Chapter XXXV: Part I (15)

Here’s a drawing-room of swells――
Grand swells!
What a world of slowness their society compels
In the brilliancy of night
Don’t we instantly take fright
At the melancholy drawling of their tone?
Lisping through their tender throats
Dwelling on their upper notes
All their own――
That we plebeianic people
Would be rather in a steeple
All alone
Than be list’ning, list’ning, list’ning
To their dreary monotone――
Or elsewhere at some grand christ’ning
Where the children shriek and groan.
They are never never cheery,
Ever _à la_ “Lord Dundreary”
Always dolls
And the best among them lolls
And woman extolls――
Lolls
In the presence of the belles
And his lisping voice it tells
Of the beauty of the belles
Who delight to dance with swells
Keeping time, time, time
In a manner quite sublime
To the joy of both the swells
And the belles;
Keeping time, time, time
With exactitude most prime
To the squeezing by the swells
Of the belles, belles, belles,
To the pleasing of the belles
Keeping time, time, time
Oh ye swells, swells, swells,
In a way that’s most sublime
To the throbbing of the belles,
Of the belles, belles, belles,
To the bobbing of the swells,
Of the swells, swells, swells,
Swells, swells, swells,
To the measure and the pleasure of the swells.

T. F. DILLON CROKER.

_The Royal Dramatic College Annual._ July, 1868.

――――

THE POLLS.

Hear the statements of the Polls,
Of the Polls!
What a world of partisans their publishing consoles!
How they’ve waited, waited, waited
In the morning or the night
Till the net result is stated,
When they scamper oft elated
With delirious delight;
And they hip, hip, hip,
Hip-hurrah, and dance and skip
With the supererogation of a lot of frisky foals
From the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls,
Polls, Polls, Polls,
From their triumphs of the Ballot and the Polls.

Hear the totals of the Polls,
Of the Polls!
What a large official staff their adding-up enrols!
After breakfast or at night
How they count with all their might,
Sorting papers, checking notes;
And, ere ’tis done,
How the scrutinizer gloats
As he pounces down on spoilt or unmark’d votes
One by one!
Then they end their calculation,
And at last is made the long’d-for declaration:
How it rolls,
How it trolls
O’er the human heads in shoals,
Which――Whig, Radical, and Tory――
Press round to hear the story
Of the Polls,
Of the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls,
Polls, Polls, Polls,
The story and the sequel of the Polls

Oh, the troubles of the Polls,
Of the Polls
What a heap of candidates must find themselves in holes!
How they tremble with affright
For the verdict of the night,
Till the knell of their discomfiture it tolls!
Then they prate of promised votes
With the huskiest of throats,
And they haul their luckless agents o’er the coals;
And they give so many reasons for not having reached their goals,
That we gradually weary of the Polls,
And, perceiving one objection,
To a General Election,
We begin to dread the mention of the Polls,
Of the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls,
Polls, Polls, Polls,
This persistent iteration of the Polls!

_The St. James’s Gazette._ December 8, 1885.

――――

THE BILLS.

O the season of the bills――
Tradesmen’s bills!
What a quaking in my bosom the sight of them instils!
How they flutter, flutter, flutter,
In upon me day and night!
From between my half-closed shutter
I can hear their bearers mutter
They be blowed if it’s “all right!”
O the bills of Christmas time!
I feel positive that I’m
Quite bilious grown with terror that the Protean shape instils
Of the bills, bills, bills――
Of the never-ending deluge of the bills.

O the never-ending bills,
Christmas bills,
For the mince-pies, puddings, pastry, things which bring a thousand ills
In their train!
How they still come on me flocking,
With hateful “figures” mocking
My dazed brain.
And――ah, who’s that I hear knocking?
Oh, it’s positively shocking――
Doctor Squills!
With his recipes of powders, black draughts, pills,
To be followed by his bills,
Physic bills,
By the little boy in buttons, with his bills.
Oh, confound, then, Christmas-tide and all its bills!

_Funny Folks._ January 2, 1886.

――――

THE SLEIGH BELLS.

Hear the sleigh-belle, how she chatters
With her beau!
How she chatters, chatters, chatters,
Of innumerable matters,
While the horse’s heel bespatters
Her with snow!

See the sleigh-belle with her lover!
How they feel
Like a pair of colts in clover,
This sleigh-belle and her lover,
Underneath the dainty cover
Of the seal!

See the people stand and stare
At the belle,
As, with loosely flowing hair,
And a smile beyond compare,
She is speeding through the air
With a swell.

Oh, such weather suits for riding,
Though ’tis rough;
And the sleigh-belle loves the gliding,
And such merry, merry sliding,
With her fifteen fingers hiding
In her muff!

_The Topical Times._ March 13, 1886.

――――

AUTUMN BELLS.

Hear the bakers with the bells――
Muffin bells!
What domestic happiness their melody foretell
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
As the man appears in sight,
With a mouth that’s all a-wrinkle,
And an eye that’s all a-twinkle
With a demon-like delight.
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of flabby rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically swells,
With his yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells――
How we tolerate the torture of those yells!

_Fun._ October, 1886.

――――

THE BELLS.

Hear the clamorous church bells!
Noisy bells!
What a sound of Pandemonium their ding-ding-dong foretells;
How they jingle, jingle, jingle,
Every morning, noon, and night,
Till I’m sure their deafening ring’ll
Make my ears for ever tingle,
And my peace of mind quite blight.
Hear their dong-dong-dong,
Like a cracked old Chinese gong!
Oh, that tintinabulation’s worse than all the street boy’s yells.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells,
The jingling and the jangling of the bells!

Hear the Ritualistic bells,
Ceaseless bells!
What a discord most distracting in their noisy clappers dwells.
Ere has come the morning light,
I awaken in a fright
At their dong-dong-dong,
For ’tis matins all days long,
Till they ring for evensong.
Or ’tis Little Bethel’s Bells
That from opposition steeple
Call the other kind of people.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells,
What a horror in me dwells
While the ear distinctly tells,
As the noise now ebbs, now swells,
That there’s madness in the clangour of the bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
In the never-ending Babel of the bells!

