Chapter XXXVI: Prologue (7)

“Forward the Light Brigade!”
Was there a lad delayed,
Not though the mudlarks knew
Nought could be plundered.
Their’s s not to reason why,
Their’s but to make him buy,
“_Wax_” is their sole reply;
Into the valley of Lud
Rushed the half hundred.

Cabmen to right of them,
Cabmen to left of them,
Cabmen in front of them,
Holla’ed and thundered.
Stormed at by “slop” and swell,
Into the road pell-mell;
Into the jaws of Death,
Out of the paws of L,
Wary policeman L,
Rushed the half hundred.

Flashed all their ankles bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Tumbling in gutters there;
Dodging the bobby, while
All the world wondered.
Bold in the matter o’ smoke,
Right through the mob they broke,
Mudlark and “crusher,”
Reeled from their neighbour’s stroke
Spattered and sundered;
Ne’er till they’d served the “bloke”
Turned the half hundred.

Cabmen to right of them,
Cabmen to left of them,
Bobbies behind them
Followed and thundered.

But though policeman L
On his proboscis fell,
They knew the road so well
Right thro’ the jaws of Death,
Out of the claws of L
All that was left of him,
Slipped the half hundred.

Long thrive their simple trade,
Whatever tax be made,
May they escape any;
Honour the _Light_ Brigade!
Honour the _Charge_ they made!
’Twas but a ha’penny.

From _The Rocking of the Lilies, and other Poems_, by Charles T. Druery, (Clayton & Co., London), 1882.

――――:o:――――

RECITATION.――THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE AT KASSASSIN.

_By a Life Guards’ Officer._

Half a league (more or less),
Half a league onward;
All in the moon’s pale light
Rode the Six Hundred.
“Forward!” cried Drury Lowe,
“Goodness knows where you’ll go.
_I_ can’t see any foe.”
Out into the pale moonlight
Rode the Six Hundred!

“Forward, Cavalry Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Or, so to speak, afraid?
No; not a man drew back
In all the Six Hundred,
Theirs not to make reply
(_That_ they knew was muti-_ny_),
Theirs not to wonder why
No enemy was nigh,
Theirs not (just then) to die.
Out into the pale moonlight
Rode the Six Hundred!

Desert to right of them,
Desert to left of them,
Desert in front of them,
Yet on they thundered;
Whilst far above their head
Bullets by dozens sped,
Still not a trooper fled,
Still not a man dropped dead,
As into the desert wild
Rode the Six Hundred!

“Forward, Cavalry Brigade!”
So ’twas their leader said,
When, as the moon shone bright,
Came the dread foes in sight,
As to the left and right,
Blindly they blundered.
None at the guns would stay,
Wildly they ran away;
Whilst to their great dismay,
Up dashed, in proud array,
All the Six Hundred!

Flashed then their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turn’d in air,
Halving Egyptians there,
Slicing limbs off everywhere,
Whilst “fellahs” wondered.
Then, when of slaughter tired,
They no more blood required,
Copt or Egyptian,
When they by valour fired,
Plenty had sunder’d;
Then they rode back again,
_All_ the Six Hundred!

Desert to right of them,
Desert to left of them,
Desert behind them,
Yet on they thundered;
Storm’d by no shot nor shell,
Nor horse nor hero fell,
Whilst those who’d sliced so well,
Came from they knew not where,
Back, whence they could not tell,
Back to their camp they came,
_All_ the Six Hundred!

When can the glory fade
Of this wild charge they made?
Pish! what’s the Light Brigade,
At which the world wondered?
_They_ didn’t _all_ ride back
After their wild attack;
_They_ lost one half, alack!
Silly Six Hundred!
Not so with our Brigade;
_They_, when their charge they’d made,
Rode back to their parade
Still a Six Hundred!

“_At this point of the programme the prompter announced that the Egyptian Honours would be distributed, on which there at once came such a rain of stars, crosses, medals, K.C.B.’s, &c., from the “flies,” that the gallant veterans on the stage were glad to put up their umbrellas to guard their skulls from fracture._”

_Truth Christmas Number_, 1882.

――――――――

_The Porcupine_ (Liverpool) published a parody on July 11, 1885, entitled “The Charge of the Fire Brigade,” but it was of purely local interest, and destitute of humour, or any other literary merit.

――――:o:――――

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA.

――――――――

THE CHESTER CUP.

Frenchman’s mare from over the sea,
“Stradella!”
Epsonians, Ascotians, Chesterians are we,
But all of us French in our welcome of thee,
“Stradella!”

