Chapter XXXIII: Prologue (4)

But children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow,
When clear falls the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starr’d with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanch’d sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side――
And then come back down.
Singing: “There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea.”
MATTHEW ARNOLD.

The first and second prizes were awarded to the two following parodies, which appeared in _The World_, September 24, 1879:――

FIRST PRIZE.

REJECTED ADDRESSES, BY TRACY TURNERELLI.

Come, dear Dizzy, nor say me nay――
Come, ere I go distraught;
Take the garland of golden bay,
Take what the people’s pennies bought,
Take what the goldsmith richly wrought.
_Must_ I carry the gift away
Into the shires to make it pay?
Dizzy dear, ah, why not say,
This way, this way?

I call again with a conscience clear
(’Tis no sin)――
Call aloud till the deaf might hear――
Benjamin! Benjamin!
Flattering voices should be dear
(One call more) to statesman’s ear;
Flattering voices fired by zeal
For the statesman’s weal.
Benjamin! Benjamin!

Can it be true he means that nay?
(One call more ere I go away.)
Once he was poor as poor as could be,
And he wore no Garter below his knee;
He worked his way to the top of the tree,
For the Earl is clever and scholarly.
He swayed, like others, from side to side,
And was apt at taking the turn of tide.
Then came Berlin and the Jingoes’ King
Wed ‘Peace with Honour,’ like gold the ring;
And now the Prime Minister says me nay
To my honeyed words and my wreath of bay.

Dizzy dear, why say me nay?
(One call more.)
He will not come, though I call all day――
Shut is the door.
I go, I leave him, I call no more;
I call no more, yet my heart is sore;
The loved one rejects me――
How cruel is he!
He leaves us for ever――
The wreath and T. T.

(MRS. WINSLOE.) OBSERVER.

――――――――

SECOND PRIZE.

TURNERELLI _loq._

Come, my people, let us go hence,
Bearing the wreath of gold;
Back to the towns that gave sums immense,
Back with a tale that must be told;
Back with a wreath that mayn’t be sold,
E’en to defray the vast expense
Of raising fifty thousand pence.
Come, my people, let us go hence.
Away, away!

Call him once more by his name
Pleadingly,
By the name best known to fame――
Disraeli, Disraeli.
That name surely should be dear
To the commoner grown a peer――
Dizzy (call him once again)!
Try to rouse some olden strain;
Only once, and then away,
We will not stay.
Disraeli, do you quite forget
The people’s crown for the coronet?
Away, away!

Golden leaves, that golden turn
When autumn’s glories begin to burn,
Will turn dull brown and fade away.
But the wreath that in my hands I hold
Was copper first, and turned to gold,
And shall be gold for aye.
People dear, is it but three years
Since he went to join the Peers?
Once he sat where I would be,
Where still meets the august confraternity
Of the Commons in conclave free;
But his dreams were ever of gilded halls,
And he sighed for a crown with eight golden balls,
Though his race mostly hang o’er their doors but three.

(MISS M. C. KILBURN.) VRITRA.

――――:o:――――

THE WREATH.

(The figure of the wreath lies before us, as we write, in all its fair outlines. The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle are blended in it in sign of the nationalities of the donors. The circle of the wreath is of laurel leaves.)

_The Times_, June 28, 1879.

O Tracy, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of some other tree!
Dust from a dusty Olive’s sprays
Has dimmed the lustre of those days.
I would my laurels were forgot――
O Turnerelli, twine them not!

The thistle, shamrock――leave me those;
There’s sense in them――and, yes, the rose;
’Twill symbolise――its thorns at least――
Our future pathway in the East;
The shamrock, too, recals to thought
The “false Gibraltar” we have bought;
And I would spare the thistle’s loss
To those who cheered at Charing Cross,――
These I can stand, but laurel, no;
The laurel’s hardly _apropos_;
So Tracy, if that wreath’s for me,
Pray twine it of some other tree!

_The World_, July 2, 1879.

FURTHER PARODIES
OF
William Shakespeare.

――――:o:――――

MACBETH.

M. ALEXIS SOYER’S SOUP FOR THE POOR.

Since the ingenious gastronomic regenerator of the Reform Club issued his receipt for his cheap soup, every man has become his own cook, in his anxiety to produce a specimen of the popular _potage_. Discussions, also, have arisen upon the cost, as stated by the inventor, and opinions of every kind have been launched at it, principally, however, by those who expected to make mock turtle at three-half-pence a quart, out of nothing, and were disappointed therein. Its manufacture has suggested the following scene:――

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

_Enter M. SOYER and two Cooks._

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

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

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

_Soyer._――Round about the copper go,
In the cheap ingredients throw.
Dripping that in gallipot
Days and nights has been forgot;
Boneless beef in square bits cut,
In two-gallon saucepan put.

_All._――Don’t mind trouble, were it double,
Stir the copper till it bubble.

_Soy._――Fifteen leaves of celery top;
In with turnip peelings pop.
Green of two leeks on them hurl;
Half a pound of barley pearl;
Common flour next half a pound,
In eight quarts of water drown’d.
Whitest salt and sugar brown;
That will make the soup go down,
Then a penny charge for fuel.
And for SIXPENCE make the gruel.

_All._――At a trifling cost of trouble,
You may make the copper bubble.

_Soy._――Give it to the poor as food
And ’twill be found cheap and good.

AIR――M. SOYER.
From “La Sonnambula.”

Still so gently onions peeling,
The smell will bring out the feeling,
Spite of all their sneers revealing,
That the beef――that the beef is wholesome still.

Though mock turtle soup may charm thee,
And mulligatawny warm thee,
Sure my soup will never harm thee:
If it feed not――if it feed not――it will fill.

_2nd Cook._――By the licking of my thumbs,
Something weighty this way comes.
Open locks, whoever knocks.

_Enter_ John Bull.

_John._――How now you knowing gastronomic wags,
What is’t you brew?

_All._――A soup without a name.

_John._――I conjure you by that which you profess
(Howe’er you came to know it), answer me.
Though you tie up the winds in pudding bags,
And into _soufflées_ whip the yesty waves――
Compound and swallow all creation up――
Even till repletion sicken, answer me
To what I ask you.

Soy.―― _Parlez_.

2_nd Cook._―― Ask.

3_rd Cook._―― Cut on.

