Chapter XXXVII: Part I (17)

One morn to his great High Priest, said he,
“You’re a doctor versed in divinitie,
A man of parts,
And a Master of Arts,
And the starry learning of old Chaldee;
Now, don’t you see,
It’s shocking to me,
But I haven’t a ghost of a librarie.
The wisdom of centuries past lies hid
In the mystic depths of the Pyramid;
And future ages
Of seers and sages
Ought to read in history’s pages,
With what _eclât_,
That radiant star,
Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra,
In mortal garb on this earth once trod,”
Then the High Priest mutter’d, “Odd! very Odd!
To record the events of your Majesty’s reign
Were a task beyond mortal skill ’tis plain;
But marvellous, mystical, magical lore
I have learn’d from the sages, and seers of yore;
And I think I can furnish just the commodity,
Apex of learning, and quaintness, and oddity.
In a chapel built by the old Chaldees,
I’ll show you the cream of Libraries,
Hidden away in the bowels of earth
Since long before Creation’s birth;
And all the volumes hidden there,
Learnèd, curious, quaint, and rare,
Hieroglyph carved, or papyrus roll,
Every one hath a human soul.”

Over the sod
Mr. Rameses trod,
Softly and slow to the shrine of the God;
The High Priest solemnly waved his rod,
The doors roll’d back,
And there in a crack
The books stood reveal’d, such a queer-looking squad,
They gave each other a nudge and a prod
As the High Priest said, with a wink and a nod,
“Lo, there are the Volumes,――they’re Odd, very Odd,
There are volumes little and volumes big,
Bound in calf and leather of pig,
Volumes great and volumes small,
Duodecimo midgets and copies tall,
And from least to greatest all worthy are
To grace the car
Of the Persiah Shah,
Or of Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra.”

After describing the various members, and enumerating their literary or artistic works, the High Priest observes:――

“Such your Majesty’s picture books are,
Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra!”
The monarch smiled with approving nod,
And muttered, “All charming――but Odd! very Odd!”

――――:o:――――

MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE’S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION. 1837.

Och! the Coronation! what celebration
For emulation can with it compare?
When to Westminster the Royal Spinster,
And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair!
’Twas there you’d see the New Polishemen
Making a skrimmage at half after four,
And the Lords and Ladies and the Miss O’Gradys,
All standing round before the Abbey door.

* * * * *

Then the cannons thunder’d, and the people wonder’d,
Crying “God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!”
――Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,
Sure it’s the proudest day that I’ll have seen!
And now, I’ve ended, what I pretended,
This narration splendid in swate poe-thry.
‘Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher,
Faith, it’s myself that’s getting mighty dhry.’

――――

BARNEY MAGUIRE, JUNIOR’S, ACCOUNT OF THE JUBILEE.

Sing, swate Muse, the grand occasion of that joyful celebration,
When the Nation, with elation, rushed tumultuously to see,
In her glory and her splendhour, the Faith’s feminine defendher,
On the dawning of the morning of her Day of Jubilee!
Sure the flags was wavin’ glorious, and the tumult was uproarious;
All the route was lined before yez with Hussars and bould Dhragoons;
While from ivery clangin’ steeple bells was deafenin’ the people,
An’ the bands were all discoorzin’ different sorts of loyal tunes.

Then did cheerin’ most stupendous greet a cavalcade tremendous,
Formed of gorgeous foreign splendours――all from Misther Gam’s hotel
(Buckingham Palace, as they tould them, being far too small to hould
them;
Though its thrue we’ve Kew an’ Windhsor, too, and Kensington as
well)!
Och! the Chinese swells Imperial dhressed in silver-gilt material;
Indian potentates, severial; Poles and Turks and Arab Sheikhs;
An’ the Queen of swate Hawaii, faith to see her does repay ye,
Though its mighty little English that the darlin’ crathur spakes!

When along the line came bowlin’ wid a sound like thunder rowlin’,
All the dignitaries howlin’ that grate Europe has to show;
Dhressed in glitterin’ stars an’ laces, sittin’ proudly in their
places,
Like their images that graces Madame Twoswoords’ waxwork show;
Spanish High and Mightinesses, Russian military dhresses,
Belgium, Austhria, Grase, and Dinmark, all like Court cards smilin’
there,
Germans stout and sentimental, jooks and Princes Continental,
Ownin’ a conthracted rental, but a precious dale of hair!

Then, with polished sword-blades glancing, goulden tags an’ feathers
dancing,
Came the princely escort prancing all beside a gilded coach
Drawn by eight crame ponies――Ginnett or Bill Holland wasn’t in it,
Was the cry the very minnit that procession did approach.
And VICTORIA, Britain’s Queen, there, of her subjects’ eyes was seen
there,
Lookin’ glorious and resplendent in her Sunday satin gown,
Wid a dacent white lace bonnet wid a bunch of feathers on it,
Though ’tis said that Salisbury begged her on his knees to wear her
crown.

There was Our Princess the blessin’! She’s the wan for stylish
dhressin,’
Wid her charrums that do be increasin’ as the years go rowlin’ by;
Cambridge bloomin’ like a picthur, foine-looking young Albert Victor,
An’ the Heir Apparent watchin’ with a twinkle in his eye――
Edinborough’s Royal Sailor, who does ride like any tailor――
Savin’ of his noble presence! while, upon the other hand,
Battenberg, moustached and dhressy, Saxe-Meiningen and Hesse,
Caracoled unto the music of a joyous German Band!