Welcome her myriads of horses so fleet,
Welcome her thundering cheers of the street,
Welcome her champagne, cooling and sweet,――
Scatter the bank-notes under her feet.
Burst poor book-makers into sad tears,
’Tis victory, and the Frenchman’s cheers!
Welcome her, welcome her, winnings of ours!
Mather and Russell, don’t bustle there,
Fluttering, sputtering, chattering so!
Like rivulets let your gold-dust flow.

Pencils of gold in the suns’ rays flare
Put down your marks and to wit aspire,
We feel the breeze, but we do not care.
Flash, ye ladies, in champagne’s fire,
You shall have gloves, and by her desire,
“Stradella!”

Frenchman’s mare, from over the way,
If thou would’st go, yet thou must stay,
Or such a bore you then would be!
Oh, joy to the “gentry,” if you should win,
No matter the “people” who lose their tin.
Epsonians, Ascotians, Chesterians, we
Goths, or _Roodes_, or whatever we be,
We are all of us French in our welcome of thee,
“Stradella!”

――――――――

P.S.――Frenchman’s mare from over the sea,
“Stradella!”
Since these ere lines I’d been and done,
An English horse has been and won;
And all my prophecy is void,
For I forgot that “Asteroid.”

From _Lays of the Turf_, by Rose Grey. London, G. H. Nichols, 1863.

――――:o:――――

IN TENNYSONIAM.

“We have had the following Stanzas forwarded us, with the signature of “A****d T*nn***n.” Can they be from the Laureate? We have our doubts. And yet there is a wild, mystical, logical, sentimental, and general obscurity of expression throughout the lines which inclines us to think (from their internal evidence) that they could have proceeded from no other pen than the author of ‘In Memoriam.’”

We seek to know, and knowing seek;
We seek, we know; and ev’ry sense
Is trembling with the great Intense
And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft,
We know enough, and should no more:
And yet we skim through Fancy’s lore
And look to earth, and not aloft.

A something comes from out the gloom;
I know it not, nor seek to know:
I only see it swell and grow,
And more than this would not presume.

Meseems, a circling void I fill,
And I, unchanged where all is change;
It seems unreal; I own it strange,
Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.

I hear the oceans surging tide
Raise quiring on its carol-tune;
I watch the golden-sickled-moon,
And clearer voices call beside.

O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie
On red-ribbed sands where sea-weeds shone;
O Moon! whose golden-sickles gone:
O Voices all! like ye I die!

From “_The Month_,” by Albert Smith and John Leech. December, 1851.

――――:o:――――

THE BATTLE OF THE REVIEWS.

“The sonnet written by Mr. Tennyson as an introduction to the _Nineteenth Century_ has excited universal attention and admiration. Some people, however, are understood to have complained that they cannot exactly penetrate the meaning which the poet wishes to convey. But this is entirely their own fault, as, if they had studied the whole history of the secession from the _Contemporary_, they would fully appreciate the charm, and the appropriateness of the Laureates’ verses.”

“For the benefit of these, Mr. Tennyson, with his customary kindness, has forwarded to us the following lines, which our readers will at once perceive to be an explanation of his sonnet, as clear as the latter is beautiful:”

Of old the murmurs of the Delphian shrine,
The dry leaves fluttering in the Sibyl’s cave,
The mystic lights that shone upon the gems
Of Israel’s pontiff, and all prophecy
Were for the few, not for the common herd.
I, who have spoken to my co-mates stanch
Foregather’d by our mast, have spoken words,
‘Here in this roaring moon of daffodil
And crocus,’ which to them are clear as light,
Though dark as night to them that stand without.
Not dark to us, for we have trod the heights
‘Of hoar high-templed faith;’ and we do know,
For we have traversed them with fearless keel,
The ‘Seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt,’
And we may win a ‘golden harbour’ yet.
But since we know well all that we do know,
The cunning plannings of our busy brains,
And e’en the meanings of the words we frame,
Let it content all men that stand without
That we do know exactly what we mean;
Nor let them rashly for their private ends
Construct interpretations of our speech.
ANONYMOUS.

Tennyson’s “Prefatory Sonnet” in the first number of the “Nineteenth Century” commenced thus:――

Those that of late had fleeted far and fast
To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill
Of others their old craft seaworthy still,
Have chartered this; where, mindful of the past,
Our true co-mates regather round the mast;

* * * * *

――――:o:――――

IDYLLS OF THE KING.

――――――――

_A Parody of the Dedication._

IN MEMORIAM.――A COLLIE DOG.

“These to its Memory――since from all I hear
It was a dog most dutiful and dear――
These simple lines, in which will p’rhaps be found
Some lasting image of a faithful hound,
I to its mourning mistress consecrate,
Hoping therewith her sorrow to abate;
Aye, hoping to console her for its fate,
With mingled doubts and fears I dedicate
These verses.