C. H. WARING.

_Fun._ June 15, 1887.

――――

THE CHRISTMAS PARTY.
(American.)

_The Reception._

Oh, the meeting of the Belles, and the greeting of the swells!
How the merry maidens chatter
While the men haw-haw and flatter,
And how roguish Cupid weaves his magic spells!――
Happy Belles!

_The Dance._

Oh, the skipping of the Swells, and the tripping of the Belles!
<!――Page 581――>
As couples, clasped, advancing
In the whirling, twirling, dancing,
The merry laugh all starchiness dispels――
Solemn Swells!

_The Supper._

Oh, the flirting of the Belles, the diverting of the Swells!
How memory fondly lingers
On a pressure of the fingers,
And thought upon a whispered nothing dwells!
Foolish Belles!

_The Departure._

Oh, the parting from the Swells, the heart-smarting of the Belles!
Pledging no surcease of sorrow
Till the meeting on the morrow,
As with gleaming eyes they murmur their farewells――
Lucky Swells!

_American Paper._

――――

THE BILLS.

See the postman with the bills――
New Year’s bills!
What a world of tribulation
Now their sending out fulfils!
How they rankle, rankle, rankle
In the startled dreams of night,
As the creditors’ procession,
Of the chamber takes possession,
With a brutalised delight;
Calling “Time!” “Time!” “Time!”
In a sort of prize-ring rhyme.
To the dark and deep demnition
That so gradually kills,
From the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills,
From the tailors’ and the hatters’ little bills――
Bills!
Bills!
Bills!

_The Umpire._ January 7, 1888.

A parody entitled _Christmas Bills_ appeared in “Pippins and Cheese,” by Joseph Hatton; London, Bradbury, Evans & Co., 1868. Another, entitled _The Yells_, was written for recitation by Mr. John C. Morgan, of Kenmure Road, Hackney, and published by him, at the moderate price of one penny. These are too long to give in full, and extracts would not convey a fair idea of their merits.

――――:o:――――

“The Raven” was given on p. 27, Volume II., followed by numerous parodies. Since 1885 many others have been written, principally on political topics, but unfortunately political parodies are, as a rule, of only ephemeral interest. Consequently only a few of the best will be given complete, with extracts from some of the others.

AN APPEAL.

Once upon a midnight dreary, Gilbert pondered weak and weary,
Thinking of a curious title his new Comic Opera for,
When a volume from him flinging, suddenly there came a ringing,
As of some one madly clinging to the bell at his front door;
“It is D’Oyly Carte,” he muttered, “ringing at my big front door,
Merely this and nothing more.”

Poking then the glowing ember, for ’twas cold as bleak December,
Gilbert said “Ah, I remember in the olden time of yore,
Yea, and shall forget it never, though I were to live for ever,
How I vainly did endeavour once to see my ‘Pinafore,’
Sat and suffered awful anguish in the stalls at ‘Pinafore,’
Just that once, but nevermore.”

“For the feeling――sad, uncertain――at the rising of the curtain,
Thrilled me, filled me with such terrors, that a solemn oath I swore,
And the oath have oft repeated, that though kings and queens entreated,
I would ne’er again be seated in the stalls as once before,
There to try and see the piece through, as I tried to do before,
Now to do so nevermore.”

Open here was flung the portal by a pompous powdered mortal,
Who then ushered Mr. Carte in, as he oft had done before;
Not a moment stopped or stayed he, but a slight obeisance made he,
And in voice of thunder said he, “Mr. Carte”――then slammed the door,
And in tones stentorian said he, “Mr. Carte,”――then slammed the door.
Only this and nothing more.

Mr. Carte then said quite coolly, “Mr. Gilbert, tell me truly,
Have you found a proper title our new Comic Opera for?
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, as you hope to go to Aidenn,
Have you really, really made ’un? Tell, O tell me, I implore!
Tell me what its funny name is――tell, O tell me, I implore!”
Answered Gilbert――“Ruddygore!”

Carte uprose, alarmed, astounded, by this title much confounded,
For this word of dreadful meaning such a world of horror bore;
And he said, “This title gruesome, I feel very sure will do some
Injury, and we shall lose some thousands ere this piece is o’er
Such a name will surely ruin both your words and Arthur’s score;
Therefore change it, I implore.”

Then said Gilbert, calmly smoking, “D’Oyly Carte, you must be joking;
I have never found a title that I liked so much before,
For it gives the play the seeming of a drama that is teeming
With deeds of blood all streaming, which the people gloat so o’er;
Of those deeds all grim and ghastly that the people gloat so o’er;
Therefore be it Ruddygore.”

And with title so unfitting, people still are nightly sitting
In the gallery, stalls, and boxes, from the ceiling to the floor;
And although they can’t help glancing at D. Lely when he’s dancing,
Think Miss Brandram’s song entrancing, and give Grosssmith an encore,
Still all cry, “Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, change this title “Ruddygore.”
Not in spelling――we want more.”

_The Pall Mall Gazette._

About a week after the production of _Ruddygore_ (January, 1887), when both the opera and its title were being adversely criticised, Mr. Gilbert jocularly remarked: “I propose altering the title of the piece, and calling it ‘_Kensington Gore; or, Not so good as the Mikado_.’”

――――

AN ARTIST’S RAVIN’.
(_Apro-Poe of the Royal Academy Exhibition._)

In my studio, listless, dreary,
As I pondered, weak and weary,
Over heaps of washy sketches I had painted years before,
Suddenly there came a tapping
(A curious wild mercurial tapping).
’Twas the postman’s double rapping,
Rapping at the big front door.
Only this, and nothing more.

But it brought to me a feeling
Ever growing――never healing――
“Still so gently o’er me stealing,”
Which I’d often felt before.
The Academy were sending
Round those cards, those never-ending
Monitors to the offending
Limners they’d turned out before.
This it was――and nothing more.

As I sat there, half demented,
Our Jemima Ann presented
Several letters which were left me by that postman at the door;
And amongst them lay the verdict
The Academy had sent me,
And I swooned upon the floor――
Simply this――and nothing more.