In the Abbey there was hustling――aye, an’ bustling too, and tussling,
All the ladies’ dhresses rustling like a silken-sounding sea;
Shoals of swarthy foreign visithers, Press reporthers and
inquisithers,
The whole Cabinet of Ministhers, Salisbury and William G.
Bar and Bench. The House of Lords, too, in silk stockins, shoes, an’
swoords too;
M.P.s married――aye, and single――wid their wives and daughters
swate;
But PARNELL and his supporters stayed at home in writhin’ torthers,
An’ the Socialists were absent at a gay teetotal thrate;

Then the organ loudly sthruck up an’ the choirs the chune tuk up,
The Archbishop quickly wuk up, while the trumpets ’gan to blare;
And in glory and in honour shone June’s Royal sun upon Her,
As she sat there like a cherub in ould Edward’s ancient chair.
Glitthering in full regalia. Faix, for brightness I’ll go bail ye
Jacob’s vision most Elysian with the sight could not compare,
As a pathriot was remarking when the polis caught him larking
Wid a fuse all fit for sparking, underneath the pulpit stair!

Och! the crowds of notabilities celebrated for abilities,
Octogenarians and juvenilities, lions old and lions new,
Buffalo William and his Injin, Misther Marius and Miss Sinjin,
Wid the belle of the Aquarium in a costume of tattoo!
Great Augustus Imperator, who for public weal does cater
At the National Theayter, sure they ought to knight him too!
Editors in shoals and batches, thieves intent on priggin’ watches,
The Brown Potter, Lady Colin, and the _Saturday Review_!

But the day that day succeeded its excitement superseded
When the Board Schools all was weeded of their flower an’ their pick;
An’ the title Levy Lawson long had hoped to get his claws on,
Hung convanient widin’ reachin’ of the handle of his stick!
Sure the work was warm an’ tirin’, and the taychers all perspirin’,
Into buns some children wirin’, while the dhrinks went round about,
Bands and banners wildly clashin’, Jubilee mementos smashin’,
Punches squeakin’, airballs squashin’, was there ever such a rout!

But at last the fait was over, guardian angels ceased to hover,
Pickpockets retired in clover, and the cats began to roam,
Whilst the parents of the threated bore away the more repleted
Or conveyed the flattered darlin’s to the shelter of the home.
Off wint Navy, off wint Army, with the sex that’s born to charm ye;
Off wint Press, Police, and Public; home wint Royalty to tea,
And Her Majesty did utther, as she tuk the bread and butther
Misther Battenberg had cut her――“Well, We’ve Had Our JUBILEE.”

_Lady’s Pictorial._ July 2, 1887.

――――

A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN’S, FLEET STREET.

Sir Christopher Wren! O Sir Christopher Wren!
How slumbered your keen architectural ken
When you planned Temple Bar,
Nor foresaw from afar
How the witlings would spit you,
And editors twit you,
And Levi the Thunderer[139]
Proclaim you a blunderer!
How the D.T., the pet, pink, and pride of the Press,
Would feel itself called time by time, to address
Learned Leaders, the joy of its large circulation,
Intended to scorch up the whole Corporation:
All through you, dear Sir Christopher,
Who made such a fist of a
Gate in the twist of a
Narrow street-way, to be cursed at and hissed of a
Horse-steerer class of Her Majesty’s lieges
Who howled in the squeezes
With trenchant phrase hippic
And forceful philippic,
Like epics Satanic declaimed by some sham Milton
Or a wild Jingo speech by his lordship Jaw Jamilton.

Not a sigh shall escape for the relic that’s gone.
Nor a thought be bestowed on one rotten old stone;
But till London shall tumble
To pieces and crumble,
And bookworms shall stumble, and mumble, and fumble
O’er records fantastic,
With lore periphrastic;
Till memory fail
And custom grow stale,
And history pale
Before scenes, men, and things, long forgotten, and cast
By the ocean of time on the shores of the past,
Shall the halo of genius hover around,
And the street christened Fleet shall be classical ground.
But a pace, and we face
St. Bride’s tower of grace
’Neath whose shadow reposeth the gentle Lovelace
He who sang sweet and clear
Of Althea, his dear
And whose soul burst the bonds of imprisonment drear;――
Then hard by St. Bride,
In Shoe Lane there bide,
Beneath the cold stones,
The mouldering bones
Of the “marvellous boy” that perished in pride.

Here Sackville of Dorset, Congreve, Wycherley, Raleigh,
With Seldon, Rowe, Fielding, Burke, Cowper, held parley;
And now, as we gaze on St. Dunstan’s grey fane,
We think of the pious and learned Romaine;
Then bringing our list to a period, we halt on
The gentlest of anglers and men, Isaak Walton;
Just pause in a hurry
To note old John Murray,
And finally pass on, just glancing at Tonson,
To the typical three, Goldsmith, Boswell, and Johnson.

Did the heads of the rebels above the old Gate
Give a Jacobite grin at a possible fate[140]
That might haply await
The roystering three as they wandered home late?
First the Doctor and Goldie, with Bozzy close after,
The midnight air shaking
And “Charlies” awaking
With echoing peals of Cyclopean laughter.

Now the Bar has departed,
Its stones have been carted
Away to the limbo of things undesired;
But――fateful perversity
With even a worse City
Nuisance the minds of the “fathers” are fired;
As with bent pertinacious
Some civic Horatius
“Keeps the gate” by suggesting
A structure congesting
The traffic anew that the Bar had let loose;
Nor heeding the trumpet-stop scorn and abuse
Of that monarch of censors, the wordy D.T.,
Presses forward his motion
With pugnacious devotion,
And triumphantly carries it through the C.C.[141]
So now “joy for ever,” and aye “thing of beauty”――
That is, till its outlines grow smoke-dried and sooty――
The obstruction erect, with the Griffin a-top,
Designed with the Bar situations to chop,
Is to stand, spite of those whose loud protests it smothers,
And subsist as “a refuge for lawyers and others.”

MORAL.

If you chance to possess, in the confabulation
Of nobodies picked from the great Corporation,
Voice in measures that deal With the citizens’ weal,
Be sure you appeal
With might and with zeal
To statutes obscure
That cannot with modern requirements endure,
And resist every movement
That points the plain way to a public improvement.
Don’t be daunted in playing your part of an ass,
But bray out your motions with trumpet of brass.
Above all, stick a Griffin
In Fleet Street, and if in
Your wisdom you choose as a station most meet
For your emblem the narrowest part of the street,
Air your crotchet at will
In the Common Coun-cil,
And reply to the Thunderer’s wrath, my boy,
That the best of all modes
To widen one’s roads
Is to steal a few yards from the path, my boy.

