PART II.

She sat, with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And spake not a word. While a lady speaks There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.

She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) She gave up mending her father's breeks, And let the cat roll in her new chemise.

She sat, with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas.

Her sheep followed her, as their tails did them. (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And this song is considered a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it's what you please.

CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON ('LEWIS CARROLL')

HOW DOTH THE LITTLE CROCODILE

(ISAAC WATTS)

How doth the little crocodile Improve his shining tail, And pour the waters of the Nile On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly spreads his claws, And welcomes little fishes in, With gently smiling jaws!

'TIS THE VOICE OF THE LOBSTER.

(ISAAC WATTS)

'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, 'You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.' As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.

TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE BAT.

(JANE TAYLOR)

Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at! Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky.

YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM.

(SOUTHEY)

'You are old, Father William,' the young man said, 'And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?'

'In my youth,' Father William replied to his son, 'I feared it might injure the brain; But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.'

'You are old,' said the youth, 'as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?'

'In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, 'I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple.'

'You are old,' said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray how did you manage to do it?'

'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life.'

'You are old,' said the youth, 'one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?'

'I have answered three questions, and that is enough,' Said his father; 'don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!'

HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING.

(LONGFELLOW)

In an age of imitation, I can claim no sort of merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Anyone who knows what verse is, with the slightest ear for rhythm, can throw off a composition in the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha.' Having, then, distinctly stated that I challenge no attention, in the following little poem, to its merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader, to confine his criticism to its treatment of the subject.

From his shoulder Hiawatha Took the camera of rosewood, Made of sliding, folding rosewood; Neatly put it all together. In its case it lay compactly, Folded into nearly nothing; But he opened out the hinges, Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, Till it looked all squares and oblongs, Like a complicated figure In the second book of Euclid. This he perched upon a tripod, And the family in order Sat before him for their pictures. Mystic, awful was the process. First a piece of glass he coated With Collodion, and plunged it In a bath of Lunar Caustic Carefully dissolved in water: There he left it certain minutes. Secondly, my Hiawatha Made with cunning hand a mixture Of the acid Pyro-gallic, And of Glacial Acetic, And of Alcohol and water: This developed all the picture. Finally, he fixed each picture With a saturate solution Of a certain salt of Soda-- Chemists call it Hyposulphite. (Very difficult the name is For a metre like the present, But periphrasis has done it.) All the family in order Sat before him for their pictures. Each in turn, as he was taken, Volunteered his own suggestions, His invaluable suggestions. First the Governor, the Father: He suggested velvet curtains Looped about a massy pillar; And the corner of a table, Of a rosewood dining-table. He would hold a scroll of something, Hold it firmly in his left-hand; He would keep his right-hand buried (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; He would contemplate the distance With a look of pensive meaning, As of ducks that die in tempests. Grand, heroic was the notion: Yet the picture failed entirely: Failed, because he moved a little, Moved, because he couldn't help it. Next, his better half took courage; _She_ would have her picture taken: She came dressed beyond description, Dressed in jewels and in satin Far too gorgeous for an empress. Gracefully she sat down sideways, With a simper scarcely human, Holding in her hand a nosegay Rather larger than a cabbage. All the while that she was taking, Still the lady chattered, chattered, Like a monkey in the forest. 'Am I sitting still?' she asked him. 'Is my face enough in profile? Shall I hold the nosegay higher? Will it come into the picture?' And the picture failed completely. Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab: He suggested curves of beauty, Curves pervading all his figure, Which the eye might follow onward, Till they centred in the breast-pin, Centred in the golden breast-pin. He had learnt it all from Ruskin (Author of 'The Stones of Venice,' 'Seven Lamps of Architecture,' 'Modern Painters,' and some others); And perhaps he had not fully Understood his author's meaning; But, whatever was the reason, All was fruitless, as the picture Ended in an utter failure. Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested very little; Only asked if he would take her With her look of 'passive beauty.' Her idea of passive beauty Was a squinting of the left-eye, Was a drooping of the right-eye, Was a smile that went up sideways To the corner of the nostrils. Hiawatha, when she asked him, Took no notice of the question, Looked as if he hadn't heard it; But, when pointedly appealed to, Smiled in his peculiar manner, Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,' Bit his lip and changed the subject. Nor in this was he mistaken, As the picture failed completely. So in turn the other sisters. Last, the youngest son was taken: Very rough and thick his hair was, Very round and red his face was, Very dusty was his jacket, Very fidgetty his manner. And his overbearing sisters Called him names he disapproved of: Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,' Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy,' And, so awful was the picture, In comparison the others Might be thought to have succeeded, To have partially succeeded. Finally my Hiawatha Tumbled all the tribe together, 'Grouped' is not the right expression,) And, as happy chance would have it, Did at last obtain a picture Where the faces all succeeded: Each came out a perfect likeness. Then they joined and all abused it, Unrestrainedly abused it, As 'the worst and ugliest picture They could possibly have dreamed of. Giving one such strange expressions! Sulkiness, conceit, and meanness! Really any one would take us (Any one that did not know us) For the most unpleasant people!' (Hiawatha seemed to think so, Seemed to think it not unlikely.) All together rang their voices, Angry, loud, discordant voices, As of dogs that howl in concert, As of cats that wail in chorus. But my Hiawatha's patience, His politeness and his patience, Unaccountably had vanished, And he left that happy party. Neither did he leave them slowly, With that calm deliberation, That intense deliberation Which photographers aspire to: But he left them in a hurry, Left them in a mighty hurry, Vowing that he would not stand it. Hurriedly he packed his boxes, Hurriedly the porter trundled On a barrow all his boxes; Hurriedly he took his ticket, Hurriedly the train received him: Thus departed Hiawatha.