“And indeed it seems to me
A most ideal kind of dog to be
Which she has lost; not highly bred, indeed――
But who, with sense, cares aught for birth or breed?
I, as a poet, such vain things despise,
And hold them low as titles in my eyes;
Enough to know the dog at heart was true
To her that long as mistress fond it knew;
So true, in sooth, that others oft it spurned,
And with a savage snarl upon them turned
When they, with dainty bribe or gentle pat,
Would try to pass it, watchful on its mat.

“It loved her only, and with bounty kind
She in its favour e’er was much inclined
Since first she sadly called it to her side
When its dear master, and her husband, died;
And, gladly finding it come at her call,
Put trust in it thenceforward, all in all.

* * * * *

“Yet would I bid that mistress to take cheer,
Nor mourn too much that dog which was so dear.
Nor o’er its empty collar still to weep,
Nor its void kennel still unfilled to keep.
For though ’mongst dogs about her she detects
No one like ‘Laddie’ was, in _all_ respects,
Yet, as the ocean yields, without a doubt,
Fish equal to the best ones taken out,
So, too, ’mongst dogs that have not had their day
May be as good as that one passed away;
Quite as devoted, quite as strong and true,
And possibly less rough and awkward, too.

“Let, then, the mistress of this much-mourned pet,
If she another collie still would get,
Learn that amongst the dogs that crowd around
Another ‘Laddie’ may with ease be found.
Which if not quite so roughly fond, indeed,
May points as good combine with better breed.”

_Truth_, February 14, 1884.

(In allusion to the Queen’s Servant, the late John Brown).

――――:o:――――

VIVIEN’S SONG.

――――――――

A LITTLE.

A little rift within the lute
And discord mars the pleasing strain;
A little tightness in the boot
Excuses epithets profane.

A little tip, a little bet,
A little silver from the till;
He does his little sentence yet,
And little likes the prison mill.

Dry as a little bit of chalk,
In a small pub they share a quart;
A little stagger in their walk
Shows they topped up with something short.

A little more, perhaps, than he meant
――Men sometimes speak a bit too fast――
One little word――she gives consent;
Her little fish is hooked at last.
R.H.B.

_The Sporting Times_, June 27, 1885.

――――――――

GUINEVERE.

No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!
O, let us in, that we may find the light!
Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now.
TENNYSON.

――――――――

TOO SOON.

SCENE――The Pit door of the Lyceum.
TIME――Ten minutes before 7.30 on a winter’s evening.

O let us out, the heat stifles us sore,
O pray open kindly behind us the door,
Too soon, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.

“Too long,” groaned we, for that we do repent:
Let us pass out, have mercy and relent,
No, no, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.

Fate made us soft: this shoving is no joke,
Our necks are nigh disjointed, our backs are nearly broke;
Too soon, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.

With punches yon cowards on us poor wretches drop,
Your cruel mates frown because the way we stop,
You should not have called us names quite yet.

Ah! Parodies, we’ve heard you are so sweet:
O let us out to hear “Amens” repeat
His soft “Dryhilldics.” No, too soon, not yet.

_The Tonbridgian._ March, 1879. C. C. H.

――――:o:――――

LITTLE MISS MUFFET.

_A Tennysonian Version of the Popular Nursery Rhyme._

IN STURDY ANGLO-SAXON.

Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating of curds and whey;
There came a great spider
And sat down beside her,
And frightened Miss Muffet away!

RESET AS AN ARTHURIAN IDYL.

Upon a tuffet of most soft and verdant moss,
Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak,
Miss Muffet sat, and upward gazed,
To where a linnet perched and sung,
And rocked him gently, to and fro.
Soft blew the breeze
And mildly swayed the bough;
Loud sung the bird,
And sweetly dreamed the maid;
Dreamed brightly of the days to come――
The golden days, with her fair future blent――
When one――some wondrous stately knight――
Of our great Arthur’s “Table Round;”
One, brave as Launcelot, and
Spotless as the pure Sir Galahad,
Should come, and coming, choose _her_
For his love, and in her name,
And for the sake of her fair eyes,
Should do most knightly deeds.
And as she dreamed and softly sighed,
She pensively began to stir,
With a tiny golden spoon,
Within an antique dish upon her lap,
Some snow-white milky curds;
Soft were they, full of cream and rich,
And floated in translucent _whey_;
And as she stirred, she smiled,
Then gently tasted them,
And smiling, ate, nor sighed no more.
Lo! as she _ate_――nor harbored thought of ill――
Near and nearer yet, there to her crept
A monster great and terrible,
With huge, misshapen body――leaden eyes――
Full many a long and hairy leg,
And soft and stealthy footstep.
Nearer still he came――Miss Muffet yet,
All unwitting his dread neighbourhood,
Did eat her curds and dream,
Blithe, on the bough, the linnet sung――
All terrestrial natures, sleeping, wrapt
In a most sweet tranquility.
Closer still the spider drew, and――
Paused beside her――lifted up his head
And gazed into her face.
Miss Muffet then, her consciousness alive
To his dread eyes upon her fixed,
Turned and beheld him.
Loud screamed she, frightened and amazed,
And straightway sprung upon her feet:
And, letting fall her dish and spoon,
She――shrieking――turned and fled.

