Chapter VIII: Letter VIII: The Rejected “national Hymns.” (2)

* * * * *

The cat-fiend still inhabits my gloomy chambers. I have abandoned all hope of expelling it. The creature exists without food, so that the expedient of starvation is impracticable. At all hours of the day and night I am haunted by the wild eyes of my hated persecutor: at all hours of the day and night I hear the detested brute murmuring with a chuckle that maddens me,

“_Never no more!_”

_Fun_, February 1, 1868.

――――――――

THE CRAVEN.

Once upon a midnight lately, might be seen a figure stately,
In the Tuileries sedately poring over Roman lore;
Annotating, scheming, mapping, Cæsar’s old positions sapping,
When there came a something rapping, spirit-rapping at the door.
“’Tis some minister,” he muttered, “come, as usual, me to bore.”
So to Cæsar turned once more.

Back to Caesar’s life returning, with a soul for ever yearning,
Towards the steps his promise-spurning prototype had trod before.
But the silence was soon broken; through the stillness came a token
Life had moved again, or spoken on the other side the door.
“Surely I’ve no trusty servant,” said he, “to deny my door
Now De Morny is no more.”

Rising, of some trespass certain, slow he draws the purple curtain,
On whose folds the bees uncertain look like wasps, and nothing more:
Open flings the chamber portal, with a chill which stamps him mortal.
Can his senses be the sport all of his eyes! For there before
He sees an eagle perching on a bust of Janus at the door:
A bleeding bird, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, not in fear, but only fearing
Adrien’s vulgar indiscretions, Marx[2] of eaves-dropping in store:
“Though thy wings are torn and bleeding,” said he, with a voice of
pleading:
“Thou’rt a bird of royal breeding: thou hast flown from foreign
shore.”
Quoth the Eagle, “Matamore.”

Started with the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken,
“Silence,” said he, “never utter memories of that field of gore,
Where your poor Imperial master, whom imperious disaster
Followed fast, was tortured faster, till his heart one burden bore:
Till the dirges of his hope, this melancholy burden bore――
Never see Carlotta more.”

Then upon the velvet sinking, he betook himself to thinking
How he’d forced the murdered Prince to leave his quiet home of yore;
How he’d made him wield a sceptre, which no erudite preceptor
Might have told would soon be wept or lost on that forbidding shore,
Where earth cries for retribution, where for justice stones implore.
Quoth the Eagle, “Matamore.”

“Wretch!” he cried, “some fiend hath sent thee, by that mocking voice
he lent thee
Conscience-driven accusations rising up at every pore――
Must my master-mind so vaunted, ever hence be spectre haunted――
Must I see that form undaunted, dying still at Matamore?”
Quoth the Eagle, “Evermore.”

“Prophet!” shrieked he, “thing of evil! Here we fear nor God nor
Devil!
Wing thee to the House of Hapsburg! Up to Austria’s heaven soar,
Leave no bloody plume as token, of the lies my soul has spoken,
Leave my iron will unbroken! Wipe the blood before my door!
Dost thou think to gnaw my entrails with thy beak for evermore?”
Quoth the Eagle, “Jusqu’à Mort.”

The above parody appeared in _The Tomahawk_ after the execution, on June 19, 1867, of the Emperor Maximilian in Mexico. “The Craven” was intended for Napoleon III., to whose Government _The Tomahawk_ was bitterly opposed.

――――――――

THE TAILOR.

I.

Once upon a morning dismal, as I smoked in blues abysmal,
Gazing at the curious patterns on the dressing gown I wore,
While my cat her milk was lapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
Like a fellow’s knuckles rapping, rapping at my chamber door;
“It’s that nuisance Smith,” I muttered, rapping at my chamber door――
He may rap his fingers sore.”

II.

Ah! I do remember clearly small was then my income yearly,
And to pay my lodging nearly did my slight finances floor;
And my prospects, never sunny, fishy were as any tunny,
And I sadly wanted money, money to pay Baize and Blore,
Pay the fashionable tailors called in Oxford Baize and Blore,
Who will dun me evermore.

III.

But my cat, prophetic pussy, now got ominously fussy,
Clawed me, pawed me with her talons as she’d never done before;
So that now to stay her terror and convince her of her error,
“Tabby,” said I, “it is Smith entreating entrance at my door;
It’s that feeble Smith demanding entrance at my chamber door,
Only Smith and nothing more!”

IV.

Presently my chair removing, and most seriously reproving
My grimalkin, for the dreadful way in which she spat and swore,
From my writing-table’s kneehole stole I softly to the weehole
Which the people call the keyhole――keyhole of my chamber door,
Peeping through it saw another eye the other side the door,
Looking at me――nothing more.

V.

Straight to stop that sly eye’s prying, to the key my lips applying,
Blew I such a puff of smoke as no man ever puffed before;
Then I heard him backward starting, rub his eye as if ’twere
smarting,
And he seemed to be departing, so I whispered, “Is it sore?”
This I whispered through the keyhole; echo answered “It is sore.”
Answered thus, and nothing more.

VI.

Back I went and felt elated, and my blues had now abated,
When again I heard that rapping rather louder than before;
“Surely,” said I, rising, “surely, if he thinks I’ll sit demurely
While he makes that din securely, his mistake he shall deplore;
If I only catch him at it, his misdeed he shall deplore――
He shall not annoy me more.”

VII.

Open here I flung the portal, when there entered in a mortal,
Crooked legged, with clothes too short all――seedy garments that he
wore;
Never once “good morning” bade me――not a bow or scrape he made me,
But upon my table laid me down a bill from Baize and Blore,
Took his stand upon the oilcloth just within my chamber door,
Stood and hiccupped――nothing more.

VIII.

Then this festive creature winning all my sad soul into grinning,
Such a visage idiotic I had never seen of yore;
“Well, you have been drinking brandy,” said I, “and your legs are
bandy,
And you hardly look a dandy, though you come from Baize and Blore;
Tell me what on earth your name is in the firm of Baize and Blore?”
Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!”