Rising, on the verge of madness,
Should I――courting joy or sadness――
Find it now by bursting open the portentous seal it bore;
Or, in frenzy, should I burn it,
Or to the R. A.’s return it,
And their secrecy implore――
Their forgiveness――Evermore!

Or still feeling that without full
Knowledge, if a _Cross or Doubtful_
Might be lurking in the missive I’ve adverted to before,
Should I tenderly unfold it,
And in trembling digits hold it
To confront me Evermore
With its verdict――Evermore!

Musing thus, I opened wide the
Envelope, and looked inside the
Deep abyss, and found a curious card I’d never seen before:
’Twas the varnishing permission
For the coming Exhibition!
May I get it――Evermore;
Be accepted――Evermore!

_Funny Folks._

――――

On October 31, 1886, _The Weekly Dispatch_ (London), published five parodies on the “Raven” sent in for competition. The prize of two guineas was awarded to the following:――

Once beneath a tree at Hawarden, while I pondered in my garden
Over many a quaint and curious volume of Homeric lore.
While I nodded, nearly napping, came a noise like distant tapping,
Or shillelaghs gently rapping, on the verdant Shannon shore.
“’Tis more Irishmen,” I muttered, “from the verdant Shannon shore――
Home Rulers, and nothing more!”

Ah, distinctly I remember――’twas in Eighty-six, November,
After every “Union” member had conspired my bill to floor――
In a state of agitation, I sought some vaticination
Which should show me if the nation would their G.O.M. restore:
If the public their old leader would to place and power restore
Once again, or nevermore.

Once again I heard the tapping; then, his ebon pinions flapping,
O’er the wall there flew a Raven, of the stormy days of yore.
An old bird of aspect cheeky, with a croak extremely creaky,
And a bill extremely “Beaky,” and a curl that hung before,
Like the curl once worn by Dizzy, which, you know, hung down before,
And he croaked out “Nevermore!”

Then methought the air grew denser, and he changed to Mr. Spencer,
And he gibbered, ghostly, ghoul-like, on the garden’s tufted floor.
“Wretch!” I cried, “from distant Berlin, cease thy fierce moustache
from twirlin’;
Tell me, for my brain is whirlin’, will the Fates my power restore?
Will the dissidents surrender and once more my power restore?”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

J. C. ROSE.

Highly commended:――

Once upon an evening dreary, as I pondered worn and weary
Over many a dusty packet of unsettled bills of yore,
As I sat serenely rocking, thinking it was very shocking,
Suddenly I heard a knocking――knocking at my study door.
“’Tis my tailor gay,” I muttered, “knocking at my study door――
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah! distinct my recollection, for I had a chest affection――
Out of cash――and in dejection I was gazing at the floor!
Vainly I had tried to borrow half-a-crown to meet the morrow,
But discovered, to my sorrow, none would trust me any more――
From the too-confiding butcher to my tailor, tradesmen swore
They would trust me――nevermore!

Then, my study door unbolting, in there stepped, with bow revolting,
He, my stern, relentless tailor, whom, I fear, I hated sore――
Made a most polite oration――didn’t show the least vexation――
As he calmly took his station just within my study door,
With his bill upon the matting just within my study door――
Merely waited――nothing more.

“Tailor,” cried I. “Imp of evil! Tailor still, or else the Devil,
Whether Satan sent thee――whether ’bus thy body hither bore;
Standing in thy frock-coat braided on my carpet very faded――
Having this my den invaded, tell me truly, I implore.”
Is there, is there trust no longer? Tell me, truly, I implore.”
Quoth the tailor, “Nevermore!”

F. B. DOVETON.

――――

“JOE” AFTER POE.
_A Chamberlainian Dream._

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and skeery,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of Midlothian lore;
While I studied――deeply napping――suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping with something wooden on the door.
“’Tis some Radical,” I murmured, “with a cudgel at the door
Waiting for me――nothing more.”

Presently my views grew broader; “it must be that great marauder,
The big and hurly-burly Harcourt, sturdy limb of legal lore.
Yes, ’tis he of frame Titanic, massive jowl, and sneer Satanic,
That puts his foes to flight and panic when he occupies the floor.
Or perhaps it’s Gladstone coming meekly pardon to implore――
“This it is, and nothing more.”

Back I dashed the door, half crazy――had my wits turned mad or hazy――
For in there stepped a pompous raven, full of paunch and sleek galore,
And his look was grave and crafty, neither smiled, nor looked, nor laughed he,
As he slowly strutted past me, perching o’er my chamber door――
Perched upon a bust of Schnadhorst――somewhat broken――o’er the door,
Croaking “Caucus,” nothing more.

* * * * *

“Bird,” I cried, “with voice so raucous――thou who pratest of that caucus
(Which once my highest praise and presidential honour bore)
Know that we’re the Liberal party, and my brothers Dick and Arty,
_We_ are the leaders――we――and Harty. And you shall return no more
Unless your vows and Grand Old Leader you throw over and ignore.
’Tis all we ask for――nothing more.”

“Prophet,” cried I, “thing of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil,
Whether Gladstone sent or lent thee thus to guide me back to shore,
Thro’ that cloud the future veiling, say which way my bark is sailing?
Are our efforts unavailing? Shall I ever hold once more
My old position in our party? Tell me, tell me, I implore.”
“Morley,” quoth he, nothing more.

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend;” I cried, upstarting;
“All our conferential meetings only serve to part us more.
Get thee gone with this defiance, tho’ we have no real reliance,
In the strength of our affiance――for ’tis rotten to the core――
This our aim, our hidden purpose, we don’t want to cross the floor.”
“Gladstone,” croaked he, nothing more.

But that raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Demos――grimly mocking o’er the door;
And when Parnellites decrying, and stern common-sense defying,
All my former self belying, the shadow steals across the floor,
The prescience of a Dissolution stealing darkly o’er the floor――
Annihilation, nothing more.

W. L.

(_Seven verses omitted._)

_Pall Mall Gazette._ April 13, 1887.