From _The Jingoldsby Legends_. By Jonas Jingoldsby, Esquire. Published at 84, Fleet Street, London, about 1882.

After many years of discussion, it was decided to remove Temple Bar, principally because it interfered with the traffic, but the City authorities, egged on by a nobody who shall be nameless, decided to erect a monument in its place. Hence the hideous Griffin obstruction which it was said cost London £12,000; it was so detested and ridiculed that for a long time after its erection two constables had to guard it night and day, or it would probably have been demolished. As it was, great damage was done to it on several occasions, but it still stands, a costly monument of toadyism, folly, and bad taste.

――――:o:――――

PIGEON SHOOTING AT HURLINGHAM.

In this Sport every element of manly courage and skill is brought into play. The poor caged birds are generally so bewildered on being released that they can scarcely fly, and the skilled marksmen often wound them, so that they flutter about for hours with broken legs and wings. This affords excellent entertainment to the tender-hearted ladies of fashion who witness the sports, and bet on the results.

Occasionally a bird is killed at once, others escape from the grounds and are either captured, or tortured to death by that respectable class of the community which usually congregates around fairs, race meetings, and prize fights.

Altogether, Pigeon-shooting is _the_ sport which, for the sake of our National reputation, should be encouraged.

When we have persuaded the Spaniards to abolish their Bull fights as cruel and unmanly, we may bring them to the innocent delights of battue shooting, hare coursing, fox hunting, or even to Pigeon Shooting, and so realise Poet Wordsworth’s noble ideal:――

“One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
Taught by what nature shows and what conceals,
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride,
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.”

The subject is treated from the Pigeon’s point of view, in
the following imitation of Barham’s style.

(_The pigeon is in its trap, awaiting its turn to be shot at by kind-hearted, sensible men._)

Well, here I am, and precious hot I find it,
I wish I were a Fantail not to mind it;
Ten to the foot’s too warm for any sinner,
I’d quite as soon be in a pie for dinner;
In fact, it would be cooler to be bakèd,
For they’ve the decency to cook us naked
And leave our feet outside; but here, I tell ye,
My toes are cramped and trodden to a jelly.
So, this is Hurlingham! Accursed place!
The fell destroyer of our harmless race,
Centre of fashion, haunt of lords and ladies,
A whited sepulchre, a dazzling Hades.
From Monday here we’re massacred till Saturday,
But murdered worse than ever on the latter day;
For then conspire the “Upper Ten” to vex us,
“_Omnis ætatis utriusque sexus_,”
With jealous hearts, intent to shed the blood
Which, like their own, dates backwards to the Flood,
As for a pretext, they can find a reason
For killing us each day throughout the season.
Some people talk as if the sport were quite meant
To give the birds some innocent amusement,
And say a little shooting to us Rocks is
Just the delight that hunting is to foxes.
Poor beasts! How can they possibly avoid it?
They’d “be surprised to hear” how they enjoyed it.
One says that killing pigeons is as good
As murdering barn-door pheasants in a wood.
Granted. But please to prove that shooting’s pleasant
When looked at from the aspect of the pheasant.
They all insist that death attends the shot,
(Some think precedes a trifle and some not);
And then they cry, in ecstasies of virtue,
“Poor things! we kill you, but we never hurt you.”
Who was it made the theory so astutely
That pigeons cannot feel at all acutely?
Well, of a want of feeling when he spoke, we
Might well return him a direct _tu quoque_.
“You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things.”
Was said of men’s hard hearts, not Rocks with wings.
One comes to bet and thinks the shooting rubbish,
Another shoots, but votes the betting snobbish.
This little episode a moral teaches;
Which of the two is right? I fancy each is.
If we are only slaughter for the larder,
I wish they’d miss us clean or hit us harder.
This amateur despatching ten times worse is
Even than the wicked poulterer’s tender mercies;
And why should man be justified in maiming us,
Because he had the privilege of naming us?
“You ladies! You whose gentle hearts do fear
The smallest monstrous mouse,” what make you here?
Are those the eyes to gaze on slaughtered doves,
The chosen birds of Venus and the Loves?
Alas! what hypocrites of half-a-score, to
Watch the death agonies _oculo irretorto_.
But when some wretch surmounts the fatal paling,
Sick unto death with sight and pinions failing,
To clap your hands, of pure compassion quite full,
And cry “He’s safe, poor darling! How delightful!”
So young, so fair, and can ye lack compassion?
It cannot be; ye are but slaves to Fashion,
Bowing yourselves, as did the Jewish nation,
Before the monster of your own creation.
Shake off the chains, or take a bird’s advice――
Serve if ye list, but do not sacrifice.
You, upon whom all fashionable men dance,
From noon to eve, assiduous attendance,
Hence! fair ones, hence! nor, like Herodias’ daughter
Bring by your charms the guiltless to the slaughter.