IX.

Scarce I wondered this unsightly dun had answered unpolitely,
And his answer little comfort, little consolation bore;
For you cannot help confessing that it’s surely not a blessing
When you find yourself addressing dun within your chamber door;
Man or dun upon the oilcloth just within your chamber-door,
With a name like Tick-no-more!

X.

But the tailor standing solus gave me like a bitter bolus
That one word, as if his vacant soul in that he did outpour;
Me with no fine words he buttered, this from time to time he
stuttered,
Till I very softly muttered, “other duns have been before;
They will give me further credit as my tradesmen have before;”
Then the dun said, “Tick-no-more!”

XI.

Startled that he spoke so flatly and replied so very patly,
“Limited,” I said, “it seems is his linguistic stock and store;
If of no more words he’s master, if he duns not harder, faster,
Verily he’ll bring disaster on the house of Baize and Blore,
And I shall remain indebted to the firm of Baize and Blore
For ever, evermore.”

XII.

Still his strange demeanour winning all my sad soul into grinning,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned couch in front of oilcloth, dun, and
door;
Then upon the cushions sinking I betook myself to drinking
Little sips of sherry, thinking what this plague from Baize and
Blore,
What this gloomy, greasy, groggy messenger from Baize and Blore
Meant by stuttering “Tick-no-more.”

XIII.

But my cat I soothed by stroking, and small bits of bread kept soaking
In the milk, and gave them to her, dropped them for her on the floor:
Long I sat, strange things divining, with my head at ease reclining
Near the sherry I was wining that the dun’s eye gloated o’er;
But the liquor I was wining with his green eyes gloating o’er
He shall taste, oh! nevermore.

XIV.

Cloud by cloud the air grew denser, perfumed from my meerschaum
censer,
I should think I must have smoked of pipes that morning half a score;
“Man,” I said, “I have no treasure, or I’d pay the bill with pleasure,
Only once more take my measure for a suit from Baize and Blore,
Take your tape and take my measure for a suit from Baize and Blore.”
Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!”

XV.

“Dun!” I cried, “inhuman creature, human still in form and feature,
Much I’ve hoped you’d take my orders as you’ve always done before;
Tell me――for although you’re fuddled, you’re not utterly bemuddled――
Tell me if this hope I’ve cuddled is well-founded, I implore;
Will they, will they give me credit? tell me clearly, I implore?”
Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!”

XVI.

“Dun!” I cried, “inhuman creature, human still in form and feature,
By the piper who performed for Moses in the days of yore,
Tell me won’t, oh! brainless brute, your firm supply to me in future
Raiment of unequalled suture――genuine make of Baize and Blore,
Clothes of rare and radiant suture――splendid make of Baize and Blore?”
Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!”

XVII.

“Then be off, you sour curmudgeon!” cried I, starting up in dudgeon,
“Get you back to goose and scissors, get you back to Baize and Blore;
Leave no long account suggestive of reflections most unfestive,
Such as make me sleepless, restive――quit my chamber, quit my door;
Take your bill from off my table, take yourself from out my door!”
Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!”

XVIII.

Thus the tailor dunned for payment for the raiment, for the raiment
Mentioned in the bill he did not take from out my chamber door;
Thus he left me grimly staring, and that long account up tearing,
Part went up the chimney flaring, part lay scattered on the floor;
But that bill whose shreds went flying, or lay scattered on the floor
Now is settled ever more.

_Odd Echoes from Oxford_, by A. Merion, B.A. (John Camden Hotten, London, 1872.)

――――――――

THE SHAVIN’.
(A piece of ravin’ _à la_ Edgar A. Poe.)

One morning after sleeping I thought I heard a creeping,
As if some one were approaching close to my bedroom door:
Then a loud impatient tapping put an end unto my napping,
And I wondered who was rapping, rapping at my bedroom door,
So I timidly enquired who was at my bedroom door――
Only that, and nothing more.

When there came another knock, with, “Sir, ’tis eight o’clock,”
And, only half awakened, I leaped out upon the floor;
And by want of proper care hit my leg against a chair,
Which improperly stood there, as ’twas left the night before,
And I limped a very little as I crept towards the door――
Just a little, nothing more.

Then on asking, “What’s the matter?” said the servant, “Here’s your
water,”
And you’ve slept in rather later than you ever did before;
So as I was rather press’d I got very quickly drest
In my trousers and my vest; then I opened up the door,
And I muttered as I took it and shut to my bedroom door――
“Oh, that shavin’, what a bore!”

While inwardly I cursed――thus my feelings I disbursed――
I set about to rummage and to busily explore;
But I couldn’t find the strop, and someone had nailed the soap,
Which completely put a stop to my shavin’――horrid bore!
And my razor, too, was blunter than it ever was before――
Than it ever was before!

As I rushed about half raving, I bethought me of this shaving,
And I wondered that I hadn’t stopped the practice long before:
So I made an inward vow, that from this moment now,
My beard should, like my pow, grow at pleasure evermore,
And my resolution echoed as I ope’d my bedroom door――
“I shall shave, ah! nevermore!”
JOHN F. MILL.

The above Parody appeared, some years ago, in a Scotch magazine called _The People’s Friend_.

――――――――

CHATEAUX D’ESPAGNE.
(_A Reminiscence of “David Garrick” and
“The Castle of Andalusia.”_)

Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord Dundreary
With his quaint and curious humour set the town in such a roar,
With my shilling I stood rapping――only very gently tapping――
For the man in charge was napping――at the money-taker’s door.
It was Mr. Buckstone’s playhouse, where I linger’d at the door;
Paid half-price and nothing more.

Most distinctly I remember, it was just about September――
Though it might have been in August, or it might have been before――
Dreadfully I fear’d the morrow. Vainly had I sought to borrow;
For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor,
And the heart is heavy laden when one’s miserably poor;
(I have been so once before.)