_Free Press Flashes_, 1881.

――――:o:――――

DESPAIR.

――――――――

NEVER SAY DIE.

A Dramatic Monologue.

_The Minister of the Sect, which was abandoned by the man who did not drown himself, replies to the dramatic monologue on Despair which was published by that person in the “Nineteenth Century” for November_, 1881.

So you’re minded to curse me, are you, for not having let you be,
And for taking the trouble to pull you out when your wife was drowned
in the sea?
I’m inclined to think you are right――there was not much sense in it;
But there was no time to think, the thing was done in a minute.
You had not gone very far in: you had fainted where you were found;
You’re the sort of fellow that likes to drown with his toe on the
ground.
However, you turn upon me and my creed with all sorts of abuse;
As if any preaching of mine could possibly be of use
To a man who refused to see what sort of a world he had got
To live in and make the best of, whether he liked it or not.
I am not sure what you mean: you seem to mean to say
That believing in hell you were happy; but that one unfortunate day
You found out you knew nothing about it, whereby the troubles of life
Became at once too heavy to bear for yourself and your wife.
That sounds silly; so perhaps you may mean that all is wrong all
round――
My creed and the know-nothing books――and that truth is not to be
found,
That’s sillier still; for if so the know-nothing books are right,
And you’re a mere spiritless cur, who can neither run nor fight――
Too great a coward to live, and too great a coward to die,
Fit for nothing at all but just to sit down and cry.
Not that you’re really unhappy. I don’t think you ever were.
Give you a poet’s corner, and a pipe and an easy chair,
And a woman or two to pet you, and you never gave way to despair,
You might sell it at so much a line――but that’s quite another affair.
Why in the midst of your whines it’s impossible not to see
How anxious you are to show that you’re only attacking me,
And that you’ve not a word to say against respectable people
Who own no connection between my chapel and their church-steeple.
You always contrive to hint, and almost seem to feel
That your creed would have been much better if your Church had been
more genteel.
Why, man, we’re all in one boat, as every one can see,
Bishops and priests and deacons, and poor little ranters like me.
There’s hell in the Church of England, and hell in the Church of
Rome:
And in all other Christian Churches, abroad as well as at home.
The part of my creed you dislike may be too stern for you.
Many brave men believe it――aye, and enjoy life too.
The know-nothing books may alarm you; but many a better man
Knows he knows nothing, and says so, and lives the best life he can.
If there is a future state, face its hopes and terrors gravely;
The best path to it must be to bear life’s burdens bravely.
And even if there is none, why should not you live like a man,
Enjoying whatever you have as much and as long as you can.
In the world in which we are living there’s plenty to do and to know,
And there’s always something to hope for, till its time for us to go.
Despair is the vilest of words, unfit to be said or thought,
Whether there is a God and a future state or not.
If you really are such a wretch that you’re quite unfit to live,
And ask my advice I’ll give you the best that I have to give.
Drown yourself by all means; I was wrong and you were right;
I’ll not pull you out any more; but be sure you drown yourself quite.

_The St. James’s Gazette._ November, 1881.

――――:o:――――

HANDS ALL ROUND.

――――――――

TENNYSONIAN TORYISM DEVELOPED.

First pledge our Queen this solemn night,
Then drink to Tories every guest;
Next toast our leaders men of “light,”
In whose effulgence we are blest!
May carping Churchills ever live,
And Cecils “flout and jeer” for aye;
That man’s the best Conservative
Who best obstructs vile Gladstone’s sway.
Hands all round! God the Lib’rals’ hope confound!
To the sham cause of “Greatness” drink, my friends,
And the great name of Jingo round and round.

Drink health to lords of high degree,
Who strive to thwart the land’s desire;
May our opponent’s fail, while we
Grow strong in borough and in shire,
We fought wherever we could fight,
We scrupled not to confiscate;
We would be “great” by wrong or right:
May England thus be ever “great.”
Hands all round! God all Radicals confound!
To the sham cause of “Greatness” drink, my friends,
And the great name of Jingo round and round.
JOHN PHELAN.
_The Weekly Dispatch_, April 2, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE FLEET.