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

_John._―― Let me see the _carte_.

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

_App._――John Bull! John Bull! beware an Irish stew!
Corn riots dread! dismiss me. That will do.
[_Descends._

_John._――Thanks for the caution. Much obliged I feel.
The corn-laws altogether I’ll repeal.

_Thunder. The Apparition of a Turkey, trussed, with a carrot
in its hand, rises._

_John._―― What’s this,
That, like the scutcheon of the Prussian King,
Holds in its claw a vegetable sceptre
And chain of sausage-meat?

_All._――Hish! hold your row.

_App._――Make lots of metal, John, and take no care
Who spends, who wastes, or who conspires to share.
John Bull shall never bankrupt be, until
Great Hornsey Wood shall come to Primrose Hill.
[_Descends._

_John._――Had I three mouths I’d eat thee. It can’t be.
Had it been Alderman Wood and Rowland Hill,
They might have met; but trees can’t cut their sticks,
Nor Chalk Farm walk its chalk from Primrose Hill.
Yet, tell me one thing more. Shall famine ever
Reign in this kingdom.

_Soy._―― Show!

2_nd Cook._―― Show!!

3_rd Cook._―― Show!!!

_Eight Cooks appear. The two last being Captain Cook and
Mr. T. P. Cooke._

_Soy._――Whilst these great Cooks――the present and the past,
Who, although many, will not spoil the broth――
_Vatel_, who died for fish that came too late;
_Carême_, who cooked Napoleon’s goose; and _Ude_
Whom, if you’d known you’d have respected much.
Facetious _Mrs. Glass_, who recommends
That you should catch your hare ere you do cook it.
And _Francatelli_; who hath done a book
As well as I; and _Doctor Kitchiner_,
Oracular professor of his art.
And _Captain Cook_, who found out foreign roots,
(Though not by nature, yet a Cook by name).
And T. P. Cooke, who says “Avast! belay!”
Whilst in the sailor’s locker there’s a shot
No swab shall starve whilst these great cooks exist
(Or others like them) Famine ne’er shall reign.

[_They disappear._

_John._――Where are they? Gone! No matter; I’m at rest,
Though cat’racts may destroy potatoes’ eyes――
Though years may come and bring no ears of corn――
Though meat may rise as high as Green’s balloon――
Still, whilst our brave cooks can make all ends meat,
No famine e’er shall harm us.

_Chorus from “Macbeth,” “We Fry by Night.”_
_The Man in the Moon_, Vol I.

Why, what the deuce is that before my nose?
It’s like a dagger now I see it close;
And, rat it too, the handle turn’d this way!
But come, I’ll have a grip, cost what it may.
By Jove, I’ve missed it! yet I see it still,
It’s cursed odd――but find it out I will.
“Thou fearful, fatal vision, tell me why,
“You thus elude me――is it ‘_all my eye_?’
“Or art thou coin’d in this thick skull of mine,
“A phantom from the fumes of heat and wine?”
Death, fire, and furies! why I see thee here
In form as plain and palpable, I swear,
As this I’m drawing;――on thy blade and dudgeon
Are gouts of blood;――but, mark me! I’m no gudgeon!
It’s all a lie!――I’ll not be humbugg’d thus,――
’Tis this curs’d business puts me in a fuss!

_The Gownsman_, Cambridge, 1830.

SHAKESPEARE’S GHOST ON THE NEW APOCALYPSE.

THE THREE WITCHES (_as represented by three eminent
dignitaries._)

SCENE I.

Where shall we three meet again?
In br-th-l, hall, or sacred fane?――
Ere our hurly-burly’s done,
Pestilence by us begun
Spread from east to set of sun!――
Where the place?――
The road to h――l!
Let us go at it pall-mall!――
I come, Salvation!――
T-mps-n calls!――
Anon!
Fair is foul, and foul is fair;
Wallow in the drains and filthy air!

SCENE II.

Round about the office go,
In the poisonous savours throw!
Anecdote of rankest taste,
Far too saleable to waste,
Sweltered venom, creeping got,
Boil those first i’ the T-mps-n pot!
Double, double, stench and trouble,
Pot boil, and poison bubble!

Fragment of some juicy lie,
Stew and flourish by and by;
Dash of philanthropic twist,
Tongue of sentimentalist,
Breath of skunk and adder’s sting,
Feathers of the Church’s wing,
Winkings of the powers that be,
Palate of the debauchee,
For a chance of deadly trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Gushings of hysteric craze,
Prayers of saints of latter days,
Latest rags of virgin veil,
Little coins of blackest mail,
War-cry of blaspheming throats,
Politician’s bid for votes,
Army stock and rubble stones,
Christy banjo, Christyan bones,
Platform ranter’s purchased shriek,
Blushes robbed from woman’s cheek,
Blasted charm of household joys,
Ruined souls of girls and boys,
Birthright of mind-poisoned babe
To the profit of a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab.
Add the shield of State paternal
For the ingredients of our journal!

Double, double, stench and trouble,
Pot boil, and poison bubble!

_The World_, August 26, 1885.

The agitation to which this Parody calls attention may have been initiated with all sincerity and purity of motives, but it has directly encouraged the hawking about of some of the most abominable publications which have ever yet been publicly exposed for sale.

To protect “fallen” women is, no doubt, a most laudable and philanthropic object, but it should be possible to do this without either annoying other members of the community, or outraging public decency. Some of the best streets of London were recently rendered impassable to modest women by the foul-mouthed ruffians who exposed these filthy publications for sale, and touted their wares in language more vile and repulsive than even the publications they disposed of dared to venture on.

――――:o:――――

“ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE.”

On the 27 August, 1885, _Truth_ contained no less than twenty parodies of the well known speech commencing――“all the World’s a Stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

The following are the most interesting, the one signed ORCHIS, (by Mr. T. B. Doveton,) being, on the whole, a closer parody than any of the others:――

DINNER-PARTIES.