I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the curtain,
If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I’d seen before;
For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave, and clinking
With their glasses on the table, I had witness’d o’er and o’er;
Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o’er;
Twenty years ago or more.

Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the thing no longer,
“Miss,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore.
Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly have the goodness
To inform me if this drama is from Gaul’s enlighten’d shore?”
For I know that plays are often brought us from the Gallic shore:
Adaptations――nothing more!

So I put the question lowly: and my neighbour answer’d slowly.
“It’s a British drama, wholly, written quite in days of yore.
’Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary,
And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be poor!”
(And I could not help agreeing that the dialogue _was_ poor;
Very flat, and nothing more.)

But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew center’d
In her figure, and her features, and the costume that she wore.
And the slightest sound she utter’d was like music; so I mutter’d
To my neighbour, “Glance a minute at your play-bill, I implore.
Who’s that rare and radiant maiden? Tell, oh, tell me! I implore.”
Quoth my neighbour, “Nelly Moore!”

Then I ask’d in quite a tremble――it was useless to dissemble――
“Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more;
Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear’d so sorrow laden
In the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door?”
(With a bust of Julius Cæsar up above the study door.)
Quoth my neighbour, “Nelly Moore.”

* * * * *

I’ve her photograph from Lacy’s; that delicious little face is
Smiling on me as I’m sitting (in a draught from yonder door),
And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light falls
From the wretched tallow candles on my gloomy second-floor,
(For I have not got the gaslight on my gloomy second floor,)
Comes an echo, “Nelly Moore!”

_Carols of Cockayne_, by Henry S. Leigh (John Camden Hotten, London, 1872.)

――――――――

A RAVIN’.

Once upon a midnight dreary, as I slumbered cross and weary,
Cross from several horrid boring books of theologic lore,
While they haunted me in napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some confounded rapping, rapping at my bedroom door.
“’Tis some rascal,” low I muttered, “who’s too screwed to find his
door,――
Only this and nothing more!”

Ah! I vividly remember, it was in a cold December,
And of fire I had no ember till the price of coals should low’r;
Eagerly I wished the morrow; being broke, again I’ll borrow,
Even although it end in sorrow, from an Uncle, loved of yore――
From a useful, prosp’rous Uncle, who to me is worth a score.
Surely this, if nothing more!

(_One verse omitted._)
* * * * *

Up I got, and ope’d the shutter, when without the slightest flutter,
Sat a dissipated Tom-cat coolly down upon the floor;
Though he looked exceeding shady, not a moment stopped or stayed he,
But with impudence unheard of walked right to the bedroom door,
Perched upon a corner cupboard just beside my bedroom door,
Whisked his tail, and nothing more!

(_Three verses omitted._)
* * * * *

“Prophet,” said I, “Thing of evil! prophet still, if cat or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss’d thee here ashore;
Battered thou, and all undaunted, in this room they say is haunted,
If you are at all enchanted, tell me truly, I implore,
_Will_ the coals be ever cheaper? Tell me, tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Tom-Cat, “Never more!”

_The Figaro,_ August 27, 1873.

――――――――

DUNRAVEN.

[The Earl of Dunraven, in protesting against the short time allowed for the consideration of the Irish Land Bill, said “he was not a strict Sabbatarian, and had even advocated in that House the desirability of enjoying reasonable recreation on the Sunday, but it was impossible that racking one’s brains over the tangled intricacies of that Bill could be considered wholesome recreation for anyone.”]

And Dunraven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
O’er that blessed Bill of Billy’s, puzzling at it o’er and o’er;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a child’s that hath been
screaming,
And the gaslight o’er him streaming shows them heavy, red, and sore;
And his voice from out its pages rises in a muffled roar:――
“Hang the Bill! it _is_ a bore!”

_Punch_, August 13, 1881.

――――――――

THE DOVE.
_A Sentimental Parody._

I.

Once upon a storm-night dreary, sat I pond’ring, restless, weary,
Over many a text of Scripture, helped by ancient-sages’ lore,
Anxious, nervous, far from napping; suddenly there came a tapping!
As of some one gently rapping――rapping at my chamber-door.
Night like this ’tis scarce a visitor, tapping at my chamber-door?
This, I thought, and nothing more.

II.

Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember, glimmer’d ghostly on the floor:
Earnestly I wished the morrow; vainly had I sought to borrow
From my Bible ease of sorrow――sorrow for the lost Annore――
For a saintly, radiant matron, whom the angels name Annore
Lately wife, now wife no more.

III.

She had passed the gloomy portals, which forever hide from mortals
Spirit myst’ries, which the living are most eager to explore.
Poring o’er the sacred pages, guides to all the good for ages,
Sat I, helped by lore of sages, when the rapping at my door,
Startled me as if a spirit had come to my chamber-door,
Tapping thus, and meaning more.

IV.

And the plaintive, low, uncertain rustling of each window-curtain
Thrill’d me――filled my quaking heart with terrors never felt before.
_Is_ there, then, a life of glory, as we’re taught in sacred story?
Can this be some prophet hoary, standing at my chamber-door――
Prophet from the dead arisen, standing at my chamber-door――
Rapping thus, and meaning more?

V.

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Truly, friend, I treat you badly, your forgiveness I implore;
Surely I have not been napping, but so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping――tapping at my chamber-door,
That I scarce knew what the sound meant”――here I opened wide the door:
Darkness there, and nothing more.

VI.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering,
fearing,
Awe-struck, thinking thoughts few mortals ever happ’d to think
before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken, was the whisper’d word, “Annore!”
This _I_ whisper’d, and an echo murmur’d back the word “Annore!”
Merely this, and nothing more.

VII.