――――――――

THE UNFITNESS OF THE MEAT.

――――――――

The Master to the Mistress, _Loquitur_.

_You_――_you_――if you have failed to comprehend
A Briton’s dinner is his all in all,
On you a husband’s anger will descend,
If that cold mutton pall
Upon his palate keen.

This meal the cheeriest――sacred hour of bliss!
This one rare meal, the joy of every man;
Poor Hubby, what would _Life_ be, stripped of _this_?
And what avail the lunch abstention plan,
If _Dinner_ brings the spleen?

_You_――_you_――who have the ordering of the meat,
If you can only compass horrid grub.
When husbands starve――the hansom trim and fleet
Shall whirl them to the _Club_――
But then, you’ll call it mean!
F. B. DOVETON.
Eastbourne, 1885.

――――:o:――――

TO H.R.H. PRINCESS BEATRICE.

Two Suns of Love make day of human life,
Which else with all its pains and griefs and deaths
Were utter darkness――one, the Sun of dawn
That brightens thro’ the Mother’s tender eyes,
And warms the child’s awakening world――and one
The later-rising Sun of spousal Love
Which from her household orbit draws the child
To move in other spheres. The Mother weeps
At that white funeral of the single life,
Her maiden daughter’s marriage; and her tears
Are half of pleasure, half of pain――the child
Is happy――e’en in leaving _her_! but Thou,
True daughter, whose all-faithful, filial eyes
Have seen the loneliness of earthly thrones,
Wilt neither quit the widow’d Crown, nor let
This later light of Love have risen in vain,
But moving thro’ the Mother’s home, between
The two that love thee, lead a summer life,
Sway’d by each Love, and swaying to each Love
Like some conjectured planet in mid heaven
Between two Suns, and drawing down from both
The light and genial warmth of double day.
TENNYSON.

――――――――

LATEST BY THE POET OF LOW-RATE.

Two Moons for thee, of honey and of strife;
The one with all its love, and joy, and bliss,
And ample income; one the honeymoon
Which shines for thee in Trixey’s tender eyes,
And warms thee to our English home:――and one
The moonshine of a watchful Ma-in-law,
Who in her household orbit keeps her child
To pine for other spheres. The Mother smiles
At that white feather in thy jaunty cap;
Her maiden daughter’s marriage does not rob
Her of her close associate; her daughter
Is happy, never leaving her; but thou,
New Son-in-law, her watchful woman’s eyes――
Which know the ways of young men sprung from thrones――
Will watch thee with a jealous look, and curb
Thy freedom as befits one who is Queen――
So moving through the Mother’s home, between
The two, thy life alternately will be
Swayed by each one, swaying to this or that
Like some erratic planet in mid air
Between two Moons, and, trying to please both,
The life you’ll lead will well be worth the pay.

_The Weekly Echo_, July 25, 1885.

――――――――

POEM ADDRESSED TO THE PRINCESS BEATRICE,
NOT BY THE POET LAUREATE.

Two Sums of cash will fill a German purse,
Which else with all its pockets and elastic band
Were utter emptiness――one, the round Sum down
Of £30,000, which brightens up the mother’s eyes,
And warms the child’s awakening greed――and one
The annual sum of just six thousand pounds
Which keeps her husband, and which helps the child
To move in other spheres. The mother smiles
At that gay funeral of the people’s cash,
Her maiden daughter’s marriage; and her thoughts
Are half of pleasure, half of pain――the coin
Is being spent――ev’n leaving _her_! But Thou,
True daughter, whose all faithful filial eyes
Have seen the costliness of earthly thrones
Wilt neither quit thy new half-crowns, nor let
Thy nice annuity have risen in vain,
But moving through the Mother’s home, between
Thy dividends and pension, lead an easy life,
Sway’d by each Lump of cash, and swaying to each Lump
Like some fat Pluralist in clover dwelling
Between two Sums, and drawing down from both
The light and genial warmth of double pay.

_Modern Society_, August 1, 1885.

――――――――

There was a Parody competition on these lines in _The Weekly Dispatch_, August 9, 1885, and the following Parodies were printed. The first, which gained the prize of Two Guineas was written by Mr. J. Phelan, of 4, Albion Terrace, Wisbech.