――――Dinner is a stage
With knives and forks the company are players;
Courses have exits and swift entrances;
And each guest, in his time, plays many parts,
His acts being seven epochs. At first the soup
Steaming and seething in the grand tureen,
Then comes the whiting tasty, or the salmon
With shining silver scales, sleeping serene
Upon the lordly dish; and then the venison,
Done to a turn, and worthy of a ballad,
As any lady’s eyebrow. Then the pasties
Full of rich fruits, and not too much of lard,
Jellies delicious, wholesome and quickly eaten,
Melting――a great desideratum――
Even in the diner’s mouth――and then the stilton
In fair round form, and with a napkin bound,
With rind full thick, and taste extremely strong,
Full of strange mites, and microscopic things;
So each guest plays his part. The sixth course shifts
Into the rare luxurious dessert,
With sherry on this side, and port on that;
A vintage good, well saved, a world too old
To be much drunk; the host’s loud manly voice
Turning at length quite husky, cherished pipes
And weeds with coffee come. Last scene of all
That ends this dinner’s faithful history,
Is simple maundering and sheer oblivion,
Sans sense, sans eyes, sans speech, sans every thing.
ORCHIS.

――――――――

(Jack soliloquizes.) All go off alike,
And all the wines and dishes seldom alter;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And each guest in his turn tastes many things,
His share being seven courses. At first the turtle,
Seething with richness in the bright tureen;
And then the princely turbot, with the lemon
And shrimp or oyster sauce, making it glide
Most palatably down; and then the entrées,
Smelling divinely in their shallow basins
Made of the shining metal; then a turkey,
Full of forcemeats and roasted to a turn,
Swimming in gravy garnished thick with sausage,
Raising the tide of expectation
Even in the bishop’s mouth; and then the pudding
In grand round belly, and with holly crown’d;
With eyes intent we watch each slice that’s cut,
Full of good things and spicy substances;
And so we take a part. The sixth course drifts
Into the plain and usual dessert,
With walnuts ’neath one’s nose, and port each side;
Our evening clothes were made on purpose wide
To hold such stuff. And now some manly voice,
Turning towards politics and meerschaum-pipes,
Makes ladies leave the room. Last course of all
That ends this dinner-party history
Is coffee, cognac, weeds, and utter bliss,
Sans flirts, sans prudes, sans wife, sans womankind.
CRYSTAL PALACE.

――――――――

――――All the world’s away,
And all the men and women on the tramp;
They have their tourist tickets and bank credits,
And each man grumbling with his bullion parts
To keep his household moving. First, the infant
Squalling and struggling in the nurse’s arms,
And then the schoolboy with his rod and basket,
Changing from place to place, at large on bail
Most willingly from school. And then the matron
Scolding like a fishwife, with a woful look
Upon the piles of baggage; then the cabby,
Full of strange oaths standing on guard,
Daring the porters, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Clamouring for double his remuneration
Even in the tariff’s face; and then the bobby,
In regulation tunic strapped and belted,
With eyes severe and an imperial strut,
Quoting the law, refers to modern instances,
And so he plays his part. Then the “gov’nor,” drest
In shooting jacket and check pantaloons,
With spectacles on nose, jeered at, defied,
Elbowed and buffeted on every side,
On a trunk sinking, lifts his voice no more,
Wipes his moist brow, and, as he fills his pipe,
Whistles despairingly. Last scene of all
That ends poor paterfamilias’s history,
Is the home-coming, and more chivying
(_Sans doute_) _en route_――ennuied, wrong everything.
PRIMA DONNA.

――――――――

――――Parliament’s a stage,
And honourable members merely players;
They have their prompters, cues, and call-boys too,
And some men while they sit play many parts,
Their acts being seven stages. At first the novice,
Trembling and blushing while he’s introduced,
And then the grumbling sportsman leaving moors
Or salmon-streams behind, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to vote. Then the enthusiast,
Spouting like sperm-whale, with a wistful eye
Fixed on his leader’s hat. Then a debater,
Full of false facts and smart in repartee,
Careless of courtesy, rash and quick in general.
Seeking the bubble reputation
By an unbridled tongue. And then the Minister,
In pleasant sinecure, with good salary lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and feeble platitudes;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into a sleek and useless peer o’ the realm,
With coronet on brow and ermine robes.
His earlier wit, though dulled, a world to bright
For his new sphere, and his once manly voice
Turning again towards childish accents, drones
And falters in his words. Last scene of all
That ends the strange eventful history
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans power, sans fame, sans friends, sans everything.
BART.

――――――――

――――All Parliament’s a stage,
The Lords mere supers, and the Commons players,
Coming and going on and off the scenes;
And each one plays a different character
In seven phases. First the canvasser,
Bowing and scraping, free with purse and alms;
Then the young candidate, with laboured speech
And blushing face, weak-kneed and pale,
Creeps to the platform. Then the strong member,
Like lover with his mistress, wins the mob
With honied words. Then the great orator,
Full of unmeaning phrases, hard to beard,
Zealous in argument, fierce in retort,
Seeking a wordy reputation
E’en in high councils. Then the Minister,
Sleek with good living, with rich income primed,
Austere with knitted brow, and courtly gard,
Full wise in laws and ancient precedents,
And so displays high art. The sixth phase shifts
Into the scarlet-robed and gartered Peer,
A spectacle in pose, touched with the pride
Of titled state from all the world to hide
His youthful pranks; his late commanding voice,
Toned down to softest accents, mildly speaks
In gentle pleadings. The last phase of all
Is the poor part of intellect decayed
In second childhood of extreme old age;
Sad sight! sad hearing; sad the end of all!
OLD LOG.

――――――――

――――All the night’s a stage,
And all the singers on it merely cats;
They have their solos and their choruses,
And one cat in the night sings many tunes,
Her songs being seven tortures. At first a purring,
Mewing and scratching at the kitchen door,
Then a whining scuffle with a neighbour’s tom
About an ancient bone, bleached in the mud,
Each claiming shares: and then the love duet,
Burning with passion, rising to my window,
In hideous cadences; then the war song
Betwixt two rivals to Miss Muffet’s favour
Starts up, eloquent with hisses and mad
Careering up and down the area stairs
Even to my very door; and then the tabby,
In sleek fat form, with good grey coat of fur,
With twinkling eyes and well-trimmed whiskers,
Lifts her voice in wild, untuneful melody,
And so she sings her part. The sixth song falls
To the lean and half-starved tortoiseshell,
All scratched on nose and wounded side,
Her youthful freshness faded years too soon,
And gone for aye, but her strong feline voice,
With hideous likeness to infantile howls,
Still screeches in the night. Last scene of all
That ends this awful, maddening night,
Is one last howl――then day breaks in upon us,
Sans sleep, sans rest, sans peace, sans breakfast.
ZENAS DYKES.