Back into my chamber hasting, anguish deeper still now tasting,
Soon again I heard a rapping――something louder than before.
Surely, thought I, that is something at my window-lattice;
Let me see, then, what there at is, and this mystery explore;――
Oh! my heart, be still a moment, till this mystery I explore;――
Is’t the wind, and nothing more?

VIII.

Open here I flung the shutter, when with gentle nod and flutter,
In there came a gracious white dove of the saintly days of yore.
Then, as if obeisance made he, and no longer stopp’d or stay’d he,
But in innocence array’d, he perch’d above my chamber-door,――
Perch’d upon a bust of Paulus, just above my chamber-door――
Perch’d and sat, and nothing more.

IX.

Then this snowy bird surprising my sad heart into surmising,
Whether this was done at random, or some mystic meaning bore,――
“Surely,” said I, “thou art fairer than of ill to be the bearer,
Of such saintly guise the wearer, thou art from some heav’nly shore;
Wilt thou help me on my journey toward that bright celestial shore?”
Quoth the white dove, “Evermore!”

X.

Startled now as one from dreaming, suddenly awak’d and seeming
To have heard a voice mysterious thrilling to his heart’s deep core,――
Ev’ry thought and feeling reaching after light and further teaching.
In attitude of one beseeching, gazed I at my chamber-door,――
At the bird, which had so aptly――perch’d upon my chamber-door――
Spoken out that “Evermore!”

XI.

But the white dove’s aspect childly, and his soft eyes beaming mildly,
Loving looks, as if a full heart speedily he would outpour,
Led me to expect revealing, unto which my soul appealing,――
With a strange hope o’er me stealing, such as never came before,――
“May I look for peace and comfort such as I’ve ne’er felt before?”
And the bird said, “Evermore!”

XII.

So the bright bird thus beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheel’d a cushion’d chair in front of bird and bust and
door;
Then upon the soft seat sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this holy bird of yore――
What this lovely, sweet, angelic, quaint, prophetic bird of yore――
Meant by saying, “Evermore?”

XIII.

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing,
Till the calm light from those mild eyes seem’d to illume my bosom’s core;
Banishing all fear and sadness, bringing thither peace and gladness,
Driving out surmise of madness――lately coming o’er and o’er――
Madness casting dreadful shadow,――lately coming o’er and o’er――
Shadow deep’ning evermore!

XIV.

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,
Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Oh, my soul, thy God hath heard thee, by these angels and this bird He
Hath to sweetest hopes now stirr’d thee――hopes of finding thy Annore
In the far-off land of spirits――of reunion with Annore!”
Quoth the dove, “For evermore!”

XV.

“Prophet,” said I, “thing of glory! prophet, as in ancient story,
Whether sent from heaven directly, or by chance cast here ashore,
Blessings many on thee rest now! yea, thou surely shalt be blest now!
Come into my open’d breast now――tell me truly, I implore,
_Is_ there a heaven of rest and rapture? tell me, tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the white bird, “Evermore!”

XVI.

“Prophet,” said I, “thing of glory! prophet, as in ancient story,
By that Heav’n which bends above us――by the God the good adore,
Tell this soul with hope upspringing――faith undying to it bringing――
If that radiant matron singing midst the angels, named Annore,
Shall be mine again to love――the sainted matron, named Annore?”
And the dove said, “Evermore!”

XVII.

“Be that word thy sign of dwelling in my heart, of to it telling
Messages of love and mercy from the far-off shining shore;
Let thy white plumes be a token of the truth thy soul hath spoken;
Keep my faith and hope unbroken; always perch above my door;
Keep thy eyes’ light in my heart; and keep thy form above my door;”
Quoth the sweet bird, “Evermore!”

XVIII.

And the white dove, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the polish’d bust of Paulus, just above my chamber-door;
And his eyes with kindness beaming――holy spirit’s kindness seeming,――
And a soft light from him streaming, sheds its radiance on the floor;
And my glad soul in that radiance, that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be basking――EVERMORE!

This parody was written by the Rev. John W. Scott, D.D., Professor in the West Virginia University, on the death of his wife, and was published with some other poems by Claxton and Co., Philadelphia, in 1874.

――――――――

LINES BY SARAH J. BOLTON, OF RICHMOND, ON
THE DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE.
(_Written for the Memorial Committee; November_, 1875.)

They have laid thee down to slumber where the sorrows that encumber
Such a wild and wayward heart as thine can never reach thee more;
For the radiant light of gladness never alternates with sadness,
Stinging gifted souls to madness, on that bright and blessed shore;
Safely moored from sorrow’s tempest, on that distant Aidenn shore,
Rest thee, lost one, evermore.

Thou wert like a meteor glancing through a starry sky, entrancing,
Thrilling, awing, wrapt beholders with the wondrous light it wore;
But the meteor has descended, and the “nightly shadows blended,”
For the fever-dream is ended, and the fearful crisis o’er――
Yes, the wild unresting fever-dream of human life is o’er――
Thou art sleeping evermore.

Ocean, earth, and air could utter words that made thy spirit flutter――
Words that stirred the hidden fountain swelling in the bosom’s core;
Stirred it till its wavelets, sighing, wakened to a wild replying,
And in numbers never dying sung the heart’s unwritten lore――
Sung in wild, bewitching numbers, thy sad heart’s unwritten lore,
Now unwritten nevermore.

There was something sad and lonely in thy mystic songs that only
Could have trembled from a spirit weary of the life it bore;
Something like the plaintive toning of a hidden streamlet moaning
In its prismed darkness――moaning for the light it knew before.
For the fragrance and the sunlight that had gladdened it before――
Sighing, sighing, evermore.

To thy soul, for ever dreaming, came a strange effulgence, beaming,
Beaming, flashing from a region mortals never may explore;
Spirits lead thee in thy trances through a realm of gloomy fancies,
Giving spectres to thy glances man had never seen before――
Wondrous spectres such as human eye had never seen before
Were around thee evermore.

