest sound health we should miss,
Grow too thin or too fat,
Must go in for analysis
Of all “grub” about
Lest we court cramp, paralysis,
Fever, or gout;
Mustn’t travel by rail,
Must shun riding in cabs;
Must,――but time would quite fail
To tell half of thy “fads.”
If a mortal (I think)
_Could_ such vigilance keep,
He would ne’er eat or drink,
He would ne’er toil or sleep.

_Sanitas sanitatum_
Is all very fine;
But my _ultimatum_
Is this――I must dine!
And if I stop grubbing
Till all’s fair and clear,
I shall do nought but “tubbing”
For many a year.
Esculapius’ daughter,
With thee I agree,
Pure air and cold water,
Are needful to me;
But perpetual worry
’Bout stomachs and nerves,
And this, that, and ’tother,
No good purpose serves.
“Nine Systems,” Hygiea,
Perhaps I possess,
Though I’d an idea
The number was less.
But to square work and feast
By the rules thou art giving,
Would take nine lives at least,
And not one much worth living.

_Punch_, October 23, 1880.

――――:o:――――

A NEW POEM SAID TO BE BY POE.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY GRAPHIC.

“So many spurious poems purporting to be by Poe are now
brought forward for public approbation that I feel some
hesitation in yielding to my inclination to send you the
following, which first appeared in the _Looking Glass_ some
years ago, and which I have very slight reason to believe
was written by Poe himself, as it is quite as characteristic
as anything of the sort I have seen in a number of years.
FRANTIC JERRY FOODLE.”

THE DEMON OF THE DOLDRUMS.

One night I lay a-dreaming,
In the moonlight that was streaming
In a flood of liquid glory,
Pouring on my counterpane;
Up and down were goblins tumbling,
On the slanting beams, and crumbling
’Twixt their fingers all the moonlight
In a shower of golden rain.

And some a crimson liquor
Caught and poured it in a bicker
Crowned with crystal listel pistils
Of some rare and wondrous rose,
Whose penetrative fragrance,
In its sinuous mystic vagrance,
Filled my chamber with an odor
That none merely mortal knows.

Ah! that odor――who can tell it?
None but ghouls and angels smell it
Oinoglyphic, soporific,
Hedonific, and divine.
And it seemed as if a censer
Full of pastiles, but immenser
Than a tun of old Madeira
Had been emptied of its wine.

Then methought that with a wobblin’
Strode a lynx-eyed mouse-backed goblin
Down from off the ebon footboard
And along the silken quilt,
And within the moonlight glinting
Capered with a demon squinting,
And a winking and a drinking,
And a horrid, nasty lilt.

Ah! my lips were as dry as paper
When I saw the demon caper,
As with finger pointing ever
At the opalescent bowl
He kept laughing, he kept quaffing,
With his nose much more than half in
That liquor, which did flicker
Like a burning human soul.

Ah! I longed but once to taste it
(As I saw the demon waste it),
And my coppers, hot as stoppers
Of a bowl of molten lead,
Ached to quaff that golden liquor,
From the bicker quick and quicker,
And to roll it down my gullet,
As I tossed upon my bed.

Swift I stretched my hand to seize it,
When I heard a voice cry “Cheese it!”
And my head against the bed-post
Falling, crashing, came ca-bunk;
And the demons did evanish,
Like to spirits walking Spanish,
And I heard much lively chinning
’Bout a man who _would_ get drunk.

ANOTHER CHAPTER
ON
“THE RAVEN.”
――――

On page 217 of the second volume of the life of Edgar Allan Poe, Mr. J. H. Ingram quotes the following extract from one of his letters:――“Have you seen ‘The Moral for Authors’ a new Satire by J. E. Tuel? Who, in the name of Heaven, _is_ J. E. Tuel? The book is miserably stupid! He has a long parody of the ‘Raven’――in fact, nearly the whole thing seems to be aimed at me. If you have not seen it and wish to see it I will send it.”

Poe was well within the mark when he stigmatised “The Moral for Authors” as a miserably stupid production. It was published in 1849 by Stringer and Townsend of New York, and consisted of forty-eight pages of rhyme almost entirely destitute of reason. On one page, it is true, the author vainly attempts a feeble parody of Lord Macaulay’s style, and there is, of course, the parody of the “Raven.” As Poe, himself, has alluded to this, students of his life and works may probably wish to refer to it, which they would have great difficulty in doing as copies of the pamphlet are now exceedingly scarce. I therefore reprint the parody in full, from a copy kindly lent me by Mr. J. H. Ingram.