* * * * *

My turn at last! I wish he’d leave off squeezing;
I think I’ve scratched him! Serve him right for teasing!
Alas! the middle trap he lays his hand on,
“Ye (birds) who enter here all hope abandon.”
And now he’s pulled my tail out by the roots,
I feel as helpless as a Puss-in-Boots.
(Ah! our poor tails, they won’t believe we need ’em
Or else they’re fitting us for _endless_ freedom.)
They say it’s to prevent my being hit.
(It’s very good of them to mention it.)
They tell me I’m a clipper! and shall wobble,
“And yet I am not happy” for their trouble;
And if they want me to get safe from harms off,
Why don’t they pull the sportsman’s legs and arms off?
Fast in the middle trap. To test the cunning
Of the great guns, it’s fallen nine times running;
And now, to baffle their unerring aim,
The next that falls is sure to be the same.
A chilly fear of death is stealing o’er me,
And all my _peck_adilloes flash before me.
It’s very sad to die――to die――to sleep――
To sleep, perchance to dream; I’ll take a peep――
Oh! that fair grove, and yon delicious pine,
Towering beyond the fatal boundary line.
And there he stands, the fatal swell of Hurlingham:
His little black moustaches, how he’s twirling ’em,’
Here comes his gun! If he forgets to cock it,
I’m off to Alabama like a rocket.
I wish he’d use a hundred pound torpedo,
And make the people mount in air, as we do.
There go the rocks? “Click, click?” A moment more
And I am free, that never was before!
Yes. “Free among the dead,” though some, I heard,
Were betting “ten to five upon the bird.”
But can their jargon from the land of death
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Or will my ghost be glad, when I am gone,
That I was “freely backed at two to one?”
Well, come what will, “This Rock,” at least, shall make
For life one flutter (“Lady of the Lake”).
Suppose I fly slap at him, and suppose
I make him think I mean “to have his nose.”
Perhaps he’d miss me, but perhaps he wouldn’t;
And then, how very awkward if he shouldn’t;
He’d be quite sure to hit me if I crawled;
I think I’ll try what Juvenal has called
“_Excelsæ turris tabulata_.” Bless it!
I fear the story goes on, “_unde altior esset
Casus_,” _&c._, ending with a _ruinæ_.
It’s quite enough to make one “shed the briny.”
Would that like Milton’s demons I could climb
“Part on the earth, and part in air sublime!”
He’d not know which to fire at, and the puzzle
Might make him put his shoulder to the muzzle.
By Jove, I have it! Plan untried by “Rocks,”
I’ll light (like Bryant’s matches) on the box!
The line “_In medio tutissimus ibis_,”
Perhaps as truthful of the _Pigeon_ tribe is.
He might not like to shoot me till I stir;
“And thus far will I trust thee, gentle sir,”
I’ll sit on top, and try how long I _can_ sit,
Time’s precious! “Ready? Pull!” Here goes; I’ll chance it!

* * * * *

’Tis done――’tis done! Down swept the leaden trail;
And must have killed me had I had a tail;
Behind the trap there was “such scanty room,
It missed my (absent) _helm_ but razed a plume.”
Even as it was, so closely came each pellet
That as it passed I could distinctly smell it.
Thanks, courteous trap, for rescue in the nick;
But what a silly man to fire so quick.
So far so good, but doubtless he has reckoned
On “dropping me superbly with his second”
(This sporting euphemism consoles the worst shots
For missing quite absurdly with their first shots).
But I won’t budge an inch, and, if he tries,
He’ll find it hard to _drop_ me till I rise.
He hesitates, uncertain which to let off,
The gun or me; perhaps I still may get off.
But no! the gentle audience sees his doubt,
And playfully resolves to help him out;
And fifty throats exclaim, with laughter splitting,
“Wire in, my boy, and shoot the beggar sitting!”
Will he “forego his vantage” and retire?
Ah, no! he quietly proceeds to “wire.”
The gun is raised! A flash! And so I die――
No, missed me clean, with none to wipe his eye!
Swift to the clouds I wing my way with joy,
While peals of scornful laughter greet “My boy.”
Quite so! _Væ victis!_ They will spare a brute,
If they can find a human substitute;
For ’tis agreed by Christian, Jew, and nigger,
“Of two given victims, always choose the bigger.”

R. L. FRANCIS.

――――:o:――――

Every one who has read the Ingoldsby Legends (and who has not?) will be sure to remember the pathetic little poem with which they conclude:――

AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye!
There came a noble Knyghte,
With his hauberke shynynge brighte,
And his gallant heart was lyghte,
Free and gaye;
As I laye a-thinkynge, he rode upon his waye.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree!
There seem’d a crimson plain,
Where a gallant Knyghte laye slayne,
And a steed with broken rein
Ran free,
As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see!

* * * * *

As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking,
O merrie sang that Birde as it glittered on her breast
With a thousand gorgeous dyes,
While soaring to the skies,
’Mid the stars she seem’d to rise,
As to her nest;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest:――
“Follow, follow me away,
It boots not to delay,”――
’Twas so she seem’d to saye,
“Here is rest!”

――――

AS I SATE A-DRYNKYNGE.

THE LAST WORDS OF JONAS JINGOLDSBY.
(_Before going to by-by_).

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she hopped about the floore;
There came a gay reporter
Of a “daily,” nothynge shorter,
And he ordered halfe of porter,
And he swore,
As I sate a-drynkynge, to have a lyttel more.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,
Swetely sang the Birde as she perched upon the bar;
There came a lovely maide,
Who took the coyne he payde,
And giving change, she sayde,
“Here you are.”
As I sate a-drynkynge, her face was as a star.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,
Blythely sang the Birde as she pecked about my shoes;
This journalistic childe
Continuously smyled,
And got to mixing “mild”
With Chartreuse.
As I sate a-drynkynge he was upon the booze.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,
The Birde declined to sing, having started on the feed:
This youth did sing and shout,
Till there came a chucker-out;
But he stood hym halfe of stout
And a weed,
As I sate a-drynkynge――he did in very deed.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as it finished up its feast,
The maiden she did say,
“Now, there’s one and nyne to paye
So you had better goe awaye.
Tipsy beast!”
As I sate a-drynkynge, I thought it rude, at least.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge.
Sleepily the Birde did its song again begin.
There came a gallant crew
Of officeres in blue,
And I shuddered――so would you
At their grin.
As I sate a-drynkynge, they took and ran him in.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,
The Birde was gettynge hoarse, and could hardly force a squeak;
My blood was turned to curds
When a beak, _but not the Birde’s_,
Pronounced these solemn wordes,
“For your freak,
I deeply grieve to saye
Twentye shyllynges you must paye,
Or in Chokey you must staye
For a week!”

From _The Jingoldsby Legends_. By Jonas Jingoldsby, Esq. The Latest Edition.