――――――――

――――All the day’s a plague,
And all the people merely peace-disturbers,
They have their exits and their entrances,
And each one plays his own discordant part
Till the brain madly rages. At first the sweep,
Screeching and shouting loud his wild alarm;
Then that morning nuisance, with his basket
And tinkling muffin-bell, shouting “all ’ot”
When all his store is cool. And then the beggar,
Singing, like saw-mill, a hymn or a tender ballad
Smugly, yet winking his eyebrow. Then the “Army,”
Causing wild oaths as, clad in monstrous garb,
With drum and cornet, gaily they preach or quarrel,
Seizing the soldier’s designation,
But facing no cannon’s mouth, And then th’ Italian,
His poor pinched belly seldom with square-meal lined,
With coal-black eye and hair that should be cut.
And organ belching nigger melodies.
And so he plays his part. The next plague springs
From German deep trombone and wild bassoon,
From flute, from clarionet, and ophecleide,
Teutonic youths, ill-taught, with English airs
Playing strange pranks, who, from the lowest bass
Alike even to the highest treble, yield
Most irritating sounds. Till last of all,
To close the days tormenting history.
The prayer for death, and sweet oblivion
Of sweeps, of bands, of Booth, of everything.
NOMAD.
――――――――

――――All the world’s a stable,
And all its denizens are merely horses;
They have their hardships and their pleasures,
And one horse in his time sees many changes,
His life being seven ages, At first, the foal,
Frisking and skipping in the breeder’s yard;
Then the “whinnying” colt, with curb and rein,
And smack of whip, pacing, like schoolboy,
Unwillingly in trammels. And then the racer,
Flying like lightning for the cup or plate
Given by the Jockey Club. Then the hunter,
Full of high keep, and coat as sleek as silk,
Perfect in shape, and proud of pedigree,
Gaining a wide-spread reputation
For being “in at the death.” And then to mailcoach,
In splendid show indignantly is harness’d,
By critics scanned at formal “meet”; then urg’d
To th’ instant point of modern expedition;
And so he runs his stage. “Sold up,” he shifts
Into the shafts of jaunty hansom cab,
With fare inside, and driver perch’d aloft;
His early vigour gone, a shower of blows
Are rain’d on his shrunk back; his wind is bad
And he has turned a “piper” and oftimes
Loudly whistles in his sound. The next phase ends
His cruel and unpitied destiny;
To Knacker’s yard for slaughter he is led,
Sans eyes, sans hoofs, mere carcase――fit for dogs.
EAST ANGLIA.

――――――――

――――All the world’s a field,
And all the men and women cricket-players,
They have their innings and their fielding out,
And one man in his time plays many games,
His life being seven matches. First, the infant,
Mowing and poking at his nurse’s slows;
And then the school-boy, boundless in ambition,
But green in judging lengths, slogging like fun,
And bowled by yorkers; then the undergrad,
Smoking strange weeds, and blazer’d like the Turk,
Heedless of honours, puppet of every fancy,
Seeking a college reputation
Even in the schools despite; and then the lover,
Shying like Frenchman, with a woeful habit,
Of dropping all his catches; then the husband,
With waist expanding, to short runs inclined,
With eyes correct, and coat of formal cut,
Full of old joys, and new incumbrances,
And so he meets his match. The sixth is played
By the stiff pater with his growing lads,
With spectacles on nose, and bat in hand;
They trundle at the stumps a world too fast
For his sore shins; yet his big, manly heart,
Turning again toward youthful pleasure, glows
And revels at each ball. Last match of all,
Which ends the sturdy cricketer’s career,
Is played in his arm-chair at second hand,
Sans bat, sans ball, sans stumps, sans everything.
TUB.

――――――――

――――All the world’s a feast,
And all the men and women merely gourmands;
Few have their _chef_, they mostly pot-luck share,
But all guests in their turn try many _plats_,
The courses being seven, At first the Soup,
Unsatisfactory, greasy, and cold;
Then Fish, whose shining face is seen too long,
Proclaims his advent ere he comes in sight.
Entrèes as twins appear; you choose of one,
To wish your choice had fallen on the other.
Mutton disguised with mint to pass for lamb,
Taking his dubious imposture
Into our plates, but not beyond our palates,
A bird comes next――a bird that crowed too long;
Crestfallen warrior, done to death and tough;
And so we sit and eat, while cheap champagne
Goes round with tedious jokes, both flat and stale.
At length the scene is changed――the Sweets appear;
Misshapen, quiv’ring jellies, doughy tarts,
The fruit but scant, the paste too thick by far.
(Pale cream accompanies, whose “turn” is come,)
Dessert――a prematurely-shrivelled pine,
Tom from its tropic soil in early youth;
Dried fruits, and nuts that, cracking, leave but dust.
The end of this unpalatable dinner
Is coffee weak and full of grounds; and so
Our last hope flies, our time is come. We go
With teeth, with eyes, with taste, unsatisfied.
CHUM-CHUM.

――――――――

――――A State Church is a stage,
Its well-paid priests and bishops often players;
They have their stipends and emoluments,
And each man, if he plays his part with skill,
May gain preferment. At first the student,
Reading or larking at his Alma Mater;
And then the genteel curate, with chasuble,
And early morning prayers, with Oxford twang,
Invincible at croquet. Then the incumbent,
Preaching like furnace, with a shilling pamphlet,
On some new-fashioned high-go. Then the rector,
Full of strange whims, robed like a queer old barb,
Sudden and quick to seize the next preferment,
Seeking the bubble reputation
E’en in a canon’s stall. And then the bishop,
In fair lawn sleeves and with a purse well lined;
His youthful friends now get the formal cut,
Full of anxiety to keep things pleasant;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the grand and courtly Archbishop;
A spectacle he grows of pride and pomp,
And thinks the Church well saved, and world beside,
By his tall talk; with namby-pamby voice,
Pointing again to Becket and to Laud,
Like whom he would be found. Last scene of all
That best will cure this curious history,
Is Disestablishment and Disendowment,
Sans worldly power, sans many an evil thing.
A. MEERAM.