Two tones of love make woe of married life,
Which, at its best, hath frets and jars enough
For passive comfort――one, the voice of dole
That frequent murmurs from the wife’s cold lips,
And warns the spouse to meek assent――and one
The keener-rising strain of mother’s plaint
Which from obedience turns her daughter’s mind
To undisguised revolt. The mother weeps
At that black burial of the single life,
Her hapless daughter’s marriage; and her tears
Are half of sorrow, half of guile――the man
Tormented, rids himself of _her_!, but thou,
Poor bondsman, whose wealth-seeking, glamoured eyes
Have caught the loveliness of palace-homes,
Canst neither quit thy mother-in-law nor shun
The scorn her princely kin to thee accord,
But, moving in the mother’s shade, between
Two fears that haunt thee, lead a tortured life,
Bored by restraint, and maddened by contempt,
Like luckless dweller ’neath Italian Alps,
’Tween ice and sun, and drawing down from both
The chills and scorchings of a double clime.

――――――――

TO PRINCE HENRY OF BATTENBERG.

Two things, no doubt, make day of married life,
Which else, with all its cares and births and deaths,
Were utter mis’ry! One a loving wife,
Who brightens all the home, whose tender eyes
Beam o’er the household world――and one,
The secondary one, of needful cash,
Which from far Germany has drawn thee, child,
To move in English spheres. What Prince would keep
In the mean penury of single life
When he could make a marriage such as yours,
With half its pleasure, half its gain, the while
Your slyness draws an annual six thou?
True German, whose all-seeking eager eyes
Have seen the pickings round an English throne,
You’ll cotton to our widow’d Crown, I’ll bet!
Nor play the “light o’ love” and spoil your game;
But, walking round your mother-in-law, between
The two that keep you, lead a stunning life.
Play well your cards――good playing, too, ’twill prove;
But don’t――rememb’ring both are more than seven――
Between two stools come tumbling down from both,
And lose the genial game by doubtful play.
LEONARD HARDING.

――――――――

TO MY SUNDAY SUIT.

Two tricks of trade make bearable my life,
Which else, with all its hunger and its thirst,
Were utter mis’ry――one, to buy on tick
By throwing dust into the tradesmen’s eyes.
And so secure my Sunday clothes――and one
The later-rising hope of pawning them,
Which from my household orbit draws the suit
To go up uncle’s spout. The tradesman weeps
Thinking of that white lie I gulled him with,
His maiden, sad adventure, and his tears
Are none of pleasure, all of pain. The clothes,
All nappy as they left his shop――yes, thou
Good broadcloth, my all useful Sunday suit,
Whose presence cheers my earthly loneliness,
Wilt neither quit my gloomy home nor let
Those gleaming three brass balls have risen in vain,
But, moving through the popping-shop, between
The two that own thee, glad my fretful life,
Swayed by each need, and swaying to each need,
Like some new-fangled toy acquired in shares
Between two boys, and drawing down from both
Their warm and genial zeal in double play.
EDWARD JOHNS.

TO THE NEW RADICAL MEMBERS.

Two sorts of grants make rich the royal train,
Who else, with all their pomp and stars and glare,
Were utter paupers――one, the grant for age
That princes get when twenty-one they reach――
Or set up their establishments――and one
(The later asked-for grant) when spousal love
Quite oft the Household charges takes the child――
To let the parent save. The Commons shout
At these extensions of the public tax.
And vote them with a rapture――and the Peers,
Amidst their pleasure, feel a pain that they
Hold not the purse-strings national. But ye,
True Radicals!――with earnest, rugged minds――
Knowing the shams and uselessness of thrones,
Will neither vote the first-named grant, nor let
The later bold demand be made again.
But, rising in the Commons’ House, between
The sides that fear thee, make a stern protest;
Bribed by no place, nor fearful of the frown
That scares those noble patriots who’re in heaven
When smiles a Queen, or whensoe’er they feel
The snug and genial warmth of feathered nests.
GEORGE MALLINSON.

――――――――

TO LORD TENNYSON.

Two bridal loves make laugh of “You you’s” song,
Which else, with all its gush and hollow praise,
Were utter blankness――one, the German Prince
Who settles ’neath his mother’s Castle roof,
And claims her child’s unbounded wealth; and one――
The not surprising one――his lady-love,
Who from her wedding bower drawls the lines――
And shows unto her friends. Her mother weeps
At this vile twaddle from her great Laureate
On Princess Trixie’s marriage; and her sighs
Are half of pity, half contempt――the child
Is muddled e’en at reading it! For thou
O Alfred, whose erst faithful lyric pen
Hath limn’d the loveliness of “The Princess,”
Could’st ne’er forget whence came thy crown, nor let
This little love-match pass without a strain;
But, grovelling at the mother’s throne, between
The two new lovers, act the toady’s part,
Playing the fool, and playing unto fools,
Like some contortioned jester of the Court
Between two “spoons,” and drawing down from both
A cold insipid smile on this glad day.
JESSE H. WHEELER.