This little anonymous sixpenny pamphlet was published at 84, Fleet Street, London, about 1882. In addition to the above parody, and _A Lay of St. Dunstan’s_ which appears a few pages back, it contained “The Inspector a’ Trapping ’em,” “Sir Wilfrid the Beerless,” “The Night and the Ladies,” and other imitations of the Ingoldsby Legends, both in prose and verse.

There are two imitations of _The Ingoldsby Legends_ in _The Corkscrew Papers_, published anonymously in 1876 by W. H. Guest, 9, Paternoster Row, London.

One is styled “Tamborini, the Poet,” the other “Pygmalion and His Statue,” they are long, and of no particular interest.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

BORN, 1672. | DIED, 17 June, 1719.

“Cato,” a tragedy by Mr. Joseph Addison, was produced with much success at Drury Lane Theatre in 1713. It is now well nigh forgotten, but the following soliloquy was generally inserted in the school books of the last generation:――

ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

It must be so――Plato thou reason’st well――
Else why this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
’Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;
’Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! Thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, th’ unbounded prospect lies before me!
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold――If there’s a Power above us
(And that there is, all nature cries aloud
Through all her works), he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when, or where?――This world was made for Cæsar.
I’m weary of conjectures――this must end ’em.

Thus am I doubly armed――My death and life,
My bane and antidote are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur’d in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point:
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

――――

_Humbly inscribed to the Right Honourable_ JOHN, _Earl of_ STAIR.

Mitchell, _solus_, sitting in a thoughtful posture: In his hand his tailor’s bill, with an expostulatory letter: pen, ink, and paper on the table by him.

It must be so――Tailor, thou reason’st well!――
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This earnest longing to discharge thy _Bill_?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of an arrest? Why shrinks the conscious soul
Back on herself, and startles at a _Bailiff_?
The _Justice_ of a cause prevails within us;
’Tis _Honesty_ that points out better days,
And intimates even _Money_ to a _Bard_!
_Money_, thou pleasing, anxious, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untry’d life,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass?
The wide, th’ unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If a _Mæcenas_ be,
(And that there is, Fame publishes abroad
Thro’ _British_ realms) he must delight in goodness;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when, or who?――at present I’m in need,
And dun’d for debt――but this must bring relief.

(_Taking his pen in his hand._)

Thus am I doubly arm’d. My pain or pleasure,
My bane and antidote are both before me.
_This_ in a moment claps me in a gaol;
But _that_ informs me I shall yet be rich.
The _Muse_, secured by inspiration, smiles
At sight of _Catchpoles_, and defies a _Writ_.
_Nobles_ may perish, and the _King_ himself
Submit to fate, the very realm be ruined;
But _Bards_ shall flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the _Whig_ and _Tory_ broils,
Our civil fury, and our foreign wars.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This lethargy that creeps thro’ all my senses?
Nature, oppress’d and harrass’d out with care,
Sinks down to dulness.――Let me drink a _Bottle_,
That my awaken’d _Muse_ may wing her flight,
Renew’d in all her strength, and fresh with life,
An off’ring fit for STAIR. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man’s rest: Mitchell knows neither of them,
Indifferent in his choice to live or die,
If he, great Lord! vouchsafe me not his favor.

From _Poems on Several Occasions_, in 2 vols., by Joseph Mitchell, commonly called Sir Robert Walpole’s Poet. Published at London. 1729.

――――

THE MASQUERADE;
_or, the Belle’s Soliloquy_.

Celestina, _solus_, in a thoughtful posture――a Domino, with Hat and Feather, and a Purse of Gold lying on the table.

It must be so――smart plume thou reason’st well
Else whence this springing joy, this fond desire,
This longing after concerts, plays, and balls?
Or whence this loathing dread and chill _ennui_,
At staying oft at home? Why hate we all
Immur’d to sit alone, and start at crickets!
’Tis scenes of polished life which prompt our longings,
’Tis Fashion’s self, that points out public places,
And intimates _Bon Ton_ to well-bred females.
_Bon Ton_, thou heart-reviving, pleasing thought!
Thro’ what variety of frolic parties;
Thro’ what bright scenes and changes may we pass;
The brilliant masquerade lies straight before me,
But gods and milk-maids, clowns and demons throng it.――
Here will I hold――if there’s a Queen of Fashion,
(And that there is, each milliner declares
In every cap you buy!) she must love gadding,
And that which she approves the great must follow.
But when or where!――Cits go to the Pantheon!
I cannot make decision; this must close it.

(_Laying her hand on the Purse._)

Thus am I doubly arm’d; my cash and trappings,
Money and Domino are both before me;――
_This_, in a moment, purchases a ticket:
But _this_ informs me I shan’t be much spoke to.
The _Belle_, secure in Indian princess’ robes,
Smiles at the Domino as ’neath her notice!
Colours shall fade; new Irish steps grow old
With lapse of time; ev’n laced Pellice be scorn’d,
But _Diamonds_ still shall flourish and attract,
Unchang’d amid the varyings of caprice,
The coiffure powder’d, or the natural wig!

From _Poems_, by John Peter Roberdeau. Chichester. 1803.

――――

LADY TOWNLEY’S SOLILOQUY.

It must be so――great Hoyle, thou counsell’st well;
Else whence this anxious hope, this thirst of gain,
This longing after Faro, Whist, Quadrille?
But whence this secret dread, and inward horror
Of staking all I’m worth? Why shrinks my soul?
Does Reason’s secret impulse strive to shake
My firm resolve of going to a drum!
No:――’Tis last night’s ill run at which I start;
’Tis want of gold that dictates stay at home,
And intimates ’twere better not to play.
Must I not play? Oh, serious hated thought!
From what variety of pleasing hopes,
From what gay scenes of joy, would’st thou exclude me,
And tempt my steps to tread Discretion’s paths?
The wild, the dreary prospect lies before me,
And none but prudent fools can rest upon it.
Here I will hold: if there is chance at play,
(And that there is, Hoyle proves in every line,
Through all his works) I yet may be successful;
And if successful, then I must be happy.
But when, or where?――Home has no charms for me――
I’m weary of conjectures.――Bring me my jewels.