――――――――

――――All the land’s a booth,
And all the men and women merely voters,
They have their franchise and their ballot-box,
And one man in his time gives many votes.
He votes for seven parties. The first, a Whig,
Frightened and cautious in the Liberal ranks;
And then the so-called Liberal, with his promises,
And sheep-like party-gait, creeping like snail
Towards long-sought reform. Then the Home Ruler
Roaring for freedom, with a piteous tale
Told of his country’s misery. Then a Radical
Full of reform and moving with the time,
Scenting abuses, sudden and quick to right ’em,
Seeking the people’s happiness
Even at the lordling’s cost. And then the Independent
With smooth-tongued speech, and pocket well lined,
With views severe and stuck-up formal mien,
Full of advice and smug hypocrisy.
And so he serves his turn. The sixth vote’s given
Unto the mighty Tory landowner,
With a fine porty nose, and gout beside,
His ancient views――grown old――an age too late
For this sharp world; and his high handed mode
Turn ’gainst him all but sycophants, who’ll pipe
And whistle at his bid. Last vote of all,
To end this string of partisans, is given
To worthless “Turncoats,” mere title hunters,
Sans pride, sans shame, sans soul, sans principle.
W. VAL. ENGLISH.

――――――――

――――All the world’s insane,
And all the men and women fools of fancy;
They have their whims and monomanias,
And each man in his life hath many moods,
His lot being seven crazes. And first the infant,
Squealing and squalling for the distant moon:
And then the schoolboy, with his breaking voice
And cheap cigar, acquiring other lore
Than what is taught at school. And then the lover
With Richmond dinners, “fizz,” and lobster salad,
To win Aspasia’s favour. Then the soldier,
Full of himself, and glorious on parade,
Solemn and warlike in another’s quarrel,
Seeking to gain a killing reputation
E’en from the sex’s mouth. And then the justice,
One of the great infallible unpaid,
With books of law intact and leaves uncut,
Gath’ring wise utt’rance from the whisp’ring clerk,
And so displays his art. The sixth craze shifts
Into the fogy of the Tory club,
With well-dress’d jasey and with glass in eye,
The march of progress spreading far too wide
For his near views; or, haply, seen by choice
In some snug hostelry with port and pipe,
Where Tory talk abounds. Worst craze of all,
That seems the strangest in its mystery,
Is the ascetic zeal miscalled religion――
Saint This, Saint That, Saint T’other――Any one.
B. H. D.

――――――――

――――All the world’s a ship,
And all the men and women merely sailors;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And each one in his ship plays many parts,
The number being seven stages. First, the cabin boy,
Groaning and puking in the stewards’ arms;
And then the midshipman, with his cutlass
And shining, genial face, going, in doubt,
Unwillingly on board. And then the boatswain,
Swearing, by all that’s hot, he’ll use his rope’s end
Upon some laggard’s shoulders. Then the lieutenant,
Full of strange hopes and visions like the bard,
Eager for honour, longing for war and quarrel,
Seeking the bubble, merited advancement,
E’en in an iron clad. And then the captain,
In handsome uniform, with honour worn,
With bright, clear eyes, and mouth that’s often shut,
Full of old yarns and deeds that tell of duty.
Then comes the proud and boastful admiral,
With spectacle on nose and sword by side,
His well-saved uniform a world to wide
For his shrunk form, and his big, manly voice
Turning again to peevish feebleness.
And so he struts his part. Last stage of all,
That ends this strange and restless history,
Comes the ex-admiral, prey to oblivion,
Sans fame, sans wealth, sans hope, sans everything.
TIB.

――――――――

――――The world’s a fashion-plate,
And all the men and women tailors’ dummies,
Who note the march of time by changing clothes,
A masher once, a man’s a masher always,
No matter what his age is. At first a baby
In a lace gown ogling his ancient nurse;
And then the public schoolboy, with his collar
Broad and snow-white, who gives his mind to ties,
And has no love for school-books. Then the dandy
Bored at eighteen, but hovering around
The sacred lamp of burlesque. Then the guardsman,
Thin-waisted, tall, and with well-waxed moustache,
Driver of drags and tandems, quick at polo,
Gaining a dreadful reputation,
Nightly at crowded balls. Then the swell middle-aged,
With fair white waistcoat of bow-window shape,
With shiny boots and well trimmed close-cut beard,
Full of himself, and tales of his own feats,
And how he play’d his part. The sixth age shows
The lean and shaky, wicked, gay old boy,
With gold pin and cane, with hat worn on one side;
His padded coat and tight strapped pantaloons
Hide his shrunk form, and his swaggering tone
Changed to a grumbling whine that everything
Is worse than it once was. While the last scene
Is tottered through by an old doting swell,
Who herds with boys, and tries to cheat death with
False teeth, false hair, false calves, false everything.
ROUNDABOUT.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

A Parody of the speech of _Claudio_ in the first scene of the third act, commencing:――

“Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod.”

Aye, but to love, and not be loved again,
To nurse a hopeless passion, and to pine,
This body strong and healthy to become
A walking mummy――and the once cheerful mind
To feel keen torturing doubts, or to despair
And moping sit in melancholy mood,
To feel the gusts of love and wild desire,
And know friends, fortune, person, all combine
To blast our hopes――or to feel tortures keener still,
To see a rival snatch away the prize;
Heavens! ’tis too horrible――the keenest pangs
That e’er the body felt, stone or rheumatic,
Amputated limb, nay, even gout itself
Is perfect ease compared with hopeless love.

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

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

The following Parody appeared in _Gaiety_. August 29, 1885, in reference to Miss Mary Anderson’s performance of the part of _Rosalind_, in the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, Stratford-on-Avon.

If your heart for joy hath pined,
Go and seek out Rosalind.
In W. S.’s town you’ll find
Mary A. as Rosalind;
In “tights” most gracefully designed
Will appear fair Rosalind.
Methinks a damsel to your mind
Will be Mary’s Rosalind.
We hope she will not be maligned
When she playeth Rosalind,
But that critics will be kind
To that fair Yankee’s Rosalind.

YOUNG ENGLAND’S VERSION OF HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY.