――――

THE YANKEE CRYPTOGRAM.
_A Tale of Shakespeare’s Bacon._

Once within an autumn dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Of the only actress playing in my half-forgotten lore,
While I nodded――nearly napping, which is something oft does happen,
When some actors try the tapping, tapping of my written lore;
Someone muttered, “Not his writing.” This has sure been said before.
Only this, and nothing more.

* * * * *

Open then I flung the shutter, and with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a lengthy Yankee from Columbia’s shore;
Not the least obeisance made he, not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But with haste like all the Yankees, wrote a book about my plays;
Wrote that it was Francis Bacon who had written all my plays,
Wrote and wrote, and nothing more.

Then the Yankee scribe beguiling all my sad soul into smiling
By the queer and strange arrangement of the nonsense that he wrote.
“Though thy pate’s unshorn, unshaven, thou,” I said, must be a craven,
Ghastly, grim, and lengthy Yankee, wandering from Atlantic’s shore,
“Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Baconian shore?”
“Donnelly, and nothing more.”

Then the Yankee creature, holding Bacon’s bust, spoke only
One long word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered, not a pamphlet even fluttered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other men wrote thus before;
On the morrow he will leave me as the others did before.”
Said the Yankee, “Crypto! More!”

Startled at the stillness broken by the words so oddly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his only stock and store,
Caught from an unhappy master, who some shocking brain disaster,
Turned into a poetaster, till his thoughts one burden bore――
Till the echoes of his thoughts one melancholy burden bore
Of Crypto――cryptogram!”

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed by an unseen censer,
Swung by creatures whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
Romeo cried, “Shakespeare hath sent me, to the world _he_ lent me,
Showing through me and Juliet how it is true lovers love.
Leave, oh leave thy stupid fiction, and forget this cryptogram.”
Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.”

“I am Richard! Man of evil! Hero still, though fiend and devil!
Whether tempter sent, or ill wind blew thee to our shore;
Take my word――me all undaunted――see Macbeth on ground enchanted,
Poor Macbeth by Banquo haunted――see them with a hundred more!
Hamlet and his murdered sire! Leave him, leave him, I implore.”
Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.”

Said Orlando, “Thing of evil! Yankee man, be civil!
By the heaven that bends above us, by the God we both adore,
Tell this soul all loving-laden, do you think that Francis Bacon
Could have made a sainted maiden, like the one called Rosalind?
Made a fair and radiant maiden like to Shakespeare’s Rosalind?”
Quoth the Yankee “Cryptogram.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, Yankee fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting;
“Get thee back to Sampson Low’s, or your own Atlantic shore,
Leave no proof-sheet as a token of the lie that you have spoken,
Leave my glory still unbroken, take that bust without my door,
Take thy book from off the press, and that bust without my door.”
Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.”

And that Yankee never sitting, still is flitting, still is flitting,
With the pallid bust of Bacon to and from his printer’s door,
And his tale has all the seeming of a madman who is dreaming,
And the Crypto o’er him streaming, holds him wriggling on the floor
And his book from out that Crypto wriggling with him on the floor
Should be published――Nevermore!

(_Eight verses omitted._)

ITHURIEL.

_The Topical Times._ December 3, 1887.

Mr. Donnelly’s ingenious, but absurd, theory that what we call Shakespeare’s plays were written by Bacon, has been utterly demolished by Dr. Nicholson, in “No Cipher in Shakespeare” (London, T. Fisher Unwin.) The theory was also most amusingly parodied in _The Cornhill Magazine_ for August, 1888. In an article entitled “Who wrote Dickens’s Novels” it was demonstrated, on Mr. Donnelly’s system, that they were certainly written by Mr. W. E. Gladstone.

――――

A VISION.

Once within my little study,[137] while the firelight gleaming ruddy
Threw fantastic lights and shadows on the wall and on the floor,
I was thinking of two nations that for many generations
Had known nought but deadly hatred and contentions sad and sore――
Nought but deadly strife and hatred and contentions sad and sore,
Going on for evermore.

And I thought, all this is blameful, ’tis not only sad but shameful,
All this plundering and oppressing and this spilling lakes of gore,
’Tis the nation that is stronger that has been the other’s wronger,
Let her play this part no longer, but this cruelty give o’er,
Turn to ways of love and kindness, and this cruelty give o’er,
And have peace for evermore.

While unto myself thus speaking, on the stairs I heard a creaking
As of someone softly sneaking up to listen at the door;
Then said I, “You need not fear me, you can just come in and hear me,
Take a seat or stand a-near me, let us talk this matter o’er――
’Tis a grave and serious subject, let us talk it calmly o’er,”
Then I opened wide the door.

Then a being thin and shanky, white of visage, tall and lanky
Looking ill at ease and cranky, came and stood upon the floor;
In his hands some keys he dangled, keys that harshly clinked and jangled,
And over his right optic a large pane of glass he wore――
When it fell, he slowly raised it, and replaced it as before――
This he did and nothing more.

“Now,” said I, the shape addressing, “don’t you think ’twould be a blessing
If this Anglo-Irish conflict coming down from days of yore――
If this age-long woe and sadness could be changed to peace and gladness
And the holy ties of friendship could be knit from shore to shore
And no words but words of kindness pass across from shore to shore!”――
Quoth the lank one, “Tullamore.”

At this word I marvelled truly, for it seemed to come unduly
As a misplaced exhibition of his geographic lore;
So my thread of thought resuming, I said, “There are dangers looming
Over England’s wide dominion that ’tis useless to ignore,
What shall strengthen and sustain her when the battle-thunders roar?”
Answer made he, “Tullamore.”

Then said I, “Across the waters Erin’s faithful sons and daughters
Now have fierce and bitter memories burning in each bosom’s core,
Think what peace and joy would fill them and what happiness would thrill them
If but England yielded freedom to the land that they adore――
If she spoke the word of freedom to the land her souls adore”――
But _his_ word was “Tullamore.”

“Think,” said I, “of England’s masses; every day that o’er them passes
Hears their murmurings and complainings swelling louder than before,
They object――and ’tis no wonder――to the rule of force and plunder
That so long has kept them under, squeezing blood from every pore――
Have you any word of comfort that their patience may restore?”
His reply was “Tullamore.”