(_To her maid._)

Thus am I doubly arm’d; jewels and gold,
My purse and casket, now are both before me:
This, in a moment, may perchance be lost;
But this insures me credit for a week.
My heart elate, depending on good fortune,
Smiles at _Sans prendre_, and defies Codille.
The stars shall fade away, the tapers waste,
Morning appear, my husband wake alone;
But I shall flourish heroine at play,
Unhurt by fears of war with France or Spain,
Prussia’s defeat, or Brunswick’s overthrow.

――――

Another parody has _Love_ instead of _Play_ as the leading idea:――

“Ovid, it must be so――thou reason’st well;
Else whence this pleasing pain――these tender doubts――
This longing after something unpossess’t?”
Etc., etc., etc.

A long political parody of the Senate scene in “Cato” appeared in _Figaro in London_, December 14, 1833, with an illustration by Robert Seymour. It dealt with William IV. and his Ministers, and has no present interest whatever.

An imitation of Addison’s prose writings may be found in _Posthumous Parodies_ (London, 1814), it is entitled “A Prefatory Paper, by the Shade of Mr. Addison,” and describes the characteristics of the various authors whose works are parodied in the volume.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

BORN, 1720. | DIED, 1756.

ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

When Music, heavenly maid! was young.
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse’s painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
’Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each――for madness ruled the hour――
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woful measures wan Despair,
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
’Twas sad by fits, by starts ’twas wild.

* * * * *

But oh! how altered was its sprightly tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter’s call, to Fawn and Dryad known;
The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste eyed Queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,
And Sport leaped up and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe’s Vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing:
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

* * * * *
――――

About 1800 a satirical parody on this Ode was published anonymously, of which unfortunately no copy can now be traced. It contained the following lines:――

ODE TO THE PASSIONS.

“Revenge impatient rose;
He threw his boxing gloves in haste away,
And, with a knowing look,
A set of Scottish bagpipes took,
And blew a strain so full of fears,
The very Passions melt in tears.
(Tears! such as you’ve heard Shakespeare say,
A Bagpipe’s drone WILL bring away.)
And ever and anon he’d hum
The Giant’s Song of Fe Fa Fum.

* * * * *

The most complete parody is however to be found in _Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces_, published anonymously in London in 1814. Unfortunately it deals with the politics and politicians of the day, and many of the allusions are of no general interest at the present time, so that only a few extracts need be quoted:

THE ASPIRANTS:
_An Ode for Music_.

When George our Prince, first sway’d the land,
While yet Restriction cramp’d his hand,
Aspirants oft, with smiles and bows,
Throng’d the door of Carlton House,
Expecting, hinting, praying, striving,
To get the reins, and shew their driving.
By turns they found the Princely mind
Disturb’d or calm, displeased or kind,
Till once, ’tis said, when one and all
Met impatient in his hall,
From a music room beyond
They snatch’d the instruments of sound;
And, having heard, perhaps, at school,
How fiddling Orpheus rose to rule,
Each, for Madness ruled the hour,
Would tempt the self-same path to pow’r.

First fiddle Grenville needs must try,――
And strain’d the chords, to make them sure:
Then back recoil’d, he knew not why,
From the unfinish’d _overture_.

Next, Brougham came pushing from behind,
His native bagpipe at his side:
In one rude roar he forced the wind,
And sounded strong, and far, and wide.

The organ fell to Byron’s share,
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil’d:
A solemn, strange, and mingled air!
’Twas sad by fits, by starts ’twas wild

* * * * *

But thou, O Croker, bard of flame,
What was thy prophetic story?
Still it spoke of promised glory,
And bade the lofty hopes at distance hail.
Still would his touch the strain prolong:
And from the fort, the height, the vale,
He call’d on Wellington through all the song;
And as that noble theme he chose,
Britain responsive cheer’d at every close,
And Croker smil’d, well pleas’d, and Britain boasts his fame.

* * * * *

Sheridan came last to trial:
He, with viny crown advancing,[142]
First to the lively pipe his hand address’d;
But soon he saw the soul-awak’ning viol,
Whose tone his nobler judgment loved the best:
While, as his skilful fingers kiss’d the strings,
Wisdom and mirth framed a harmonious round:
Then wisdom gracious smiled, with zone unbound,
And mirth, amid his frolic play,
Beating brisk measure to the jocund lay,
Waved in the Sun his gaily burnished wings.

――――

THE VICTIMS.

When GLO’STER, humpback’d Prince was young,
While yet on fostering breast he hung,
His mind being, like his body, made ill,
The VICES throng’d around his cradle;
Exulting, sneering, grinning, fighting,
They set his early teeth a biting;
By turns they taught the embrio King,
To roar and cry for everything;
Once, while he slept, and all were fired,
Fill’d with fury, rapt, inspir’d
Each fiend prophetic snatch’d a page;
And, as they oft had shewn apart,
Dark lessons of their forceful art,
Each borrow’d from the future hour,
Some victim of the tyrant’s power;
And mutually agreed to pry
Into their darling’s destiny.

First CLARENCE came, his taste to try,
(Near him a Malmsey butt they laid
Who back recoil’d, he knew not why,
Even at the choice himself had made.

Next HENRY’S SON, his eye on fire,
With just reproof the tyrant stings,
One savage blow speaks RICHARD’S ire,
And the youth soars on seraph wings.

In woeful guise of sad despair,
King HENRY mourns his hopes beguil’d,
’Till GLO’STER’S dagger ends his care,
And sends the father to his child.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delusive measure?
Still it whisper’d royal pleasure
To Edward’s son, and promis’d thrones and pow’r.