It is dated from the――

_PLUTONIAN SHORE_,
_Raven Creek, In the Year of Poetry_

_Before the Dismal Ages_, _A.D._ 18――――

“Once upon a midnight dreary, as I ponder’d weak and weary
Over many a weary volume of recent published lore――
While I nodded o’er ‘_The Sleeper_,[7]’ suddenly I heard a creeper,
As of some one peering deeper-deeper in my chamber door;
’Tis some author new, I mutter’d, or some other midnight bore;
Only this and nothing more!”

“Oh! distinctly I that volume do remember in its solemn
And sleepy double column as it fell upon the floor――
Eagerly I wished to borrow from ‘COOPER’S LAST’ of sorrow,
Or my own dark books of horror――horror for having more!
A sure cure for the blues, which were darkly creeping o’er
My ‘_Dream_,’ and nothing more.”

“And the bleak and dread re-over turning of each volume cover
Chill’d me――filled me with fantastic poems, never penned before,
So that, to still the rushing of my thoughts towards the head-in,
I said, “tis an author sure, entreating entrance through the key-hole
door;
A waylaid child of Poetry on a midnight ‘bust,’ or more,
Or else some other bore.’”

“Presently my pen grew fiery,――hesitating an inquiry,
‘Sir,’ said I (or Madman!), ‘truly your late visit I deplore;
For the fact is, I’m inditing a piece of murky writing,
And so unseeming you came lighting, lighting on my chamber door,
Which was never done before’――here he bolted in the door,
And sat down upon the floor.”

“Then this strange trick beguiling my phrenzy into smiling,
By the cool audacious impudence his brazen features wore――
Tho’ thy hat is old and napless, thou, I said, art sure not sapless,
Young and tender in thy hapless wand’rings from thy mother’s shore;
Tell me why thy _business_ here is on this dark and dismal floor?”
Quoth the Author, ‘Read _this_ o’er.’”

“Much I wonder’d this ambitious youth to see an act so vicious,
Tho’ its answer good deal meaning, I voted him a bore――
For we cannot help believing that no genius living grieving
Ever yet was blind in seeing a Manuscript read o’er
By the ‘Reader’ in a book-shop, or Book-boy in a store,
Yet he cried on, ‘Read it o’er!’”

“Startled at the stillness broken by reply so greenly spoken,
Said I, ‘Before like POE you flutter you should like BRYANT soar
Forc’d from some disaster――perhaps you think to master
Something in the Markette faster, faster than was ever sold before
Till the bird-en of your hopes is ‘Read it o’er――read it o’er.’
Quoth the Author, ‘Nothing more!’”

“But the Author still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I plac’d the faded Manuscript in front of Author, book and
door,
Then into its beauties sinking, I betook myself to thinking
What this young aspiring Author with his Manuscript, and more;
What this bold, presumptuous Youth, with his head bor’d through a
bore,
Meant in saying, ‘Read it o’er!’”

“Thus I sat, engaged in reading, but no syllable revealing,
To the Youth, whose fiery eyes roll’d a fiery phrenzy o’er,
And o’er its pages turning, with thoughts of mystic learning,
I began a critique burning on its MATHEWS style and more,
When coming to a chapter, which I heartily did deplore,
Cried the Author, ‘Read _it_ o’er.’”

“Then methought the style grew duller, and the hero rather fuller
Of thoughts which even BLUE-PARD never gloated o’er.
‘Man!’ I cried, ‘thy brain has turn’d thee――by this chapter I have
learn’d thee;
‘Re-write――re-write――and re-_pen_ thee these pages blotted o’er――
‘Take-oh! take it, and re-_pen_-_t_ thee――and correct these pages
more:
Cried the author, ‘Read it o’er.’”

“‘Author!’ said I, ‘Imp of Evil――Author great, or Good or Devil,
Whether PUTNAM sent or HARPER toss’d thee here ashore,
Dull and stupid, yet undaunted――on this sheet romantic wasted――
On this floor by volumes haunted――tell me plainly, I implore,
Is there――is there sense in this? tell me, tell me, I implore;
Quoth the author, ‘Read it o’er!’”

“‘Author!” said I, “thing of peril――of paper, ink and ferrel,
By that Public which looks over us――by that Fame we both adore,
Tell this head with furies laden if, within the distant trade-en
It shall find in man or maiden one to read its pages o’er,
And yet the chorus of your melody is ‘Read it o’er――read it o’er.’
Quoth the Author, ‘Nothing more!’”

“Be that word our sign of parting, Author, Fiend, ‘I shrieked
upstarting,
Get thee back unto the HARPERS on Cliff Street’s Plutonian shore,
Leave no blank page as a token of that word thy tongue has spoken,
Leave my murky thoughts unbroken――quit the threshold of my door,
Take thy Manuscript ‘out’ with thee and take thyself from out my
door.’
Quoth the Author, ‘Read it o’er!’”