From my vision quick he glided; in my heart I then decided
That if this was England’s message by this popinjay brought o’er,
She had missed a chance of glory that would brighten all her story――
But, I said, that lanky Tory was a humbug and a bore:
These words from both the peoples soon will ring from shore to shore――
“We are friends for evermore.”

From “_Prison Poems_; or, Lays of Tullamore” by T. D. Sullivan, M.P. (Lord Mayor of Dublin). Dublin Nation Office, Middle Abbey Street. 1888.

――――

On August 19, 1888. _The Weekly Dispatch_ (London) published five competition parodies on the same topic. The following won the prize of Two Guineas:

TULLAMORE.

Ye who Erin’s history dreary oft have pondered, shamed and weary
Of our Saxon sway’s inglorious volume of unrighteous lore;
Castle knaves her sons entrapping, cruel laws her vigour sapping,
Vampire landlords ever lapping at the blood her bosom bore;
Weep! for Mandeville is martyred, stilled the hero heart he bore――
Done to death in Tullamore!

Ah, distinctly we remember peasants, thrust, in bleak December,
From the peat-fire’s smouldering ember, wandering on the barren shore,
Shiveringly to wait the morrow, vainly to attempt to borrow
Solace and surcease of sorrow――sorrow for their homes of yore――
For the poor dismantled cabins that they named their homes of yore――
Their one shelter, Tullamore!

Tyrant Balfour! slave of evil! Tyrant still if man or devil!
Whether Satan sent, or whether Cecil set thee at her door.
Erin’s sons, who, all undaunted, hear thy tinsel bravery vaunted,
See their isle coercion-haunted――yet their patriots’ lives implore.
Is there, _is_ their hope of respite? Tell us, tell us, we implore!
Croaks brave Balfour, “Tullamore.”

And brave Balfour, venom spitting, chief in council still is sitting,
While the pallid face of Dillon smiles behind his prison door;
For he sees, beyond all seeming, Erin’s dawn of Justice beaming,
Knows that when the daylight streaming throws its radiance o’er her
shore
Erin’s soul from out thy shadow, that now desecrates her shore,
Shall be lifted, Tullamore!

SAMUEL MAPEHAM.

――――

The following parodies are scarcely of sufficient interest to be included:――

_The Union Bank Shareholder and the Rook_, in “Lyrics and
Lays,” by Pips. Calcutta, Wyman Bros. 1867.

_The Raving_, in “Dublin Doggerels,” by Edwin Hamilton M.A.
Dublin, C. Smyth. 1877.

A parody on “The Raven,” by Miss H. B. Winslow, in Graham’s Magazine for June, 1848, Philadelphia.

Sequels to Poe’s “Raven.” A number of these were published in _Truth_, October 8, and November 19, 1885.

_Ye Legende of ye Raven_, in “The Yorkshireman’s Comic
Annual,” 1885.

_Dunraven_, in the Christmas Number of “The World.” 1885.
Political.

_Joseph and the “Caw-cus” Raven._ “Truth,” August 25, 1887.
Political.

_The Carol of a Cat._ “Newcastle Weekly Chronicle.” May 21,
1887.

_Nevermore._ “True Blue.” January 29, 1887. Political.

_Dunraven._ “Punch.” February 19, 1887. Political.

_The Haunted Lifeboat._ “Bridgend Chronicle.” May 13, 1887.

_The Dirge of Dead Letters._ “The Porcupine.” September 17,
1887.

_The Voice of the People._ The “Liberal and Radical.”
October 29, 1887.

――――:o:――――

CHRISTMAS BOXES.
(_After E. A. Poe’s lines_ “FOR ANNIE.”)

Thank heaven! the nuisance
Is over and past――
The fierce Christmas Boxers
Came eager and fast,
But my purse full of silver
Is emptied at last.

The scavenger――hang him!
Who howled “Dust ahoy!”
The lazy and blundering
Telegraph boy;
The lame crossing sweeper
Came “wishing me joy.”

The turncock was grinning
“Merry Christmas”――what stuff!
His overpaid Company
Charge me enough;
And the sweep too’s a claimant,
All sooty and gruff.

The postman, who often
Delivers next door
The note that should reach me
A whole day before,
Reminds me, the varlet,
“’Tis Christmas once more.”

I’ve tipped the lamplighter
Though dark is my road;
Remembered coal heavers,
Though paid with each load――
Even poor-rate collectors,
Who no mercy showed.

And O! of all tortures
That torture the worst,
The Waits! who awoke me
From sweet slumber nurst,
And made the night hideous
With discord accurst.

_Moonshine._ January 8, 1887.

――――

THE LADIES, AFTER DINNER.

See the ladies, ladies only,
Scattered lonely
Through the empty room and chill,
Ladies chatting each with other,
Wife and mother,
Ladies posing, posing still!

And their talk is faint and chilly
Almost silly!
Chatter about sun and rain,
Chatter about baby’s teething,
Heavy breathing――
Wretched wee thing!――and his pain.

Talk about the latest story,
Gay or gory,
_Blonde_ or _brune_ has chanced to skim,
Talk of abbés, talk of verses,
Talk of Nurses,
Nurses, Baby,――more of _him_!

This, all this keeps going, going,
Overflowing,
Broken by a plaintive moan;
Luckless little ladies dreary,
How you weary,
How you weary all alone!

――――:o:――――

TO WILLIAM.
(_At an immense distance after Poe._)

William, thy “glamour” is to me
Like these torpedo barks that oft
Go forth on the unvintaged sea
Fresh from the yards of Thornycroft;
Their mission――to blow ships aloft!

Through frantic speeches wont to foam,
Thy tongue, that could not be at peace,
Has brought us, for the “Rule” called “Home,”
To barter fame that matched with Greece,
And grandeur more than dwelt in Rome.

Lo, in thy dread historic niche
A bankrupt State shall see thee stand,
Thy wondrous Bills within thy hand!
Ah, William, these thy measures which
Have wrecked the land!