To smoke, or not to smoke, that is the question:
Whether a mild cigar assists digestion;
Or, whether it begets a kind of quaintness,
Which some would say was nothing but a faintness;
To smoke――to drink and then to go to bed;
To find a pillow for an aching head;
To snore――perchance to dream! and half your senses scare
With visionary demons or nightmare;
To wake, in perspiration nicely dished,
’Tis a consummation hardly to be wished;
For who would bear the kicks, cuffs, and abuse
Of this base world, when he might cook his goose
Upon his toasting fork? Or who would care
For half the motley groups which at him stare,
Some morning early, stuck before the bench,
When soda-water would his fever quench,
But that a little thing within doth call?
Thus porter doth make rum ’uns of us all!
And thus our resolution to keep sober
Is drown’d and soon forgot in good October.
But hush! my ’Phelia comes, the pretty dear!
Oh! think of me love――when you fetch your beer.
ANONYMOUS.

FURTHER PARODIES
ON
Bret Harte.

――――:o:――――

THAT GREENWICH M.P.

Which I wish to declare,
And my story is sad,
That for dealings unfair,
And for ways that are bad,
The Greenwich M.P. is peculiar――
Which the same is a terrible “Rad.”

’Twas an October day,
But a week or two back,
When the mob yelled “Hurray”
On the heath that is Black,
As they gazed from afar upon WILLIAM,
And harked to his voluble clack.

Which this W. G.,
You will all understand,
Is the Greenwich M.P.,
And his promise is bland;
But then, over his sinister shoulder,
He points with the thumb of his hand.

So free from all guile,
From intent to deceive,
He seem’d all the while,
You could hardly believe
How, when talking to people of Greenwich,
He chuckled and laughed in his sleeve.

He was greatly concern’d
For the Greenwichers’ weal,
And he twisted and turn’d
With his words like an eel――
Praised himself, and the Radical party;
It little――himself a great deal.

Which is why I declare,
And my feelings are sad,
That for dealings unfair,
And for ways that are bad,
The Greenwich M.P. is peculiar――
Which that same is a stone that is glad.

_Judy_, November 22, 1871.

――――:o:――――

THE HEATHEN M.P.

Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for words that are dark
And for tricks that are vain
The Heathen M.P. is peculiar,
Which the same I would wish to explain.

Ben D―――― was his name,
And I shall not deny
That who went by the same
Was exceedingly sly;
But his smile it was pensive and child-like,
As I often remarked to Bill-_y_;

It was April the third,
And quite soft were the skies;
Let it not be inferred
That Ben D―――― was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
In a way too adroit to be wise.

Which we had a debate,
And Ben D―――― took a part,
After begging to state
That it came from his heart;
But he smiled as he stood by the table
With a smile that was hollow and tart.

Now his speech it was stocked
In a way that I grieve,
(And my feelings were shocked
As you cannot believe,)
It was stuffed full of stories and crammers,
And the same with intent to deceive.

But the points that were made
By that Heathen Ben D――――,
And the fibs he essayed
Were quite frightful to see,
Till at last he came out with a crammar
That was known to be such unto G――――.

G―――― looked to the skies,
(Which was sad for to see,)
And he rose up likewise,
And said, “Darling Ben D――――,
“This is false what you say about Russia!”
And he went for that Heathen M.P.

In the scene that ensued
William took a large part,
For the way he’d been Jewed
Had gone straight to his heart,
Like the fibs that Ben D―――― had been telling
In the speech that had come “from his heart.”

In which speech, which was long,
He had twenty-four _packs_,
Which was coming it strong
As departing from facts;
And they found in that speech, which was rant,
What is frequent in speeches――that’s cant?

Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for words that are dark
And for tricks that are vain
_The_ Heathen M.P. is peculiar,
And the same I am free to maintain.

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

――――:o:――――

THE POLITICAL HEATHEN CHINEE.

Ben Diz was his name,
And it were vain to deny
In respect of the same
What the name might imply:
For his nose had a hook that meant mischief,
But the hook was a fool to his eye.

“Heads I win, tails you lose,”
Was the “lie” of his game.
Turks, Afghans, Zulus――
No matter who came――
It was “beggar my neighbour” all round,
Which all neighbours got treatment the same.

Which he euchred the Turk――
For he played from a hand
Of “reserves,” that did lurk
Underneath his wristband;
And an island he quietly nobbled,
With a smile diplomatic and bland.

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

(Abel Heywood and Son, Manchester.)

――――:o:――――

ON CHANG, THE CHINESE GIANT.

Which I beg you won’t doubt,
As you listen to me,
A man longer drawn out
You’re not likely to see
Than this very remarkable giant,
Which same was a heathen Chinee.

Mister CHANG was his name,
All alive! O, alive!
From Fychow he came
In eighteen-sixty-five,
On the shillings of sight-loving public
For some time to gleefully thrive.

It was August, eighteen,
That he first came to town,
And by thousands was seen,
And won highest renown;
But so lofty was he, and so haughty,
On all of his friends he looked down.

When invited to sup
He’d not touch flesh of cows,
And he turned his nose up
At an English carouse,
For he swallowed at dinner and breakfast
But bird’s-nests and little bow-wows.

But he fretted and fumed
As the shillings got few,
And his features assumed
A cerulean hue,
And he looked like a piece of blue china
Of a size that you don’t often view.

_Judy_, August 20, 1879.

――――:o:――――

ON BRET HARTE.
(After “Jim”)

Say there, then,
Some of you men
Might read Bret Harte,
Not p’raps all through
But one or two,
Just a part?

Try first that one
Heathen Chinee,
Then just for fun
Take two or three
More from his works――
Rhyme all in jerks
Where frequently
Strange language lurks.

Humbug? not much
That ain’t his style,
Rather a touch
Of pathos, the while
Sympathy true.

Take Bret Harte’s _Jim_,
Sure you know him,
Says “D――n your eyes,”
Frequently tries
In manner most strange
Both a scamp to appear
And an angel that sheer
Has dropped from the skies.

Style?
Some times Bret Harte
Yes, that is he!
Dickens in Camp――
Wan Lee the scamp,
Stick in your brain
Live there as plain
As highest art.

You can’t say Good-bye
Not if you try
Eh?
What’s that you say?
You try to forget him
When once you’ve met him.
No? Yes! Ah well;
There they _will_ stay
All thro’ life’s day
And Never depart!
Thanks to Bret Harte.
J. W. G. W.

FURTHER PARODIES
ON
H. W. Longfellow.