Still did her voice the cheat prolong,
While their fell uncle in the Tower,
Thought fit to echo the deceitful song,
And where of loyalty the theme she chose
His hypocritic voice was heard at ev’ry close;
And YORK and EDWARD fell into the snare.

And longer had she sung, but with a frown
The Duke impatient rose,
He threw his artful mask in fury down,
And with a withering look,
Of HASTINGS, RIVERS, VAUGHAN and GREY he took
The lives: and bid his hellish agents do
A deed so horrible and dread――
Ne’er were half-stifled shrieks so full of woe,
As when the fell assassins press’d
Against each struggling infant’s breast;
And tho’ some time each dreary pause between,
Dejected pity at their side,
Her soul subduing voice applied:
Still on the couch of innocence they lean,
’Till each strained ball of sight announce the victim’s dead!

Unsteady BUCKINGHAM, whose friendship fixed
The crown on RICHARD, mourns his fallen state;
His cup of death ungrateful Glo’ster mix’d,
And one he cherish’d sells him to his fate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired
The Wife of RICHARD sat retired;
And from her wretched regal seat,
In notes by sorrow render’d sweet,
Pour’d to Prince EDWARD’S shade her plaintive soul;
And deeply grieves that e’er she found,
Like EVE, the soft beguiling sound
Of the keen serpent’s voice, which gently stole
Within her heart, her duty to betray;
When after once or twice refusing,
Oh woman’s weakness! past excusing,
She on the Crook-back threw herself away!

But oh! how alter’d was the mournful tone,
When HARRY RICHMOND, arm’d with title true,
His Baldrick ’cross his shoulder flung,
And, with enliv’ning trumpet, blew
A call to arms that thro’ the island rung!
His claim announcing to the English throne.

ELIZABETH, late EDWARD’S Queen,
With age so gay, and youth so green,
To join his standard soon were seen;
And STANLEY inwardly rejoiced to hear,
And RICE AP THOMAS seized his Cambrian spear.

Last came BOSWORTH’S warlike trial,
RICHARD for his crown advancing;
First to the soldiery some words addressed,
But soon he saw brave HENRY defy all,
(And _fighting_, far than _talking_ he lov’d best).
They might have thought who heard the fray,
That in dark Pandœmonium’s shade,
All Milton’s demons were arrayed;
Such clang of arms and coursers prancing.
While, as at sounding shield the falchion rings,
Death, in his ebon car, drove fiercely round;
And RICHARD’S corse among the slain was found!
And HENRY on that well fought day,
His worth and valour to repay,
Received a crown upborne on Victory’s wings.

Just at this scene young GLO’STER ’woke,
And begg’d, not relishing the joke,
His tutors would so civil be,
As alter the catastrophe.

But that which is decreed by fate,
Must surely happen, soon or late;
And what, as fiction has been stated,
All came to pass, as we’ve related.

From _A Metrical History of England, or Recollections in Rhyme_, by Thomas Dibdin. 2 Vols. London. 1813.

――――

The following parody was written by Mr. C. H. Waring, and although it was first printed 46 years ago, it is only a few months since the author kindly sent permission for it to be included in this collection.

THE SESSIONS.

_An Ode for Music._

When Parliament was fresh and young,
While yet election squibs were sung,
The M. P.’s throng’d to take their seats,
Through London’s country-leading streets,
Exulting, trembling, burning, glowing,
With patriotic zeal o’erflowing,
By turns they felt the teeming mind
To silence forced, to speak inclined;
Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired,
Fill’d with speeches, rapt, inspired,
From the surrounding benches nigh
They strove to catch the Speaker’s eye;
And as they oft had tried apart
Lessons in the forensic art,
Each, as the Speaker ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Dizzy rose his skill to try,
Mid wild abuse bewilder’d stray’d,
Accusing those in places high
Of making statesmanship a trade!

Next * * rush’d――his eye’s clear fire
Told of power that lurk’d within――
In some few words he squashed the liar,
And stripp’d the falsehoods bare and thin.

With woeful measures, poor Joe Hume!
Low plaintive sounds beguiled his soul,
In solemn, strange, and fearful fume,
He summ’d the “tottle of the whole.”

But thou, old boy! with tongue so glib,
What was thy expected pleasure?
Still it cried “Repale’s the measure!”
And bid the friends of Ireland “agitate!”
Still did his tongue that word prolong,
And now deject, and now elate,
He spoke of Erin’s worth, and Erin’s wrong;
And as his eyes and hands uprose,
Each Tory’s finger touch’d the scornful nose,
And Dan O’Connell smiled and waved his Irish “sprig!”

* * * * *

Last came Peel’s ecstatic trial!
With majority advancing,
First to New Tariff laws his lore address’d,
But soon he pourèd from his wrath-full phial
The Income Tax, whose ease he loved the best,
They would have thought who heard his strain
They saw in ancient Rome her saviour stand,
Amid the lyres of the Imperial band,
To the triumphant notes unwearied dancing,
While, as his pearl-white pinions swept the strings,
Joy pranced with fear a wild fantastic round,
Plain were all profits seen, strong chests unbound;
And he amid his frolic play,
As if he would some part repay,
Shook promises by thousands from his wings!

O Parliament! the people aid!
Friend of debtors! wisdom’s shade!
Why now to us, thy worth denied,
Lay’st thou thy ancient strength aside?
As in that old forensic place
You learn’d to body forth with grace!
St. Stephen’s now, alas! for these,
Cannot recall old memories!
Is all thy ancient power dead,
And with that chapel echoes fled?
Arise! as in that olden time,
Warm, energetic, true, sublime!
Thy speeches in that golden age
Fill many a glowing, storied page,
’Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Then an humblest speech could more prevail――
Had more of truth, and patriot rage,
Than all that linger through this age;
E’en all at once together bound,
One inane senseless world of sound!
Oh! bid our modern M.P.’s cease
This war of Party, and in Peace,
Learn to sincerely legislate,
Not for themselves, but for the state.

_Punch._ November 5, 1842.

――――

ODE TO THE FASHIONS.