END OF VOLUME II.

Footnotes:

[1] Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

[2] Adrien Marx, purveyor of Court news to _The Figaro_.

[3] At the time the London, Chatham, and Dover stopped paying any
dividends.

[4] A term of endearment sometimes applied to Earl Granville by his
political opponents.

[5] Cockney rhyme for which the Premier-Poet’s present model EDGAR
POE, is responsible.

[6] “Old Father Noah he built him an ark,
And set it afloat in St. James’ Park,” &c.――_Old Song._

[7] The name of one of Mr. POE’S Poems.

[8] It was announced that Mr. IRVING intended to make his first
appearance in New York in his celebrated part of _Mathias_ in “The
Bells.”

[9] The Right Hon. George Otto Trevelyan, M.P., Author of a
Biography of Lord Macaulay.

[10] A nick-name applied to the Right Hon. W. E. Forster, M.P., by
the Home Rulers.

[11] The dragon-ship of the Norse mythology.

[12] The Fates and Furies.

[13] An imitation of “THE BELLS.”

[14] A Parody of “ULALUME.”

[15] A Parody of “ANNABEL LEE.”

[16] A Parody of “THE RAVEN.”

[17] A Parody of “THE CONQUEROR WORM.”

[18] “The Lay of the Lovelorn,” this was quoted on page 21, Part II.
of _Parodies_.

[19] “The Heathen Pass-ee” from _Light Green_. This parody was given
in full in Part IX. _Parodies_, page 135.

[20] Where and when did this Parody appear? The “Saturday Reviewer”
omits this important information, whilst he tantalises his readers
by saying that “the whole parody is so good that selection is
difficult.” It should have appeared here in full had a proper
reference been given to it. All the other Parodies alluded to in the
article will be included in this collection under the authors to
whom they refer.――ED. _Parodies._

[21] In the Sandwich Isles it is death for a man’s mother-in-law to
visit him without permission. _Happy Sandwich Islanders.!!!_

[22] This amiable and accomplished lady should remember the useful
advice of Mr. Artemus Ward, “Never to prophecy unless you know.”

[23] Miss Jenny Lind first appeared at Covent Garden Theatre when it
was under the management of Mr. Lumley――Alfred Bunn (the “Poet
Bunn”) being then lessee of Drury Lane Theatre.

[24] (A celebrated cook of whom TOM MOORE makes frequent mention in
his lighter poems.)

[25] Thumbscrews.

[26] “The drummer” an Americanism for Commercial Traveller.

[27] This is incorrect. Mr. Gladstone went to the Criterion Theatre
the night before the tidings arrived of the fall of Khartoum.

[28] The St. Michael oranges come from one of the Azore Islands.

[29] YUM-YUM, believed to be Japanese Muse of Hypothetical Poetry,
corresponding to “You, you.”

[30] Lauder.

[31] Macpherson.

[32] Chatterton.

[33] Sir Richard Mayne, then chief of the Metropolitan Police.

[34] It was recently announced that at one of the meetings of the
Society Mr. Carr would read a paper on “Such Harmony is in Immortal
Soules;” considering the stormy history of the Society, this
announcement appeared so grotesque that even the grim and austere
_Daily News_ burst into satirical verse to celebrate the event:――
“The new Shakespeare Society
“(From violence of language free,
“And full of friends who all agree)
“In grave debate will meet!”

[35] This was a skit on the late Prince Albert’s absurd design for a
new head-gear for soldiers.

[36] Alluding to a well-known sonnet of the late Marquis:――
“O happy, happy, happy flea,
If I were you or you were me,
But since, alas, that cannot be,
I must remain Lord Salisbury.”

[37] _Drum._――“A drum, then, is an assembly of well-dressed persons
of both sexes, most of whom play at cards, and the rest do nothing
at all; while the mistress of the house performs the part of the
landlady at an inn, and, like the landlady of an inn, prides herself
in the number of her guests, though she doth not always, like her,
get anything by it.”――_Fielding_, History of a Foundling, p. xvii;,
ch. 6.

[38] The coercive measure for Ireland.

[39] OTHELLO (on this occasion only) by Mr. Henry Irving.

[40] Mrs. Bateman.

[41] Sub-Warden, Sub-Rectors, &c.

[42] The well-known Shakespearian commentators.

[43] Prince Bismarck.

[44] John Arthur Roebuck, M.P., for Sheffield.

[45] Lord Brougham.

[46] This is quite as true to fact as the _Bird_ harmony of the
original.

[47] Alluding to a disgraceful fight which took place in Rotten Row,
between Lord Lonsdale and Sir George Chetwynd.