“And the Author never flitting still is sitting, still is sitting
On a bust of pallid Manuscripts just above my chamber door;
And his pen has all the seeming of an engine ever teeming,
And the smoke that’s from it streaming throws his shadow on the floor
And the only words this engine repeats is ‘Read it o’er, Read it o’er,’
And nothing more.”

――――:o:――――

THE GOBLIN GOOSE.
A CHRISTMAS NIGHTMARE.

ONCE, it happened I’d been dining, on my couch I slept reclining,
And awoke with moonlight shining brightly on my bedroom floor;
It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as I remember,
But I had no dying ember, as Poe had; when near the door,
Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber door,
Stood a bird,――and nothing more.

And I said, for I’m no craven, “Are you EDGAR’S famous raven,
Seeking as with him a haven――were you mixed up with LENORE?”
Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence strange he
uttered――
“Hang LENORE,” he mildly muttered; “you have seen me once before,
Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely once before.
I’m the Goose,”――and nothing more.

Then he murmured, “Are you ready?” and with motion slow and steady,
Straight he leapt upon my bed. I simply gave a stifled roar;
And I cried, “As I’m a sinner, at a Goose Club I was winner,
’Tis a mem’ry of my dinner, which I ate at half-past four;
Goose well stuffed with sage and onions, which I ate at half-past
four.”
Quoth he hoarsely, “Eat no more!”

Said I, “I’ve enjoyed your juices, breast and back; but tell me,
Goose, is
This revenge, and what the use is of your being such a bore?
For goose-flesh I will no more ‘ax’ if you’ll not sit on my thorax.
Go, try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your throat is sore;
You speak gruffly though too plainly, and I’m sure your throat is
sore.”
Quoth the nightmare, “Eat no more!”

“Goose!” I shrieked out, “Leave, oh, leave me! surely you don’t mean
to grieve me?
You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance must be o’er;
Though to-night you’ve brought me sorrow, comfort surely comes
to-morrow.
Some relief from thee I’d borrow at my doctor’s ample store,
There are pills of purest azure in that doctor’s ample store.”
Quoth the goblin, “Eat no more!”

And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a nightmare still is sitting
With me all the night, emitting words that thrill my bosom’s core;
Now, throughout the Christmas season, while I lie and gasp and wheeze,
on
Me he sits, until my reason nothing surely can restore,
I am driven mad, and reason nothing surely can restore;
While that Goose says, “Eat no more.”

_Punch_, January 1, 1881.

――――:o:――――

THE COLLEGE CRAVEN.

Once when in the evening walking, with my darling softly talking,
Wandering by the shining river, as we’d often done before;
While the clear full moon was beaming, on the flowing waters gleaming,
And the little waves were streaming, streaming, rippling towards
the shore
Like small bars of silver dancing, gliding in towards the shore,
Noiseless save for splash of oar.

Oh, distinctly I remember ’twas in bright and clear September
Soon after I had returned to this ancient seat of lore,
Vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease to sorrow,
Fearing, dreading that the _harrow_ would pass over me once more,
Little hoped I for Testamur, dreading to be _ploughed_ once more,
Ploughed perhaps for evermore.

So I pondered deeply thinking, fancy into fancy linking,
Balmy air of cool night drinking soothingly through every pore.
Whilst I wandered with my dearest, and the moon was at her clearest,
Earth to heaven seemed the nearest it had ever been before;
Life was sweeter at that moment than it had ever been before,
Than it will be evermore.

Thus while we were gently strolling, pleasant thoughts our minds
enrolling,
Suddenly I heard a footstep that I had not heard before,
And I felt my blood run colder, and in fact was no way bolder,
As I felt upon my shoulder the “bulldog’s” hand I so abhor,
Then he said with gleeful malice those old words I so abhor
“The proctor wants you,” nothing more.

“Bulldog,” cried I, “thing of evil, how I wish you at the devil,”
But the “bulldog,” most ferocious, never let me from his paw,
But before the proctor hurried, who my wits completely flurried,
Since they were already worried, “Your name and college I implore,
And your presence in the morning I must earnestly implore,”
Quoth the proctor, nothing more.

In the morning by fears riven, though against them I had striven,
That the penalty was heavy I in no way could ignore.
But my case being duly stated, I was most severely rated,
And within the college gated, gated till the term was o’er,
Ne’er to wander forth at even till the weary term was o’er,
Only this, and nothing more.
P. G. S.
Wadham College, Oxford, Nov., 1884.

――――:o:――――

THE (C)RAVEN STUDENT.

Once upon a morning dreary, through my lodging window smeary,
Came the cold and blacks and street-cries making getting up a bore!
And I wished I still were napping: suddenly I heard a tapping,
As of some one pertly rapping, rapping at my chamber door!
“’Tis,” growled I, “that maid of all-work rapping at my chamber-door――
What on earth can it be for.”