Thou did’st see the sunlight quiver over many a fabled river,
Thou did’st wander with the shadows of the mighty dead of yore,
And thy songs to us came ringing, like the wild, unearthly singing
Of the viewless spirits winging o’er the night’s Plutonian shore――
Of the weary spirits wandering by the gloomy Stygian shore――
Sighing dirges evermore.

Thou did’st seem like one benighted――one whose hopes were crushed
and blighted――
Mourning for the lost and lovely that the world could not restore;
But an endless rest is given to thy heart, so wrecked and riven――
Thou hast met again in heaven with the lost and loved Lenore――
With the “rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore;”
She will leave thee nevermore.

From the earth a star has faded, and the shrine of song has shaded,
And the Muses veil their faces, weeping sorrowful and sore;
But the harp, all rent and broken, left us many a thrilling token,
We shall hear its numbers spoken, and repeated o’er and o’er,
Till our hearts shall cease to tremble――we shall hear them sounding
o’er,
Sounding ever, evermore.

We shall hear them, like a fountain tinkling down a rugged mountain,
Like the wailing of the tempest mingling ’mid the ocean’s roar;
Like the winds of autumn sighing when the summer flowers are dying;
Like a spirit-voice replying from a dim and distant shore;
Like a wild, mysterious echo from a distant, shadowy shore,
We shall hear them evermore.

Nevermore wilt thou, undaunted, wander through the palace haunted,
Or the cypress vales Titanic, which thy spirit did explore;
Never hear the ghoul king, dwelling in the ancient steeple tolling,
With a slow and solemn knelling, losses human hearts deplore;
Telling in a sort of Runic rhyme the losses we deplore;
Tolling, tolling, evermore.

If a living human being ever had the gift of seeing
The grim and ghastly countenance its evil genius wore,
It was thou unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till thy song one burden bore――
Till the dirges of thy hope the melancholy burden bore――
Of never, nevermore.

――――――――

MY CHRISTMAS PUDDING;
OR
THE SCHOOLBOY’S DREAM.

(With the Author’s apologies to Edgar Allan Poe.)
(_By special request._)

Listen, all! I tell what happened on the night of Christmas Day,
After I’d been eating pudding in a very reckless way.
Just as Christmas Day was dying, as I on my bed was lying,
When to slumber I was trying, when I’d just begun to snore,
I became aware of something rolling on my chamber floor――
Of a most mysterious rumbling, rolling on my chamber floor,
Only this and nothing more!

Partly waking, partly sleeping, all my flesh with horror creeping,
I could hear it tumbling, leaping, rolling on my chamber floor;
Underneath the bedclothes sinking, I betook myself to thinking
If it might not be a kitten that had entered at the door;
“Yes,” said I, “it is a kitten, entered at the open door,
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Cat,” said I, “or kitten, kindly stop that rolling on the floor.”
But it was most irritating, for the sound was unabating,
On my nerves for ever grating was the rolling on the floor;
Till at last I cried in anguish, “Stop that rolling I implore;”
And a voice said, “Nevermore.”

This convinced me of my error, up I rose in greatest terror,
Certain that ’twas not a kitten that had spoken just before;
Then into the darkness peering, shivering, wondering, doubting, fearing,
I could dimly see a pudding rolling on my chamber floor;
I could see a big plum pudding rolling on my chamber floor;
May I see it nevermore!

From its mouth a vapour steaming, while its fiery eyes were gleaming,
Gleaming fiercely bright, and seeming fixedly to scan me o’er;
Soon it rolled and rumbled nearer, and its aim becoming clearer,
I could see that it intended jumping higher than the floor;
Yes, it jumped upon my chest, and when in pain I gave a roar,
All it said was, “Nevermore.”

Though my back was nearly broken, this reply so strangely spoken,
Seemed to me to be a token that it wished for something more;
So my thoughts in words expressing, I began my sins confessing,
Saying I had eaten pudding many a time in days of yore,
But although I’d eaten pudding many a time in days of yore,
I would eat it nevermore.

Still in spite of my confessing, that plum pudding kept on pressing,
Pressing with its weight tremendous ever on my bosom’s core,
Till I cried, “O, monster mighty, in my work I’m often flighty,
But, if you will now forgive me, I’ll work hard at classic lore!”
At the end of this vacation I’ll work hard at classic lore,
Quoth the pudding “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, pudding!” then I shrieked,
upstarting,
“Get thee back――get off my stomach, roll again upon the floor!”
Thus I struggled, loudly screaming, till I found I had been dreaming,
Dreaming like a famous poet once had dreamt in days of yore;
But although ’twas like the poet’s dream he dreamt in days of yore,
May I dream it nevermore!

_Detroit Free Press_ Christmas Number, 1884.

――――――――

The major of a Georgian regiment, writing to the United States Treasurer, said, “I send to you for redemption a fragment of a five dollar bill, the rest of which was destroyed under strangely curious circumstances. I dropped it into my pocket in company with some loose tobacco, and, after supper, taking a quid, I chewed money and tobacco, leaving scraps of the bill and fragments of tobacco in my pocket. When I discovered the _sad catastrophe_ I went for the masticated quid, but all traces of the money had vanished, and, ‘like the baseless fabric of a dream, left not a wreck behind.’”

“Vainly was I bending, crooking, and with both my eyes a-looking,
Looking for my lost spondulic, like the Pleiad lost of yore;
Looking for the well-chewn fragment which I lost the night before;
Only this, and nothing more.”

“Spuds,” quoth I, “for thee I pineth,
Gone to where the woodbine twineth;
Gone, departed, doomed, and fated,
Gone to fragments dessicated;
Gone, as I’ve already stated,
Where thy worth no longer shineth,
I follow――thou art gone before.”

――――――――

NOTHING MORE.

The ass stood by the stable door,
The sweepings of the stable floor――
Some scantled, musty, broken straw――
He munched, and munched, and――nothing more.