_The Saturday Review._ May 8, 1886.

――――

LEONAINIE.

On April 28, 1886, _The Daily News_ (London), published the following curious story about E. A. Poe:――

“_The New York Critic_ has unearthed a story from _The Dispatch_ of Kokomo about the youth of the author of ‘The Raven.’ There dwells a man in Kokomo (Ind.) whose grandfather kept a tavern in Chesterfield, near Richmond (Va.). The story states that, at the Chesterfield tavern, a dissipated-looking young man presented himself one evening about fifty years ago, and asked for a bedroom. When the servant went to call him in the morning he had disappeared, without the prosaic ceremony of settling his bill. In place of that he had left a book with a poem written on the fly-leaf ‘as legible as print.’ Now Edgar Poe’s handwriting was as legible as Thackeray’s, wonderfully clear and beautiful. The poem was signed E. A. P. We quote the first verse, and leave experts to decide whether it is, or is not, by Poe:――

Leonainie, angels named her,
And they took the light
Of the laughing stars, and framed her
In a smile of white,
And they made her hair of gloomy
Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy
Moonshine, and they brought her to me
In a solemn night.

Here the angels and the absurd sonorous name Leonainie, and the midnight, are all very like Edgar Poe’s manner, and very like his usual sentiment is the conclusion, when

My Leonainie drifted
From me in a dream.

But whether the resemblances are beyond the reach of parody it were rash to pronounce.”

During his lifetime the inward application of spirits had a very bad effect upon Poe, and since his death spirits have done much to injure his reputation. It was bad enough for Miss Lizzie Doten and Dr. J. Garth Wilkinson to palm off their melodious twaddle as inspired by the spirit of Poe, the poems were nonsense, it is true, but nonsense written by educated persons. Whereas a work, published in New York twenty years ago, purporting to have been dictated by the spirits of deceased authors, contained a poem by the ghost of Poe which is noteworthy for the absence of any sense, and for the presence of grammatical errors which Poe, when living, would never have perpetrated.

As an authentic “spirit poem” it is curious, showing how Poets deteriorate when in Hades. The book is entitled “_Strange Visitors_,” dictated by Spirits through a Clairvoyant. New York, G. W. Carleton, publisher, 1869.

THE LOST SOUL.

Hark the bell! the funeral bell,
Calling the soul
To its goal.
Oh! the haunted human heart,
From its idol doomed to part!
Yet a twofold being bearing,
She and I apart are tearing;
She to Heaven I to Hell!
Going, going! Hark the bell!
Far in Hell,
Tolling, tolling.
Fiends are rolling,
Whitened bones, and coffins reeking,
Fearful darkness grimly creeping
On my soul,
My vision searing.
She disappearing
Drawn from me
By a soul I cannot see,
Whom I know can never love her.
Oh! that soul could I discover,
I would go,
Steeped in woe,
Down to darkness, down to Hell!
Hark the bell! Farewell! farewell!

Rev. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.

BORN, December 6, 1788. | DIED, June 17, 1845.

The author of the “Ingoldsby Legends” was educated at Brasenose College, Oxford, he entered the Church, and eventually became a Canon of St. Paul’s Cathedral, London. He wrote for _John Bull_, _Blackwood_, _Bentley’s Miscellany_, and was, for a time, editor of the _London Chronicle_.

_Bentley’s Miscellany_ was established in 1837, and in it appeared the famous “Ingoldsby Legends,” a collection of poems unique for their fun and originality.

Popular phrases, the most prosaic sentences, the cramped technicalities of legal diction, and snatches of various languages are worked in with an apparent absence of all art or effort; not a word seems out of place, not an expression forced, whilst syllables the most intractable find the only partners fitted for them throughout the range of our language. These Legends have often been imitated, but never equalled.

MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE.
_A Legend of Jarvis’s Jetty._

MR. SIMPKINSON (_loquitur_).

’Twas in Margate last July, I walked upon the pier,
I saw a little vulgar Boy――I said, “What make you here?
The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy;”
Again I said, “What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?”

He frown’d, that little vulgar boy,――he deem’d I meant to scoff――
And when the little heart is big, a little “sets it off:”
He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose――
He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!

“Hark! don’t you hear, my little man,――it’s striking Nine,” I said,
“An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed,
Run home and get your supper, else your Ma will scold――Oh! fie!
It is very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!”

The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,
His bosom throbb’d with agony,――he cried like anything.
I stoop’d, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur――“Ah!
I haven’t got no supper! and I haven’t got no Ma!!――

“My father, he is on the seas,――my mother’s dead and gone!
And I am here, on this here pier to roam the world alone;
I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart,
Nor ‘_brown_’ to buy a bit of bread with,――let alone a tart.

“If there’s a soul will give me food, or find me in employ,
By day and night, then blow me tight!” (he was a vulgar Boy;)
“And now I’m here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent
To jump, as Mister Levi did from off the Monument!”

“Cheer up! cheer up! my little man――cheer up!” I kindly said,
“You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head:
If you should jump from off the pier, you’d surely break your legs,
Perhaps your neck――then Bogey’d have you, sure as eggs are eggs!

“Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup,
My landlady is Mrs. Jones――we must not keep her up――
There’s roast potatoes at the fire――enough for me and you――
Come home, you little vulgar Boy ―― I lodge at Number 2.”

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside “The Foy,”
I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,――that little vulgar Boy,――
And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex,
“Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!”

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
She said “she did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys.”
She with her apron wiped the plates, and as she rubb’d the delf
Said I might “go to Jericho, and fetch the beer myself!”

I did not go to Jericho――I went to Mr. Cobb――
I changed a shilling――(which in town the people call “a Bob”)――
It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child――
And I said, “A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!”――

When I came back I gazed about――I gazed on stool and chair――
I could not see my little friend――because he was not there!
I peep’d beneath the table-cloth――beneath the sofa too――
I said, “You little vulgar Boy! why, what’s become of you?”