But too well do I remember that hungriest, dreariest November;
Not a single blessèd ember cast its glow upon the floor,
Nor dared I hope that on the morrow I could venture more to borrow
On my books, which, to my sorrow, had been carried by the score
“To my uncle’s,” by the slattern whom the Missis called Lenore――
Why, I could not say, I’m sure.

And the shiv’ring, cold, uncertain rustling of each paper curtain
Told me of a bleaker draught than I had ever felt before;
So that, while to rise objecting, I turned again and lay reflecting,
Through the crazy rattling sashes as the rain now came by dashes,――
I began to think the knocking at the panel of my door
Was the wind, and nothing more.

Soon again it came, and stronger; hesitating then no longer,――
“Girl,” I cried, “had you but listened, you could well have heard me
snore,
“For the fact is, I was napping when so rudely you came rapping;
And if you again come tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
I will give you such a slapping as you never had before!”
Shrieked the maiden:――“Never, sure!”

By the Author of “Flemish Interiors.”

――――:o:――――

“The Raven” has been repeatedly translated. A Latin version, by Lewis Gidley, was published in Exeter in 1863, and again in 1866 by Parker of Oxford and London. There are several German versions of it, also a French translation by William Hughes. But perhaps the most famous of all is the grand folio published in Paris in 1875, entitled “LE CORBEAU, traduction française de Stéphane Mallarmé, avec Illustrations par Edouard Manet.” The translation is literal, and naturally loses much of the force and beauty of the original from the absence of rhyme. It lacks also much of the weird suggestiveness of “The Raven,” whilst the refrain “Jamais-plus” is but a poor substitute for the sonorous “Nevermore!” Manet, the late chief of the Impressionist School of Painters, has here given full vent to his powers, and his eccentricity. In some of his illustrations the effects of light and shade are marvellous, in others he has been less successful, whilst in one or two instances the illustrations appear absolutely meaningless.

_Notes and Queries_ recently quoted an anecdote of a Raven which must have been an ancestor of Poe’s sinister bird. It is taken from a rare little book, to which it gives the subject of 166 pages of edifying preachment, and of course is firmly believed in by the author. The following is the title:――

“Vox Corvi; or the Voice of a Raven, that Thrice spoke
these words distinctly: Look into Colossians the 3rd and
15th. The Text it self looked into, and opened, in a
Sermon, Preached at Wigmore, in the County of Hereford, To
which is added, Serious Addresses to the People of this
Kingdom; shewing the use we ought to make of this _Voice
from Heaven_. By ALEX. OLOGIE, Minister of Wigmore, &c.
Licensed according to order. Matth. 21, xviii. London,
1694.”

The details are thus circumstantially related:――

“On the 3d. of February, 1691, about Three in the
Afternoon, this Reverend Divine, a person of the venerable
Age of 80 years, and 40 of those a Laborious Teacher of
God’s Word, in the Parish of Wigmore, in the County of
Hereford, being in the Hall of his own house, being with
the Pious Matron, his Wife, some Neighbours and Relations,
together with two small Grand-Children of his, in all to
the number of Eight Persons; Thomas Kinnersley, one of the
said Grand-Children, of but Ten Years of Age, starting up
from the Fireside, went out of the Hall-Door, and sate
himself down upon a Block by a Wood-pile, before the Door,
employing himself in no other Childlike Exercise than
cutting of a Stick, when in less than half a quarter of an
Hour, he returned into the Hall in great amazement, his
Countenance pale, and affrighted, and said to his
Grandfather and Grandmother, LOOK IN THE THIRD OF THE
COLOSSIANS, AND THE FIFTEENTH, with infinite Passion and
Earnestness, repeating the words no less than three Times,
which Deportment and Speech much surprising the whole
Company, they asked him what he meant by those words, who
answered with great Ardency of Spirit, that a RAVEN had
spoken them Three times from the Peak of the Steeple, and
that it looked towards W. W.’s House, and shook its HEAD
and WINGS thitherwards, directing its Looks and Motions
still towards that House. All which words he heard the
RAVEN distinctly utter three times, and then saw it mount
and fly out of sight. His Grandfather hereupon, taking the
Bible, and turning to the said Text, found these words.
‘And let the Peace of God rule in your Hearts, to the
which you are also called in one Body; and be ye
thankful.’ Upon reading whereof, the Child was fully
satisfied, and his countenance perfectly composed agen
[_sic_].”

POE-TICAL FORGERIES.