――――――――

A CHRISTMAS PSALM OF LIFE.

Tell me not, thou soul that slumbers,
Christmas is an empty dream;
When these comic double numbers
With the flash of humour gleam.

Life is earnest, life is real,
In our Fleet Street and the Strand;
Many an honest heart and leal
Shall be moved by laughter’s wand.

“Sweet enjoyment and no damper”――
Motto fit for every grade,
[If my friends send me a hamper,
Let them mark it “Carriage paid.”]

Hearts which long with hope were beating
Now shall flock to Drury Lane,
There to give a friendly greeting
To the clown and “pants” again.

So in other fields of glory
Comes the genial feud and strife,
Each man, be he Whig or Tory,
Finding happiness in life.

Lives like SLOPER’S should remind us
Life can still be made sublime,
Scattering all the trash behind us.
Pointing to a better time.

_Sloper’s Christmas Number_, 1884.

――――――――

A PSALM FOR THE TRADE.

Tell us not in doleful numbers
Trade is done for evermore,
That supply, demand outnumbers,
And the drummer’s days are o’er.

Trade is real――trade is active,
Better times again we’ll see;
To remain stagnation’s captive,
Is against all history.

Time is long――bill maturing
Must be paid without delay;
Such the only way insuring
Better trade at early day.

Shun this reckless competition,
Look beyond the moment’s gain,
Learn that honest coalition
Is far better in the main.

Stop this scheme of future dating,
Ere it has become too late;
Act at once and cease all prating――
Leave consignments to their fate.

Lives of others all remind us,
If our dealing’s just and fair,
That a better time will find us
Getting all our honest share.

_American Exchange._

――――――――

A PHASE OF LIFE.
(_The Yankee Merchant to his book-keeper._)

Tell me not in rows of numbers,
Of his assets as they seem,
That if I would loan 1,000
He could bridge the turbid stream.

Debts are real, debts are earnest,
No transferring makes them less;
“Dust” thou borrow, “dust” returnest
Still as great thy sore distress.

Trust no more the men who owe me,
Let the debts just due be paid;
Act, act promptly in collecting,
Ere the last faint hope shall fade.

Failures of great men remind us
How they bought their goods on time,
And departing left behind them
For each dollar’s debt a dime.

Seeing which perhaps another
Almost ready to collapse,
Takes a lesson from his brother――
Leaves behind a few old traps.

Let us then be up and doing,
With a cheek quite undismayed,
Every debtor close pursuing
Till his bills have all been paid.

_American Paper._

――――――――

A PSALM OF LIFE.
(_As exhibited in Christmas Annuals._)

Tell me not, O Soul that slumbers,
“Life is placid, Life is pale!”
’Tis not so in Christmas Numbers;
_There_ quite other views prevail.

Life is Foaming, Life is Frantic,
Here the dagger, there the bowl;
“Stick at nothing that’s romantic!”
Says my Printer to my Soul.

Not to live as boys and girls would
Is our men’s and maidens’ way;
But to act as if in Earlswood
You might find them any day.

Write of fire, and flood, and battle,
Write of Earls that gaily sin,
Write of Governesses――that’ll
Bring the sweet subscribers in!

_Lives of Great Highwaymen_ show it,
How to make our tales sublime;
Bother sense and grammar. Go it――
Give us something new in Crime

Crimes that ne’er, perchance, another,
As he reached his volume’s end,
Dreamed of――give us _these_ my brother,
Something fresh in guilt, my friend!

Let us then be up and raving,
Rave of ghosts, and sin, and fate;
These the gentle reader’s craving,
And he does not like to wait!

_Punch_, January 10, 1885.

――――:o:――――

BEWARE!

I know a youth who can flirt and flatter,
Take care!
He loves with the ladies to gossip and chatter,
Beware! Beware
Trust him not
He is fooling thee!

He has a voice of varying tone
Take care!
It echoes many beside thine own,
Beware, &c.

He has a hand that is soft and white,
Take care!
It pressed another than thine last night,
Beware, &c.

His letters are glowing with love I ween,
Take care!
One half that he writes he does not mean,
Beware, &c.

He talks of truth and of deep devotion,
Take care!
Of loving truly he has no notion,
Beware, &c.

Your heart he will gain with his dangerous wiles,
Take care!
Of his whispered words, of his sighs, of his smiles.
Beware! Beware!
Trust him not.
He is fooling thee!
ANONYMOUS.

――――――――

THE BARBER FIEND.

I know a barber who in town doth dwell――
Take care!――
He has a lot of things to sell
For hair; forbear!
Buy them not,
Though he counsel thee.

For he will charge thee four-and-six
(Take care!)
For a bottle of wash, worth less than nix,
Beware, beware!
Of his pomade pot,
’Tis a fallacy.

And when thou goest to get a “crop,”
Don’t swear,
If he say thy hair is thin atop,
Somewhere, somewhere;
Believe him not,
He is fright’ning thee.

And if to take thee by thy nose
He dare,
Whilst sitting, in ungraceful pose,
On chair, on chair;
Resent it not,
He is shaving thee.

And he has dyes of every hue;
Take care
Lest russet locks be turned to blue,
Or fair, or fair――
To some hue not
Such as pleases thee.

He has bear’s grease in pots for thee
(A snare).
If on thy face no whiskers be,
Don’t care, don’t care;
Hog’s lard will not
Make a man of thee.

_Judy_, November 22, 1871.

――――:o:――――

FEMALE COMMERCIAL “TRAVELLERS.”

I know a maiden with a bag,
Take care!
She carries samples in a drag,
Beware! beware!
O Draper fond,
She is fooling thee!

She has the true “Commercial” style,
Take care!
To which she addeth woman’s guile,
Beware! beware!
O Grocer goose,
She is plucking thee!

And she has quite a flood of talk,
Take care!
She sells as cheese what’s only chalk,
Beware! beware!
O Dealer daft,
She’s deceiving thee!

Her eyes are really wondrous black,
Take care!
They make a shiver run down your back,
Beware! beware!
O Shopman soft,
She is ogling thee!

She sells you a silk of “perfect wear,”
Take care!
At it your customers will swear,
Beware! beware!
Trust her not,
This Travelling She!

_Punch_, February, 1885.

――――:o:――――

SONG OF THE OYSTER LAND.