I could not see my table-spoons――I look’d, but could not see
The little fiddle-pattern’d ones I use when I’m at tea;――
I could not see my sugar-tongs――my silver watch――oh dear!
I know ’twas on the mantel-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Macintosh――it was not to be seen!――
Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad brimm’d and lined with green;
My carpet-bag――my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,――
My roast potatoes! all are gone!――and so’s that vulgar Boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below,
“Oh, Mrs. Jones, what _do_ you think?――ain’t this a pretty go?――
<!――Page 596――>294
That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night,
He’s stolen my things and run away!!” Says she, “And sarve you right!!”

――――

Next morning I was up betimes――I sent the Crier round,
All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I’d give a pound
To find that little vulgar boy, who’d gone and used me so;
But when the crier cried, “O yes!” the people cried, “O, No!”

I went to “Jarvis’ Landing-place,” the glory of the town,
There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down,
I told my tale――he seem’d to think I’d not been treated well,
And call’d me “Poor old Buffer!” what that means I cannot tell.

The sailor-man he said he’d seen that morning on the shore,
A son of something――’twas a name I’d never heard before,
A little “gallows-looking chap”――dear me, what could he mean?
With a “carpet swab” and “muckingtogs” and a hat turn’d up with green.

He spoke about his “precious eyes,” and said he’d seen him “sheer,”――
It’s very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer――
And then he hitch’d his trousers up, as is, I’m told, their use,――
It’s very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.

I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say
He’d seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning swim away
In Captain Large’s Royal George, about an hour before,
And they were now, as he supposed, “some_wheres_” about the Nore.

A landsman said, “I _twig_ the chap――he’s been upon the Mill――
And ’cause he _gammons_ so the _flats_, ve calls him Veeping Bill!”
He said, “he’d done me wery brown,” and nicely “_stow’d the swag_,”――
That’s French, I fancy, for a hat――or else a carpet-bag.

I went and told the constable my property to track:
He ask’d me if “I didn’t wish that I might get it back?”
I answer’d “To be sure I do!――it’s what I’m come about.”
He smiled and said, “Sir, does your mother know that you are out?”

Not knowing what to do, I thought I’d hasten back to town,
And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who’d done me brown.
His Lordship very kindly said he’d try and find him out,
But he rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about.

He sent for Mr. Withair then, and I described “the swag,”
My Macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpetbag;
He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ!
But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy.

MORAL:

Remember, then, what when a boy I’ve heard my Grandma’ tell,
“BE WARN’D IN TIME BY OTHERS’ HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL!”
Don’t link yourself with vulgar folks, who’ve got no fixed abode,
Tell lies, use naughty words, and say “they wish they may be blow’d!”

Don’t take too much of double X!――and don’t at night go out
To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout!
And when you go to Margate next, just stop, and ring the bell,
Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I’m pretty well!

R. H. BARHAM.

――――

THE VULGAR LITTLE BOY.
_Mr. Simpkinson’s Misadventure in London._

I was in London last July; I walked into the Strand;
I saw a vulgar little boy――a broom was in his hand;
The dirt upon his youthful face was quite against all rule,
I said, “You vulgar little boy, why don’t you go to school?”

He laughed, that vulgar little boy――a roguish laugh had he――
He said, “The School Board schools are not for vulgar boys like me.”
He put his finger to his nose his impudence to crown,
And asked me “if I could’nt give a little kid a brown?”

“Hark! don’t you hear, my little man, it’s really striking three?――
An hour when boys should be at school to learn their A B C.
The School Board man will take you up but only for your good,
And _make_ you go to school.” Says he, “I only wish he would.

“If there’s a school for such as me will teach me how to write,
And read and spell and do a sum, I should be then all right,
I should be jolly glad, for then I might find some employ;
But Walker as to that!” says he――he was a vulgar boy.

I gave that boy a sixpence. Passing on I heard him cry,
“Ain’t that old buffer werry kind!――oh, ain’t he? Oh, my eye!”
And then he turned a somersault, which boys a “coach-wheel” call:
He was not so ungrateful, though so vulgar, after all.

Revolving this within my mind, next morn I thought it fit
To seek the river Palace――where the School Board people sit.
I thought I’d go and tell them as they hadn’t found it out,
That loit’ring in the streets they might find several boys about

That I had heard the School Board schools were meant for such as
these,
And not for little undergrads to go and take degrees;
But schools where London’s little lads might go and learn to write
And read, and vulgar little boys be taught to be polite.

I gave my card, was ushered in, and told to take a chair;
I saw a portly gentleman――it might be the Lord Mayor;
I told him of these vulgar boys, and plainly put my case.
He laughed, that portly gentleman――he laughed right in my face.

“We do not care for vulgar boys,” he said. “We use our powers
To shut up private schools, and get their pupils into ours.
We go in for ‘accomplishments,’ for music, and――who knows?――
Some day a School Board pupil may an opera compose!”

I said, “I thought it might be so (for rules true Genius spurns),
And from the gutters there might spring another Robert Burns.”
But still he shook his portly head, and said, “Don’t make a fuss,
If such there be, depend on it they’ll get no help from us.

“’Tis not on vulgar little boys that we spend every year
Four hundred thousand pounds. You see that education’s dear,
And is not to be wasted upon every boy you meet
Sweeping crossings, selling matches, loafing, begging in the street.”

I said, “I thought the Act was passed that vulgar boys might share
Some little education, that they couldn’t get elsewhere
That schools might fill, and gaols, in time might really empty be.”
He said, “Well, now we’ve _got_ the Act, that’s what we cannot see.”

Now, ratepayers, when election comes, remember to a man
Who caused all this extravagance――return them if you can;
And so, ’twixt Board and ratepayer, to end this bitter strife,
Again I say return them all――but into private life.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

MISADVENTURES AT THE MANSION HOUSE.
_A Legend of the City._

’Twas at Guildhall, a year ago, I chanced to hear a cheer,
And saw an Alderman stand forth; thought I: “What make you here?”
There was upon his face a look of somewhat common joy;
Again I thought: “Oh, can it be, you ever were a boy?”

But, strange to say, they cheer’d him still, and gave him such
applause,
I looked into his face again, to try and seek the cause;
Till some one in a wig announced he had not pass’d the chair,
And asked the citizens if they would make him their Lord Mayor.