Whilst recently turning over some odd volumes on a bookstall, in my never ending search for _Parodies_, a loose newspaper cutting fell out of one of them. It was headed “Edgar Allan Poe,” and the obliging proprietor of the bookshop, where this occurred, seeing the interest I took in the subject, kindly gave me the slip, which I reprint below. Although the letter is dated “August 31” no year is given, nor was there anything on the cutting to indicate from what paper it had been taken. However, after considerable searching amongst the newspaper files in the British Museum I was enabled to trace it to _The Morning Star_ (London) of September 1, 1864.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

SIR――I have noticed with interest and astonishment the
remarks made in different issues of your paper respecting
Edgar A. Poe’s “Raven,” and I think the following fantastic
poem (a copy of which I enclose), written by the poet whilst
experimenting towards the production of that wonderful and
beautiful piece of mechanism, may possibly interest your
numerous readers. “The Fire-Fiend” (the title of the poem I
enclose) Mr. Poe considered incomplete and threw it aside in
disgust. Some months afterwards, finding it amongst his
papers, he sent it in a letter to a friend, labelled
facetiously, “To be read by fire-light at midnight, after
thirty drops of laudanum.” I was intimately acquainted with
the mother-in-law of Poe, and have frequently conversed with
her respecting “The Raven,” and she assured me that he had
the idea in his mind for some years, and used frequently to
repeat verses of it to her and ask her opinion of them,
frequently making alterations and improvements, according to
the mood he chanced to be in at the time, Mrs. Clemm, knowing
the great study I had given to “The Raven,” and the
reputation I had gained by its recital throughout America,
took great interest in giving me all the information in her
power, and the life and writings of Edgar A. Poe have been
the topic of our conversation for hours.
Respectfully,
M. M.’CREADY.”
London, August 31.

THE FIRE-FIEND.
A NIGHTMARE.

I.

In the deepest depth of midnight, while the sad solemn swell
Still was floating, faintly echoed from the Forest Chapel Bell――
Faintly, falteringly floating o’er the sable waves of air
That were through the Midnight rolling, chafed and billowy with the
tolling――
In my chamber I lay dreaming by the fire-light’s fitful gleaming,
And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed on a heart fore-doomed to
Care!

II.

At the last long lingering echo of the midnight’s mystic chime――
Lifting through the sable billows to the Thither Shore of time――
Leaving on the starless silence not a token nor a trace――
In a quivering sigh departed; from my couch in fear I started:
Started to my feet in terror, for my Dream’s phantasmal error
Painted in the fitful fire a frightful, fiendish, flaming face!

III.

On the red hearth’s reddest centre, from a blazing knot of oak,
Seemed to gibe and grin this Phantom when in terror I awoke,
And my slumberous eyelids straining as I staggered to the floor,
Still in that dread Vision seeming, turned my eyes toward the gleaming
Hearth, and――there! oh, God! I saw it! and from out its flaming Jaw it
Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, gurgling stream of gore!

IV.

Speechless; struck with stony silence; frozen to the floor I stood,
Till methought my brain was hissing with that hissing, bubbling,
blood:――
Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from those lambent lips:――
Till the Demon seemed to name me; then a wondrous calm o’ercame me,
And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a death-damp stiff and gluey,
And I fell back on my pillow in apparent soul-eclipse!

V.

Then, as in Death’s seeming shadow, in the icy Pall of Fear
I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous murmur to my ear:――
Came a murmur like the murmur of assassins in their sleep:――
Muttering, “Higher! Higher! Higher! I am Demon of the Fire!
I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire! and each blazing roof’s my pyre,
And my sweetest incense is the blood and tears my victims weep!”

VI.

“How I revel on the Prairie! How I roar among the Pines!
How I laugh when from the village o’er the snow the red flame shines,
And I hear the shrieks of terror, with a Life in every breath!
How I scream with lambent laughter as I hurl each crackling rafter
Down the fell abyss of Fire, until higher! higher! higher!
Leap the High Priests of my Altar in their merry Dance of Death!”

VII.

“I am monarch of the Fire! I am Vassal-King of Death!
World-encircling, with the shadow of its Doom upon my breath!
With the symbol of Hereafter flaming from my fatal face!
I command the Eternal Fire! Higher! higher! higher! higher!
Leap my ministering Demons, like Phantasmagoric lemans
Hugging Universal Nature in their hideous embrace!”

VIII.

Then a sombre silence shut me in a solemn shrouded sleep,
And I slumbered like an infant in the “Cradle of the Deep,”
Till the Belfry in the Forest quivered with the matin stroke,
And the martins, from the edges of its lichen-lidden ledges,
Shimmered through the russet arches where the Light in torn files
marches,
Like a routed army struggling through the serried ranks of oak.