[48] LOUIS XVIII, who was replaced on the throne of his ancestors,
after the deposition of Napoleon Buonaparte. But for the support of
the Allied Powers, the French people would probably have soon
deposed this indolent and bigoted representative of the Divine
Right, who, at the instigation of the priests, had just landed them
in an unjust war with Spain. He had for several years previously
been suffering from the effects of his indolent habits, and his
constant over eating, and over drinking, and he died in the
following year, September 16, 1824.

[49] Celebrated Oxford Ale-houses.

[50] A Latin song called “Domum,” sung with instrumental
accompaniment, on the day before the commencement of their
Whitsuntide Vacation, by the scholars of Winchester College.

[51] Fox-covers.

[52] The ante-room at the Opera, where the audience assemble, and
flirt, and catch cold, under the pretence of waiting for their
carriages.

[53] Lauder, Macpherson, Chatterton, and W. H. Ireland.

[54] Wolseley and Roberts are small men; Graham is 6ft. 4in.

[55] Le Beau D’Orsay cut out his _gilets_.

[56] Beau Nash was M.C. at Bath.

[57] Beau Brummel it was who said to the Prince Regent,
“George, ring the bell.”

[58] Tyndall, Phonologist.

[59] Huxley, Agnostic.

[60] Darwin, Ethnologist.

[61] Randolph Churchill.

[62] Lord R. Churchill.

[63] Mrs. Langtry.

[64] Miss Terry.

[65] Miss Mary Anderson.

[66] Stage direction. The thunder is produced by rolling a turnip in
a fish kettle.

[67] Clark’s Horses were notorious buck-jumpers.

[68] “Of the many cases to which I have alluded there are some that
have commanded my attention by reason of their unusual
depravity,――cases in which three or four adults of both sexes, with
many children were lodging in the same room, and often sleeping in
the same bed. I have notes of three or four localities where 48 men,
73 women, and 69 children are living in 34 rooms. They are
distributed as follows 2 men, 2 women, and 3 children in one room; 1
man, 2 women, and 3 children; 1 man, 4 women, and 2 children; 2 men,
3 women, and 1 child; 2 men, 1 woman, and 2 children; 1 man, 4
women, and 1 child; 1 man and 3 women; 2 men and 3 women; and so
on.――_Vide Report._

[69] “About a fortnight since, I visited the back room on the ground
floor of No. 5. I found it occupied by 1 man, 2 women, and 2
children, and in it was the dead body of a poor girl who had died in
childbirth a few days before. The body was stretched out on the bare
floor without shroud or coffin.”――_Ibid._

[70] Since this paragraph was in type I have received a copy of the
second edition of _The Banquet_ from the author, Mr. George
Cotterell. Collectors of _Tennysoniana_ should certainly “make a
note” of this amusing little book. Ed. _Parodies._

[71] On the Fell Railway which preceded the Mont Cenis Tunnel.

[72] Bridges, on the 119th Psalm.

Transcriber’s Note:

This book was written in a period when many words had not become standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged except as indicated below. Dialect was not changed. “The Splendid Shilling” is presented as an exact reprint; the long s (ſ) was retained in this poem.

Illustrations are mostly cherubs, flowers, leaves, masks, mythical animals, and the like, from simple to elaborate. Illustrated dropped capitals are indicated thus: ecause…

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the end of the book. Two footnotes were not printed, page 229. All three anchors resolve to [51]. There are two anchors to footnote [42].

Obvious printing errors were corrected, such as backwards, upside down, partially or unprinted letters and punctuation, letters in reversed order, and punctuation marks used as letters. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were added. Punctuation was standardized (commas changed to stops and vice versa; open and close quote marks, and spacing between words). Duplicate words at line endings or page breaks were removed.

In the section entitled “Pot-Pourri,” the original citations of the Poe poems were printed across the bottom of the two-column page; these were moved to follow immediately after the parody of each poem.

Spelling corrections:

qusto to gusto: with the greatest _gusto_
Concience to Conscience: Conscience-driven accusations
paens to paeans: chant paeans of soul music
sublety to subtlety: subtlety of crime
It to In: In its sinuous mystic vagrance,
here be to here he: here he bolted in the door
autum-tide to autumn-tide: to town this autumn-tide,
caitift to caitiff: Here lives a caitiff
decends to descends: JULIET descends from balcony
spead to spread: My table’s spread with bread
Œgypt’s to Ægypt’s: Than Ægypt’s tyrant
is to it: that it quite bereaves
Skakespeare to Shakespeare: and some parodies of Shakespeare
spendid to splendid: In splendid show indignantly
remorie to remorce: But still this brings him no remorce,