They said they would; I’m bound to say I didn’t like the plan,
He seem’d to be, you see, a very pompous Alderman!
And put on very bumptious airs, and puff’d his shirt front out;
Twas sad to hear the h’s that he thickly dropp’d about.

“Come, rule o’er us,” the Cits exclaim’d, “and be our new Lord Mayor,
And to the Mansion House we beg you to at once repair;
You’ll find the City annals there, its prestige and its fame,
And bear in mind that for a year we trust you with the same.”

Well, he went to the Mansion House, amidst fresh marks of joy.
That pompous Alderman, who must have been, years since, a boy.
And there the City, with the trust and kindness that it shows,
Left him to do as he thought best, and did not interpose.

Some Aldermen were rather cross, and made a little noise,
And held themselves in readiness to be a counterpoise.
But meanwhile left him to himself, and murmur’d: “We shall see!”
And sundry ominous remarks when at their calipee.

* * * * *

I had to go to Jericho, and stay’d ten months or so,
And once more chanced, on my return, towards the Bank to go,
When passing by the Mansion House I saw a crowd about,
And heard a citizen remark: “Well, here’s a nice set out!”

He seemed of some important fact to have his civic head full;
“What’s up?” I asked. Said he: “Oh lor’! he’s served the City
dreadful!”
“Who? what?” I cried, and thereupon the citizen began:
“Why, don’t you know? I mean, of course, the pompous Alderman!”

“He’s served you badly, eh?” said I; the citizen replied:
“Oh, yes; he has done much to wound our ancient City’s pride.
Our name of hospitality, no trace of it is left!”
And taking out his handkerchief I noticed that he wept.

“I’ve just been in the Mansion House,” said he, “and have look’d
round;
’Twas really very sad indeed, the state of things I found.
There’s all our Civic Prestige gone; of National Respect,
Although I searched both high and low, I could no sign detect.

“Of Popular Esteem, too, now there seems no stock, I see;
And very little ‘Charity’ to what there used to be;
He’s even stripped the very Chair――the one in which he sat――
Of its Traditions; did you ever hear the like of that?

“There’s nothing left worth mentioning of all we valued so;
Now can you wonder that I say, ‘Now, here’s a pretty go!’
That pompous, stubborn Alderman, to so our trust requite,
And turn upon the City thus!” Said I: “It serves you right!”

“It serves you right!” said I again. “The chair you should not fill.
With men like this; their very ways suspicion should instil.
Your City should have shown more sense, and had sufficient _nous_,
To know that he should never be throned at the Mansion House.”

_Truth Christmas Number._ 1879.

――――

THE LITTLE VULGAR (SCOTCH) BOY.

The following appeared in _Punch_, August 13, 1881, with a cartoon, by Sambourne, representing the pedantic, pompous, prosy, priggish Duke of Argyll, in Highland Costume, “taking a sight” and putting out his tongue at the occupants of the Treasury Bench, whom he has just styled “Jelly-fish”:

It was a little vulgar boy, exceeding sharp, and Scotch,
At Westminster Aquarium he stood the fish to watch.
He willingly had got at them, but, helpless so to do,
Indulged, _like_ little vulgar boys in general, in “_Yah-boo!_”
He was a very cock-nosed boy, which tempted him, no doubt,
“To put his thumb unto that nose, and spread his fingers out.”

Says he, “O yus, you _look_ O.K.” (the boy meant “Orl Korrect”)
“You fancy you’re big whales and things with backbones, I expect.
Yah-boo! you flabby, flopping, floundering flats, as limp as small,
You’re only helpless jelly-fish, with not no spines at all!”
The creatures in the Tank appeared his cheek to quite enjoy,
But took no other notice of that little vulgar boy.

――――

SIXTY YEARS AFTER.

I was in Margate once again. I limped along the pier;
I saw a great big vulgar man――I said, “What make you here?
The bloom upon your bulbous nose suggests the pewter can;”
Again, I said, “What make you here, you great big vulgar man?”

He scowled, that great big vulgar man, he deemed I meant to laugh,
He said (he was a vulgar man) he wouldn’t “stand no chaff.”
He turned the quid within his mouth, and from his seat he rose;
He stretched his hand wide out, and put his finger to his nose.

“Hark! don’t you hear, my vulgar friend? it’s striking ten,” I said;
“An hour when every decent man should surely be in bed;
Go home and get your supper, or your wife will――Oh dear me!
It’s very wrong for great big men to use a great big D.”

The curses on his ready tongue burst forth as buds in spring;
His bosom swelled with anger, and he swore like anything!
I listened; and, between his oaths, he said “Upon my life,
I haven’t got no supper, and I haven’t got no wife!

“My wife is dead, and I have been in quod since Sixty-two,
I’ve got no work to do-oo-oo, I’ve got no work to do,
I haven’t had this blessed day a mouthful or a drop;
I haven’t got a bloomin’ thing (so ’elp me!) I can ‘pop.’

“If any gent ’ud give me food, or put me on a job,
By day or night I’d work all right to earn an honest bob;
But if there ain’t, I tell you plain, it is my fixed intent
To hold a great mass meeting under Nelson’s monument.”

“Come home with me,” I kindly said, “come home with me and sup;
My landlady is Mrs. Brown――we must not keep her up.
There’s devilled kidneys at the fire――enough for you and me;
Come home, you great big hungry man; I lodge at Number three.”

(I used to lodge at Number two――the second in the row,
But Mrs. Jones is dead, and that was sixty years ago.)
I took him home to Number three, and called to Mrs. Brown,
And asked her kindly to step round into the Rose and Crown.

She looked at my companion; then she answered rather rough――
“It seems to me as if you’d had already quite enough.
Who is that horrid-looking man? and, when she’d wiped the delf,
Said, “Go unto Jerusalem and fetch your beer yourself!”

I went not to Jerusalem; I went to Mister Head.
I changed a thick’un:――that was Greek for sovereign, he said.
I got the liquor for the man (he did not come along);
I said, “A pint of double X, and please to draw it strong!”