IX.
Through my ivy fretted casement filtered in a tremulous note
From the tall and stately linden where a Robin swelled his throat:――
Querulous, quaker breasted Robin, calling quaintly for his mate!
Then I started up, unbidden, from my slumber nightmare ridden,
With the memory of that Dire Demon in my central Fire
On my eye’s interior mirror like the Shadow of a Fate!

X.

Ah! the fiendish Fire had smouldered to a white and formless heap,
And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed upon my sleep;
But around its very centre, where the Demon Face had shone,
Forked shadows seemed to linger, pointing as with spectral finger
To a BIBLE, massive, golden, on a table carved and olden――
And I bowed, and said, “All Power is of God, of God alone!”

On showing this poem to Mr. J. H. Ingram he at once pronounced it a forgery, and from his remarkable collection of books relating to E. A. Poe he produced a small volume of 104 pages clad in green and gold, entitled _The Fire-Fiend and other Poems_, by Charles D. Gardette. Published in New York by Messrs. Bunce and Hartington in 1866. The book contains “The Fire-Fiend” and “Golgotha,” both written in imitation of E. A. Poe, and some poems entitled “War Echoes” and “Vagaries” of no particular interest. The account given of the origin of the hoax perpetrated on the public by the author of “The Fire-Fiend” is contained in the

_PRE-NOTE._

“A few――and but a few――words of explanation seem appropriate
here, with reference to the poem which gives title to this
volume.

The “FIRE-FIEND” was written some six years ago, in
consequence of a literary discussion wherein it was
asserted, that the marked originality of style, both as to
conception and expression, in the poems of the late EDGAR
ALLEN (_sic_) POE, rendered a successful imitation difficult
even to impossibility. The author was challenged to produce
a poem, in the manner of “_The Raven_,” which should be
accepted by the general critic as a genuine composition of
Mr. POE’S, and the “FIRE-FIEND” was the result.

This poem was printed as “from an unpublished MS. of the
late EDGAR A. POE,” and the hoax proved sufficiently
successful to deceive a number of critics in this country,
and also in England where it was afterwards republished (by
Mr. MACREADY, the tragedian), in the _London Star_, as an
undoubted production of its _soi-disant_ author.

The comments upon it by the various critics, professional
and others, who accepted it as Mr. POE’S, were too
flattering to be quoted here, the more especially since, had
the poem appeared simply as the composition of its real
author, these gentlemen would probably have been slow to
discover in it the same merits. The true history of the
poem, and its actual authorship, being thus succinctly
given, there seems nothing further to be said, than to
remain, very respectfully, the Reader’s humble servant,
THE AUTHOR.”

The poem which follows “The Fire-Fiend” is nearly as clever an imitation of Poe’s verbal eccentricities, but is perhaps a trifle too ghastly to be pleasant reading:――

GOLGOTHA:
A PHANTASM.

While the embers flare and flicker, gathering shadows thick and
thicker――
While the slender shaded lamplight sheds a glimmer gray and dull――
On my mantle, smoke encrusted, o’er two war-knives hacked and rusted,
In my fascinated vision grins a dark and dented Skull!

Through the midnight Forest leaping――Death’s red harvest fresh from
reaping――
Once this skull was steeped and drunken in a revelry of gore:
In his crimson orgie shrieking, mad with lust, and murder reeking――
Thus the Blood-Avenger found him――smote him!――and he raved no more!

In that forest, leaf-enfolded, many a nameless year he mouldered,
Withered, shrivelled, fell to utter dry and desolate decay;
Till of all his savage glory naught there was to tell the story
Save this dark uncouth and dented skull I found, and bore away!

With the coward thought to mock it, in each eyeball’s blackened socket
Once I set a globe of silver as a dread and dismal jest.
Oh! full often has the glitter of those pale orbs caused a bitter
Burst of sharp and sudden terror to a timid twilight guest!

But to-night their flashes daunt me, and their changing glances haunt
me,
And their cold glare shivers through me like a scymitar of ice!
Well I know their threat is seeming――that no life is in their
gleaming,
Yet my soul is strangely troubled by my own accurst device!

Ay! my soul is strangely troubled! and my heart-throbs fiercely
doubled!
And I cannot wrench my gaze from off those silver demon balls!
To my brain their blaze seems burning――Ah! by Heaven! I saw them
turning!
Yes! see――see them! there! they roll! O God! a red light from them
falls!
* * * * *

How its white teeth glint and glisten! Listen! Am I mad! O, listen!
No! It speaks! I hear a whisper rattle through its hollow jaws!
“With this jest my front adorning, Pale-Face, you are blindly
scorning――
Sadly, sorrowfully scorning all your Being’s Primal Laws!

“Count the dim descent of ages! Turn Life’s crisp and crumbling pages!
Is a single leaf forgotten in this Golgotha of Doom?
Fool! You bear a fragile carnal shroud around your ghastly charnel
But to add another atom to the Inevitable Doom!