Yon politician struts the floor,
His speech is gemmed with pot-house lore,
His goose essays the eagles soar:
Words, only words, and――nothing more.

The preacher, dear, good, pious bore,
Proves all the prophets once foresaw,
Knows what the future has in store,
Knows what he――thinks, and――nothing more.

The lawyer quotes you score on score
Of great authorities in law
To prove your case without a flaw;
He gains his――fee, and nothing more.

The doctor knows you to the core,
Apt with each fibre, nerve and pore;
Can catch you from Death’s greedy maw,
He “bleeds” you well, and――nothing more.

The ass still stands beside the door,
And still is munching as before,
Gown, book, and pill, are broken straw;
He’s the same ass, and――nothing more.
ANONYMOUS.

――――――――

HER “PA’S” DOG.

Memories of the past steal o’er me, and remind me of a story,
That in all its doleful sadness I have never told before.
Well, I loved a girl named Mary, whose old daddy owned a dairy,
And a bull-dog, large and powerful, who a frightful visage wore,
And one night I went to court her as I’d often done before,
But I’ll court her nevermore.

Quite distinctly I remember, ’twas one warm night in September,
That I sat and held my Mary――held her till my arms were sore,
And upon her lips I kissed her till I almost raised a blister.
Since that night, oh, how I’ve missed her――missed the girl whom I
adore;
Oh, ye gods of Mount Olympus, lend your pity, I implore,
I shall kiss her nevermore.

“Seems to me the air grows hotter. How I love this old man’s
daughter!”
Were my musings as I held her――held the girl whom I adore.
While my Mary Ann was napping, suddenly I heard a rapping
Like a footfall softly tapping on the old man’s bedroom floor,
And I muttered, as I listened through the slightly opened door,
“I have heard that step before.”

I shook Mary Ann to wake her, and I said “May Old Nick take her!”
(But I’m sure I didn’t mean it), then she woke with one loud snore.
While she sat up widely gaping, barely wakened from her napping,
I informed her of the tapping I have spoken of before;
Then she laughed and said, “’twas nothing but the mice upon the
floor,
Little mice and nothing more.”

Then once more like some huge boulder fell her head upon my shoulder,
And I held her very tightly as she snored snore after snore;
Soon again I heard the falling of more footsteps, and the calling
Of her daddy, and I wished I was in Spain or Ecuador.
“Mary Ann!” the old man uttered, as he strode across the floor,
“Mary Ann,” and nothing more.

Suddenly, as if like magic, with a face that looked quite tragic,
Mary woke and saw her daddy standing in the parlour door,
Then with eyeballs wildly gleaming, and her hair about her streaming,
From the room the girl ran screaming as the clock was striking four,
Ran more swiftly, screamed more loudly than she ever had before,
Ran and screamed, and nothing more.

At the barn the cock was crowing, and I thought I would be going,
So I started very quickly to retreat across the floor,
But the old man quick did foller, then he took me by the collar,
And you oughter heard me holler as he pitched me through the door.
“Seek ’em, Bull!” he loudly uttered, in a sort of fiendish roar.
Merely that, and nothing more.

Quickly to my feet I scrambled, and across the yard I ambled.
As I heard that bull-dog coming, bent on tasting human gore.
Soon he seized me by the breeches, and I gave some awful screeches,
As the entire seat in fragments from my Sunday pants he tore.
With my right hand lifted skyward, “I will kill that dog!” I swore.
This I said, and nothing more.

Soon the dog his grip releases, and from chasing me he ceases
While he stopped to chew the pieces that he from my breeches tore.
Once across my shoulder glancing, with the moonlight o’er him dancing,
I espied the old man prancing like a madman in the door,
And I muttered, “Men like you should be slaughtered by the score,
And you’ll raise the count one more.”

While the broadcloth Bull was chewing, I my way was still pursuing,
And I soon, quite tired and panting, lay upon my cottage floor.
Then I cursed my Mary’s daddy, and I called him an old paddy,
And I swore I’d whip the laddy till my pardon he’d implore.
But she’s lost to me for ever, the dear girl whom I adore,
Ay, for ever――evermore.
ANONYMOUS.

――――――――

THE PHANTOM CAT.

On the ocean swiftly sailing, with the western daylight failing,
And a fair south-wester with us, scudding o’er the waters blue,
O’er the bulwarks I was leaning, and my eyes my hand was screening;
For I wish’d to learn the meaning of a strange sail now in view,
Of a vessel in the offing, coming slowly into view.
I had little else to do.

* * * * *

And all thought, with expectation, what the country, what the nation,
Might the stranger vessel hail from, sailing slowly through the night;
For a landsman has no notion of the sailor’s heart’s emotion
When he hears upon the ocean that a vessel heaves in sight,
Like an old friend coming to him, is a ship that heaves in sight,
With her sails so broad and white.

* * * * *

Scarcely had the sailor spoken, when the evening air was broken
By a blast from speaking-trumpet: “Ship ahoy! what cheer, what cheer?
We’ve been sailing, three years sailing, round about the Horn
a-whaling.
Food is scarce and water failing――stranger, spare a trifle here――
Biscuit, grog, and cask of water; just a trifle, stranger, here;
You’ll be paid back never fear.”

Skipper says, “We can afford, man, if you only come on board, man,
Two or three good casks of water, one of biscuit, one of ale.
Shove the boat off; I’m delighted, such a vessel to have sighted,
From the mighty States United; come and taste a glass of ale;
Come and chat for half an hour o’er the friendly glass of ale
I take nightly without fail.”

And our ladder was made ready by two seamen strong and steady,
And up came the whaler captain; on his shoulders stood a cat,
With her eyes both brightly gleaming, with her tail outstretched,
outstreaming.
Surely, thought I, I am dreaming, to see visitor like that,
See a captain come to see us in a way so strange as that!
What on earth can he be at?