_By a Longing Fellow._

“Oysters are abnormally dear in the New York market.” _Daily News_.

Into the Oyster Land!
Ah! who shall lead us thither?
Our hopes from the New World now pale and wither,
There is no joy in Cheapside and the Strand.
Who’ll lead us with a friendly hand,
Thither, oh thither,
Into the Oyster Land?

Into the Oyster Land!
To you, ye nameless regions
Of Native worth. Delicious daily visions
Of some Ostrealia, beautiful and bland.
Where at the bar a man might stand,
Gulping _cheap_ bivalve beauties
Down, in the Oyster Land.

O Land! O Land!
No longer hopeful joy stirs
Within my bosom. Rubbish, tinned and potted,
Mocks one, by no bright herald now doth stand,
To lead us, with a liberal hand,
Into the land of the cheap good Oysters,
Into the Oyster Land!

_Punch_, October 21, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE BUBBLE AND THE BULLET.

(A sweet thing in Morals, not even remotely suggested by
Longfellow’s “Arrow and Song.”)

I blew a bubble into the air,
And bright and high it floated there;
Till all who gazed both near and far,
Declared the bubble was a star.

I shot a bullet into the air,
Worth twenty bubbles bright and fair;
But the bullet’s flight was all in vain,
It only fell to the earth again.

Learn hence, in catching the public eye――
Bullets are difficult things to fly;
So bubble on bubble upward send
And keep your lead for the heart of a friend!
WILLIAM SAWYER.

――――:o:――――

THE ROMAN PRELATE.

(From a Mediæval Legend.)
After Longfellow’s _Norman Baron_.

In his chamber grand and fitting,
Was the Roman Prelate sitting,
By his side St. Philip Neri
Stood, the window looking thro’
When a strange, unpleasant feeling,
O’er the Cardinal came stealing
While, as if by wand of fairy,
All things alter’d to his view.

Vanished street, and dome, and steeple,
Vanished crowds of priests and people,
Lo, instead, a place of torture
(Which politeness would not name),
There he saw the souls tormented,
Suffer all the pangs invented
By the old Arch-fiendish Scorcher,
He whose element is flame.

Writhing in and out among them,
Snakes and demons bit and stung them,
Never ceased, the victims, therefore,
Ne’er from anguish could be free,
In their midst a seat most splendid,
Seem’d for some great Prince intended,
Asked the Prelate――“What’s that chair for?”
Quoth St. Philip――“’tis for thee.”

Then the Cardinal, in terror,
Thought upon his life of error,
Ask’d the Saint on what condition
Heaven his soul would deign to spare,
“’Tis, relinquish worldly pleasure,
Love of sway and greed of treasure,
Banish envy and ambition,
Satan else will seat you _there_!”

Then the Cardinal repenting,
Soon the holy Saint, relenting,
Gave him pardon, warning, blessing,
Preaching, too, (without a text),
Vanish’d then the Prelate’s panic,
Vanish’d then that scene Satanic,
Never more his soul distressing
In this world――or in the _next_!
WALTER PARKE.

_The Bath and Cheltenham Gazette_, June 25, 1878.

――――:o:――――

THE CITY BLACKLEG.

Under the railway arch there see,
The villain Smith he stands;
That Smith a puny man is he,
With small and skinny hands;
And the muscles of his bony arms
Are like elastic bands.

His hair you see’s by no means long,
His face is lean and wan;
His brow ne’er yet was wet with sweat,
He lives as best he can;
To owe he holds is no disgrace,
For he owes to ev’ry man.

He tries to tempt that countryman
(Flinging a pair o’ dice),
But having fleeced him once before,
Upon his back he lies;
And with his skinny hand he wipes
A pair of blackened eyes.

Swindling――skedaddling――borrowing
Onward through life he goes;
No morning sees him taken in,
No evening sees him lose;
Somebody tempted, some one “done,”
Earns _him_ a night’s repose.

_Judy_, September 4, 1867.

――――――――

NUDITY.

(_Set to the Tune of an Old Ditty._)

[“A British Matron” addressed an indignant letter to the _Times_, anent the nudities which are now exhibited at our annual picture shows.]

Before a study of the nude
The British Matron stands,
A vivid blush is on her cheek,
She raises both her hands,
And for that hussy all undraped
A petticoat demands.

Her air is shocked, her face is long,
Her mission is to ban;
Her brow is set in lines of fret,
As may be seen by man,
And oft while gazing she exclaims,
“I wonder painters can!”

Sneak in, sneak out, brush-wielding wights,
Tread softly and talk low,
Take note of Mrs. Grundy’s scowl,
Observe her wrathful glow;
_She_ don’t approve of frockless daubs
And that she’d have you know!

The Matron’s wishing even now
She’d never sought your door,
Since here are pictures on the line,
Some ten, if not a score,
That make her almost long to sink
Unnoticed through the floor.

Crimson, indignant, horrified,
On through the room she goes;
Each glance to left augments her pain,
Each glance to right but shows
Some one who’s classic, some one stripped
Of decency and clo’es!

Thanks, thanks to thee, our British M.,
For the lesson thou hast taught.
Not to these Academic halls
Must nudities be brought;
In France the artist comes it strong,
But here he “didn’t ought.”

_Funny Folks_, June 6, 1885.

――――:o:――――

FLOWERS.

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers so blue and golden,
Stars that in earth’s firmament do shine.
* * * * *
LONGFELLOW

――――:o:――――

FLOWERS (OF ROTTEN-ROW).

Spake full well in language most descriptive,
One who walked by the Serpentine,
When he called these ladies fair, deceptive,
Beauties lost in crinoline.

Monstrous are those petticoats inflated,
Altering the syrens’ figures quite,
While the swells who unto them are mated
Are eclipsed from the beholders’ sight.

Wondrous fashions, manifold as wondrous,
Modern genius cuts its cloth into,
From the head-dress to the sandals under us,
From the “tile” unto the walking shoe.

And the costume-connoisseur, observant,
Sees alike in male or female dress,
More than is by wearer, him or her, meant.
More of folly――but of beauty less:

Gorgeous neck-ties, glistening in the sunlight,
Hats e’en whiter than their wearer’s hands,
“All round” collars made to screw the neck tight,
Coats “high-church”-like, and suggesting “bands.”