When Fancy, heavenly maid, was young,
And roved the hills and dales among,
The Fashions, to produce a swell,
Would throng around her magic cell,
Exulting, strutting, almost fainting,
Possessed beyond e’en Planché’s painting,
By turns they showed creative mind
In costumes curiously designed,
When all at once, they all desired,
Each goddess much to be admired.
They from imagination caught,
The wondrous power of Fancy’s thought.
And by that aid sought to impart
The lessons of her graceful art,
And each――for Fashions rule the hour――
Would prove its own delusive power.

First _Ancient Briton_ sought to try
His hand upon the tailoring trade,
And back recoiled――pray don’t ask why――
E’en at the fright himself had made.

A Templar next with eyes on fire,
Looked through a helmet made of chain,
And Fancy cried she’d ne’er desire,
To see such head-dress worn again.

Then came the elongated toe
And hose that made the legs look taper,
With movement that of course was slow,
The wearer couldn’t cut a caper.

But thou, oh hoop, with ruffles grand,
What was thy extended measure,
In which Queen Bess could take her pleasure,
And bade her courtiers keep their distance all?
She scarcely could her train prolong;
It must have awkward been when at a ball,
Especially if there had been a throng.
And when her sweetest dress she chose,
Soft voices from soft men bepraised her clothes,
And she enchanted, smiled, and waved her bright red hair.

And long this Fashion reigned, till with a frown,
The Puritan uprose;
He raised his sword, and thundered at the gown,
And, with determined look,
Ruffling the ruffles, took
A sight; and as he did so said,
That such a bauble from the scene must go.
And ever and anon he beat
The “Devil’s Tattoo” with his feet,
With scarcely any pause whate’er between.
Dejected Cavaliers tried
Their deep vexation all to hide,
As thus the Puritan maintained his mien,
And spoke as though a cold affected his round head.

Then came the Restoration with nought fixed,
Sad proof of what had been the state
Of parties――for then all kinds were mixed――
And now they courted lace to show their Roundhead hate.
With curls turned up beneath the tile,
The wig full bottomed showed its style,
The wearing which, when in the street,
Could surely not have been a treat;
The style passed through three reigns, dating from Anne,
This Brunswick fashion all around,
In circles quite genteel, was found;
Through promenades the hideous head-dress ran,
And e’en the country spots, the histories say,
Found the strange taste diffusing,
Love of wigs ’twas quite amusing;
At length the costume died away.

And now how altered is the Fashion’s tone!
When silks and satin of most brilliant hue
Their show across each shoulder flung,
Their flounces gemmed with ribbons, too,
Had _a distingué_ air when seen upon the young,
A charm that’s in Belgravia well-known,
In _nez retroussé_, or in beauty’s queen,
So that e’en beardless boys are seen
Looking quite sheepish or quite green,
Till exercise gives them a leer,
As love leaps up where Fashion doth appear.

Last came crinoline into the trial;
She, with mighty hoops advancing,
First with flowing flounces it was dressed,
But soon she saw, for beauty quick doth eye all,
That something yet should her fair form invest.
They would have thought, who saw the train,
That it could scarcely be on English maids,
Here, where decorum oft upraids
Our Mabille mode of dancing,
And modesty looks sheepish at such things.
Love raised up mirth on this fantastic round,
Which looked like a balloon just coming to the ground,
’Neath which the ankles made display,
Which, with Balmoral boots, looked very gay
As military heels displayed their rings.

Oh, Fashion, most fantastic maid!
Friend of pleasure, frailty’s aid;
Why, goddess, it can’t be denied
That thou dost many a blemish hide.
But where is now the simple art
That did in ages past impart
A grace, which scarcely now is thine,
Unto the human form divine?
Arise, as in the elder time,
When simple grace was quite sublime:
The triumph of that graceful age,
Display once more upon the page
Of Fashion’s book, _Le Follet_ named,
Through which new fashions are proclaimed.
’Tis said, and I believe the tale,
The simplest dress did more prevail,
Had much more charm folks to engage
Than the strange guise of modern age!
Then bid your vain displays to cease,
Give the simplicity of Greece,
Return us to that simple boast,
That beauty unadorned’s adorned the most.

_The Comic News._ May 21, 1864.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

BORN, 1763. | DIED, 18 Dec., 1855.

Mr. Rogers’s poem _The Pleasures of Memory_, published in 1792, was imitated in a small volume published in 1812, entitled _The Pains of Memory_, a Poem, in two books, by Peregrine Bingham. London, W. Anderson, 1812.

ON A TEAR.

Oh! that the chemist’s magic art
Could crystalize this sacred treasure!
Long should it glitter near my heart!
A secret source of pensive pleasure.

The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Its lustre caught from Chloe’s eye;
Then, trembling left its coral cell――
The spring of Sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of Virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Benign restorer of the soul!
Who ever fly’st to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude controul
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.

The sage’s and the poet’s theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charm’st in Fancy’s idle dream,
In Reason’s philosophic page.

That very law which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.

――――

ON A TEAR.
(_Suggested by the above Poem._)

Oh! that the tailor’s modish art
Could fashion trousers to our measure,
Secure and strong in every part,
A source of inexpensive pleasure!――

I little thought, mistrustless swell,
Whose garments Snip and Shears supply,
That trousers were but made――to sell――
The test of gullibility!

Yet, though these hands had scarce arrayed
In tourist suit my ugly body,
The fabric frail my trust betrayed,
I thought it cloth, but found it shoddy.

What power malignant sent it here?
Vile rent; my peace of mind it drowns,
It proves these flimsy bags were dear,
That only cost me five half-crowns.

Here must I, sorrowing, wait repairs,
And moralize the mournful scene,
My sad refrain, “Tears, hideous tears,
I know, confound them, what they mean!”

Come, _Jane_, with silver finger-sheath,
With thread and needle heal my woes;
Come, armed like Curtius to the teeth,
And bid the yawning chasm close!

_Fun._

ADDENDA.