“I have stripped my shroud before you: You, perchance, now wear it
o’er you!
Every shred of Life is worn from the Dead Past o’er and o’er!
Through the years the Earth is heaving with this weird and wondrous
weaving,
And your slender thread but waiteth till the Loom hath need for
more!”
* * * * *

It hath ceased! There is no glimmer on the hearth! The lamp grows
dimmer,
Dimmer, dimmer,――now it flickers, flashes, wildly flares―― is fled!
Through the Darkness round me heaving, now I hear a sound of weaving,
As a mighty loom were working, viewless, with a viewless thread!

THE BELLS.

I.

Hear, the sledges with the bells――
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the Heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells――
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II.

Hear the mellow wedding-bells――
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats,
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,――
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells.

III.

Hear the loud alarum bells――
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire.
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavour
Now, now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the dangers ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells――
Of the bells――
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells――
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!

IV.

Hear the tolling of the bells――
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people――ah, the people――
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone,
They are neither man nor woman――
They are neither brute nor human――
They are Ghouls;
And their King it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells;
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells;
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells――
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme
To the throbbing of the bells――
Of the bells, bells, bells――
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells――
Of the bells, bells, bells,――
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells――
Bells, bells, bells――
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
(First Published after the Author’s death.)

――――:o:――――

THE SWELLS.
_By Edgardo Pooh._

See the Gardens with the swells――
Noble swells!
What power of foolery their presence here foretels!
How they chatter, chatter, chatter,
To each other left and right,
What to them is any matter?
Since their tailor and their hatter,
Are their sole delight.
Running tick, tick, tick,
And hastening to Old Nick,
By expending time and money on dancing, dicing, _belles_,
Are the swells, swells, swells, swells,
Swells, swells, swells!
Are the foolish and profligate young swells.

See the dressy little swells――
Snobby swells!
What a world of happiness that Moses’ paletot tells!
Through the murky air of night,
How they shout out their delight,
From their Cashmere-shawled throats,
And out of tune,
What a drunken ditty floats
To the gas-lamps shining on policemen’s coats,
On their shoon!
Oh, from out the Bow-street cells,
What a gush of harmony uproariously wells!
How it smells!
How it knells――
For the morrow! how it tells
Of the folly that impels
To the laughing and the quaffing
Of the swells, swells, swells,
Of the swells, swells, swells, swells,
Swells, swells, swells,
Of the dining and the fine-ing of the swells!
See the literary swells――
Writing swells!
What a tale of envy now their turbulency tells,
How they quarrel, snarl, and fight
With each other as they write!
Much too dignified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
With their pen,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the buyer,
In a mad expostulation with the dazed and doubting buyer!
And they leap high, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavour
Now――now to sit or never――
On a throne above all other men.

See the venerable swells!
By-gone swells!
What a world of solemn thoughts their gaiety compels!
In their ancient fashioned coats,
In their stiff cravatted throats,
How we recognize the Regent and his _corps_!
There remains now not e’en one,
All, all the set are gone,
_Ils sont morts_!
Save the few men――ah! these few men!
Who are left among the new men
All alone!
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
Through their days, mere skin and bone,
Feel a pleasure now in spoiling
Each hearty, healthy tone――
Do these swells, swells, swells,
These swells, swells, swells, swells,
Swells, swells, swells,
These worn-out used up, godless, ancient swells!

_Our Miscellany._――By E. H. YATES and R. B. BROUGH, 1857.

――――:o:――――

THE BALL-ROOM BELLES.

See, the ball-room full of belles,
Merry belles,
What an evening of flirtation their merriment foretells.
How they chatter, chatter, chatter,
Through the mazy Mabel valse.
Mothers glancing, but what matter!
Pleasant partners how they flatter,
Never dreaming girls are false
When they sigh, sigh, sigh,
And pretend that they would die――
But they dream of expectations of the golden studded swells
Hear the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
Hear the laughing and the chaffing of the belles.

See the richly-dowered belles,
Golden belles,
How they cotton to the stupid-headed swells.
With what grace and matchless art
They can play their pretty part
For the quartered coats of arms!
Champerones
How they advertise the charms
Of their darlings,――with ever ready alarms
Undertones!
Oh! and then these high-born swells,
What a want of education their conversation tells.
How it sells,
How it dwells
Upon bathos! how it tells
Of the lesson that impels
All the sighing and the lying
Of the belles, belles, belles,
Of the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,