Then the cabin did we enter, and before we could prevent her,
Came the cat with tail uplifted, straightway down the cuddy stair;
And the lamps were not yet lighted, and we sat down, half benighted,
We three; and the uninvited――the intruder, she was there,
On the shoulders of the captain, the intruder standing there,
With green eyes and ebon hair.

Still upon the captain’s shoulder, strange it seemed to the beholder,
In the twilight of the cabin, among strangers standing so;
And I fancied it would fright her when the cuddy lamps grew lighter.
And I mused upon the writer of “The Raven,” Edgar Poe,
On that weird and wondrous genius, wilful, wayward Edgar Poe,
Dead now eighteen years ago!

There she stood, with green eyes gleaming; there she stood, with tail
outstreaming,
A black line athwart the cuddy, rising somewhat high in air.
And the captain look’d behind him, as though puss in spell did bind
him,
And, without a sound, inclined him to keep looking o’er his chair,
To keep turning to the black cat, on his shoulder o’er the chair,
With a look that held despair!

(The Yankee skipper relates that he had formerly been a slave-dealer, and that having bought a negro with his child, he was entreated not to part them.)

“Deaf was I to all compassion; brutally I laid the lash on
His defenceless naked shoulders; yet I tortured him in vain
And my anger growing bigger, out with pistol, pull’d the trigger;
With a cry, dropp’d down the nigger, with a startling cry of pain,
With the spasm of the death-pang shooting o’er his face of pain,
Never more to move again!”

“Sitting in my parlour lonely, thinking on my day’s work only,
This black cat you see before you, sat herself upon the chair;
And in vain I tried to please her, all in vain I sought to tease her,
Oh, if I could but release her from her hold upon me there!
On my chair, or on my shoulder, ever will that cat be there,
With her eyes of constant glare!”

“Smile you may, and disbelieve me; that black cat can ne’er deceive
me;
She is sent me from the darkie, come to haunt me for my crime,
And will leave me never, never, and on earth will haunt me ever.
Oh, that I the tie could sever! Oh, the dismal, dismal time!
All the horrors of the past, and all the dreary present time,
Far too sad for prose or rhyme!”

* * * * *

“Why should I detain you longer? Every day the tie grows stronger,
Binding me to my familiar, who will never say farewell.
I am here to ask your aid, sir, and have somewhat you delay’d, sir,
With my story, I’m afraid, sir, with the sorry tale I tell;
Of this cursed weird grimalkin, this strange history to tell,
Of this visitor from hell.”

* * * * *

Soon the ship away was steering, and the whaler’s crew were cheering
Loudly the brave British vessel that had help’d them when afloat;
On the poop two eyes were beaming, green eyes through the darkness
gleaming,
And a tail outstretch’d, outstreaming, as it stream’d when in the
boat,
When the captain bade farewell, and sadly left us in the boat,
Fear in eye and husky throat.

* * * * *

Several verses of this very long parody have been omitted; it is contained in _The Mocking-Bird and other Poems_, by Frederick Field (J. Van Voorst) London, 1868.

――――――――

THE CROAKER.

Once in a dress-circle, weary with discussing many a query
Of the palmy days of acting, and of quaint dramatic lore――
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at a chamber-door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “outside the dress-circle door,
Wants a seat, and nothing more.”

Then the flapping――sad, uncertain, rustling of the painted curtain――
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic visions never felt before
Of the coming Macbeth’s greeting, wondering if his repeating
Would delight me; while the visitor kept tapping at the door,
And I said “Where is the box-keeper, to open yonder door?
For the tapping is a bore.”

And myself the door unlocking, just to end the tiresome knocking,
In there stepped a solemn Croaker of the palmy days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he,
Passed each fashionable lady with long skirts upon the floor,
Scanned his voucher through gold-mounted and green spectacles he wore,
Took his seat, and nothing more.

Then this Croaker grave, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
By the grave and stem decorum of the countenance he wore.
Though his aspect was un_nerving_, I began to speak of Irving――
For I’ doubted not that he had seen of Macbeths many a score――
And I blandly then suggested a Shakespearian treat in store,
When he answered, “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly swell to hear discourse so plainly
In the midst of Irving advocates, who voted him a bore――
In an audience all agreeing that no living being
Ever yet was blest with seeing acting such as that in store,
Quoting _Hamlet_, _Richelieu_, and _The Bells_, and many pieces more,
For the laurels Irving wore.

But the Croaker, sitting lonely, in his cushioned chair spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; I was net a little fluttered,
And at last I feebly muttered, “Other Macbeths played before――”
“Kemble, Kean, Macready, Young,” he cried, “I saw them all of yore――
Won’t be equalled any more!”

Startled at the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken――
“Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his sole dramatic lore,
Caught from some Shakespearian master, when unmerciful disaster
Followed faster still and faster, as the crowd his parts ignore,
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore――
“Tragedian, play no more!”

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from a Rimmel censer,
Swung by pretty girls, whose footfall tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch!” I cried; “pray who-hath sent thee? Hath some rival Macbeth
lent thee
His spare ticket to content thee with fond memories a store,
Of the Macbeths seen of yore?”

“Croaker,” said I, “pray be civil, and of Irving speak no evil.
Whether rivalry hath brought thee or stage memories of yore,
Are you really not enchanted by this new Macbeth undaunted
In this house by Hamlet haunted? Tell me truly, I implore,
Is there, _is_ there hope of _Macbeth_? Tell me, tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Croaker, “Say no more!”

“Croaker,” said I, “cease to level those stern glances at the revel.
By the bust of Shakespeare o’er us――by the bard we both adore――
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within thy distant Aidenn
Ever widow, wife, or maiden Lady Macbeth’s mantle wore
With a grace beyond Miss Bateman?” Still this croaking man of yore
Answered grimly, “Yes, a score.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, Croaker,” then I said, upstarting;
For the curtain now is rising, and I hear a deafening roar.
Not a word hath Macbeth spoken; he can only bow in token
Of the homage all unbroken. Then the Croaker spoke once more:
“Truly this Macbeth reminds me of a figure seen before
Over many a snuff-shop-door.”