All the glancing and the dancing of the belles.
Hear the loudly-talking belles,
Prancing belles,
How we sorrowfully gaze upon their costume, since it tells
Of the latest Paris fashion!
And the dark eyes how they flash on
Every simple-looking girl!
They can only whirl, whirl
To the tune,
With a noisy explanation of their doings in the Row,
With a careless declaration that the ball is very slow.
Dancing round, round, round,
To the merry music’s sound,
Never pausing for a breath,
Tho’ their partners pale as death,
Look and gasp as if they’d fall into a swoon.
Oh, you belles, belles, belles,
What a tale your muslin tells;
And your hair.
How you sneer and pick to pieces
MAJOR MABERLY’S six nieces,
How you flirt upon the fifty-seventh stair;
Yet the people guess at last,
By your laughing,
And your chaffing,
Your vocabulary’s fast.
And the ear distinctly tells
You are slangy,
And slap-bangy,
From your joking with the swells,
And their easy conversation with the loudly-talking belles,
With the belles,
With the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
From the grinning and the dinning of the bells!

_Fun_, December 30, 1865.

――――:o:――――

PILLS.
_An Edgar Poe(m)._

See the doctors with their pills――
Silver-coated pills!
What a world of misery their calomel instils!
How they twingle, twingle in the icy-colden night.
You have taken two that mingle,
And you wish you’d had a single;
While your cheeks are ashy white.
And every time, time, time
You groan in pantomime
A tan-tan-tantalising yearn for rum your bosom fills
To lull the paean of pills, pills, pills,
The mountain An Edgar Poemisery of pills!
Take one of Morrison’s pills,
Or Parr’s life pills――
Warranted, or the money returned, to cure all ills;
To bring repose at night,
And occasion you delight,
When they’re fairly down your throat,
From noon to noon.
And eloquence promote
For your turtle dove who listens while you doat
Neath the moon.
Oh, read the flaming bills
And the extract from a letter that voluminously fills
The hand-bills,
And the tills
Of the vendor of the pills,
Whose physic never kills,
Money ringing,
Money flinging
In the tills, tills, tills,
From the pills, pills, pills, pills,
And what chiming, and what rhyming on the pills!

Beware of strychnine pills――
Brazen pills.
What a work of horror their treachery fulfils!
The false friend with a smile
Stands beside you for a while;
And you’re pleased to hear him speak
While you shriek, shriek,
And moan, moan.
Your heart and brain consuming in the fire, fire;
Your pulse and temples throbbing in the fire;
Beating higher, higher,
While you gaze and still admire
The murd’rer beside you,
Who knows what must betide you,
As he watches for the swoon.
Oh, the pills, pills, pills,
What a pang of terror thrills,
And despair,
Every heart that beats with love;
When the evidences prove
That the murderer for days and nights was there;
Tending gently as a nurse,
Always whining,
While designing
How to make you worse and worse.
See! The glass he quickly fills
With some new fangle,
Life to strangle,
While your fine old port he slyly swills,
And knows the hour is fast approaching by the number of the pills,
Of the pills;
By the number and the poison of the pills.
And you roll, roll, roll,
Roll――
With the _paean_ of the pills;
And he a draught distils
To qualify the pills,
And he’s thinking of the wills
That Doctor’s Commons fills (!)
Keeping time, time, time,
In the subtlety of crime,
By the _paean_ of the pills,
Of the pills:
Keeping time, time, time,
In the hardihood of crime,
By the throbbing from the pills,
From the pills, pills, pills,
By your sobbing from the pills,
Keeping time, time, time,
As he kneels, kneels, kneels.
In the blasphemy of crime,
By the pulse he feels, feels;
While the pills, pills, pills
Are perfecting all their ills.
Oh, the pills, pills, pills――
Pills, pills, pills!
So ends my rhyming and my chiming on the pills.
DAMER CAPE.
_Vagrant Leaves_, No. 2., Nov. 1, 1866.

――――:o:――――

THE HELLS.

Hear the echoes from the Hells――
German Hells!
What a tale of selfishness their recollection tells!
How fickle fortune battles
With the ball that rolls and rattles
On its devilish career!
While the coins that oversprinkle,
All the numbers seem to twinkle,
With a simper or a sneer.
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of ruined rhyme.
To the hum of speculation that annually swells
From the Hells, Hells, Hells――
From the Hunters and the Punters of the Hells.

Hear the merry laughing Hells,
Baden Hells!
Ringing out their call to happiness like wedding bells;
Blinding eyes with lust of gain,
Dead’ning hearts to others’ pain,
With the molten gold and notes.
Calling out,
“We are misery’s antidotes!!
Come and clutch us!” o’er their poison-beauty gloats
Longing Doubt――
How the air resounding fills
With the cries from out that Hall of Cure for Ills!
How the swells
At the wells,
Dream of health or of wealth, how each tells
Of the craving that impels
To the winning and the sinning
Of the Hells, Hells, Hells,
To the losing and abusing of the Hells.