And the Croaker, never flitting, still was sitting, his brows knitting,
Growling oft at Irving’s action, voice, and costume that he wore,
And his eyes had all the seeming of a croaker who was dreaming
Of Macready, Kemble, Kean, and Young, in palmy days of yore;
And the last words that he muttered, as he passed the circle-door,
Were――“I’m very glad ’tis o’er.”

_Funny Folks_, October 9, 1875.

――――――――

THE STOKER.

Once in February dreary, while the Commons, weak and weary,
Pondered many a quaint and curious Tory measure then in store,
While they nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the chamber-door;
“Some new member ’tis,” they muttered, “tapping at our chamber-door;
’Tis KENEALY――nothing more!”

But the house was in a flutter when, without a “Hem” or stutter,
In there walked a stately Counsel some of them had seen before;
Not the least obeisance made he――not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But with mien of ancient member took his place upon the floor,
Hitched his “gamp” upon the mace, and hung his hat behind the door――
Hitched and stood, and nothing more!

Stood the Counsel grim, beguiling their “gay wisdom” into smiling
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore――
“None come here without proposer,” said the Speaker, as a poser;
“’Tis the Parliamentary custom for two hundred years and more;”
But outspoke the doughty Premier, “Truly all know how he came here;”
He’s KENEALY――nothing more!

Mr. Whalley, sitting lonely on his placid bench, spoke only
But one word, as if his soul on that one word he did outpour;
Nothing further then he uttered. He was just a little fluttered.
While a host of members muttered, “Other bores have flown before;
Some fine morning he will leave us as our bores have left before.”
WHALLEY whispered, “Nevermore!”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said they, “what he utters is his only stock and store,
Caught from Liberal disaster when that party had no master,
When mistakes came fast and faster, and their songs one burden bore,
When the dirges of their hopes that melancholy burden bore
Of never, nevermore.”

Members willing to be civil said, “Oh, quit the Tichborne drivel!
By the roof that bends above us――by the Commons we adore.
Tell our souls with sorrow laden that our Parliamentary Aidenn
Shall not echo with the name of “_Arthur Orton_” any more;
That the mystery unriddled who the name Sir Roger bore
Shall not vex us any more!”

But Kenealy, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
With his gingham hitched upon the mace, his hat behind the door,
And his eyes have all the seeming of a Counsel who is dreaming,
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor,
And the Commons, in that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Have a pretty treat in store!

This amusing parody originally appeared in _Funny Folks_, March 6, 1875, accompanied by a portrait of Dr. E. V. Kenealy. This was immediately after his election as member for Stoke, and the week after it appeared the clever but eccentric advocate of the “unfortunate nobleman” inserted the parody in his newspaper, _The Englishman_, with a compliment to its author, and it was re-copied in many other newspapers. The author, Mr. Joseph Verey, a well-known contributor to dramatic and humorous periodicals, has written many other clever parodies, amongst them being “Mariana at the Railway Station,” inserted on page 4, Volume I.; and “The Night Policeman,” after Longfellow, inserted on page 68, Volume I. of this collection.

――――――――

“THE RAVEN.”
(_After Edgar Allan Poe._)

Late at midnight I was seated, and my brain was overheated
With reflections quaint and curious as I thought my subject o’er;
While I pondered, almost napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone softly rapping, rapping at the parlour door,
And my heart it fairly fluttered, hearing at the parlour-door,
Just a tap, and nothing more.

Yes! distinctly I remember how I trembled in each member,
Thought I saw in every ember ghastly forms of one or more;
Goblins came before my vision, grinning wildly with derision,
There I sat as though in prison, prison closed by parlour-door,
Icy chill came creeping o’er me whilst I gazed upon the door,
Getting frightened more and more.

And the windy gusts uncertain through the window shook the curtain,
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.
Then methought perhaps the rapping might be but the servant tapping
That awoke me from my napping, she might then be at the door,
Bringing me the nightly candle, candlestick with broken handle,
As she’d often done before.

Then my soul grew strong in valour, and my cheeks lost all their
pallor,
“Maid,” said I, “or Mary, just you place the candle at the door,
Pond’ring was I, almost napping, when you came so gently tapping,
And you came so softly rapping, rapping at the parlour-door;
Mary, scarcely could I hear you,” then I went unto the door――
Darkness there, and nothing more!

Scarcely had I got me seated, feeling still all over-heated,
When again I heard the rapping louder than it was before,
“Bless me!” said I, “This again, something’s at the window-pane,
Now some knowledge I’ll obtain of this strange mysterious bore;
Courage, heart! a single moment, while this mystery I explore.
’Tis the wind, and nothing more!”

Scarce the words my tongue had spoken, scarce the silence I had
broken,
Thro’ the window stepped a raven like to Ingoldsby’s of yore,
Notice took he of me never, off he hopped and looked so clever,
Flight he took with bold endeavour, perching o’er my parlour door,
From his perch he eyed me closely, watched me from the parlour-door,
Sat and looked――did nothing more!

Cunning looked he, as though chaffing――funny bird! he set me laughing,
Perched aloft, and looking grave, with both his eyes upon the floor:――
“Ebony friend, with head all shaven, surely thou canst be no craven,
Out so late, you funny raven, tell me what misfortune bore
Thee unto my humble roof, and to sit above my door.”
Quoth the raven, “Say no more!”

“Tell me, raven, what has brought you, how it is that you’ve bethought
you
Here to fly in midnight darkness, coming hither to explore.
Hast thou good or evil omen to pronounce to men or _wo_men,
Which thou wilt reveal to no men――speak the message, I implore.”
Then he ruffled all his feathers, speaking from the parlour-door,
Said he, “Think the matter o’er.”