THE THREE VOICES.

(TENNYSON)

_The First Voice._

With hands tight clenched through matted hair, He crouched in trance of dumb despair: There came a breeze from out the air.

It passed athwart the glooming flat-- It fanned his forehead as he sat-- It lightly bore away his hat,

All to the feet of one who stood Like maid enchanted in a wood, Frowning as darkly as she could.

With huge umbrella, lank and brown, Unerringly she pinned it down, Right through the centre of the crown.

Then, with an aspect cold and grim, Regardless of its battered rim, She took it up and gave it him.

Awhile like one in dreams he stood, Then faltered forth his gratitude, In words just short of being rude:

For it had lost its shape and shine, And it had cost him four-and-nine, And he was going out to dine.

With grave indifference to his speech, Fixing her eyes upon the beach, She said 'Each gives to more than each.'

He could not answer yea or nay: He faltered 'Gifts may pass away.' Yet knew not what he meant to say.

'If that be so,' she straight replied, 'Each heart with each doth coincide. What boots it? For the world is wide.'

And he, not wishing to appear Less wise, said 'This Material Sphere Is but Attributive Idea.'

But when she asked him 'Wherefore so?' He felt his very whiskers glow, And frankly owned 'I do not know.'

While, like broad waves of golden grain. Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane, His colour came and went again.

Pitying his obvious distress, Yet with a tinge of bitterness, She said 'The More exceeds the Less.'

'A truth of such undoubted weight, He urged, 'and so extreme in date, It were superfluous to state.'

Roused into sudden passion, she In tone of cold malignity: 'To others, yes: but not to thee.'

But when she saw him quail and quake, And when he urged 'For pity's sake!' Once more in gentle tone she spake.

'Thought in the mind doth still abide; That is by Intellect supplied, And within that Idea doth hide.

'And he, that yearns the truth to know, Still further inwardly may go, And find Idea from Notion flow.

'And thus the chain, that sages sought, Is to a glorious circle wrought, For Notion hath its source in Thought.'

When he, with racked and whirling brain, Feebly implored her to explain, She simply said it all again.

Wrenched with an agony intense, He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense, And careless of all consequence:

'Mind--I believe--is Essence--Ent-- Abstract--that is--an Accident-- Which we--that is to say--I meant--'

When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed, At length his speech was somewhat hushed, She looked at him, and he was crushed.

It needed not her calm reply: She fixed him with a stony eye, And he could neither fight nor fly,

While she dissected, word by word, His speech, half guessed at and half heard, As might a cat a little bird.

Then, having wholly overthrown His views, and stripped them to the bone, Proceeded to unfold her own.

So passed they on with even pace, Yet gradually one might trace A shadow growing on his face.

_The Second Voice._

They walked beside the wave-worn beach, Her tongue was very apt to teach, And now and then he did beseech

She would abate her dulcet tone, Because the talk was all her own, And he was dull as any drone.

She urged 'No cheese is made of chalk': And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk, Tuned to the footfall of a walk.

Her voice was very full and rich, And, when at length she asked him 'Which?' It mounted to its highest pitch.

He a bewildered answer gave, Drowned in the sullen moaning wave, Lost in the echoes of the cave.

He answered her he knew not what: Like shaft from bow at random shot: He spoke, but she regarded not.

She waited not for his reply, But with a downward leaden eye Went on as if he were not by.

Sound argument and grave defence, Strange questions raised on 'Why?' and 'Whence?' And weighted down with common sense.

'Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss Of other thoughts no thought but this, Harmonious dews of sober bliss?

'What boots it? Shall his fevered eye Through towering nothingness descry The grisly phantom hurry by?

'And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air; See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare And redden in the dusky glare?

'The meadows breathing amber light, The darkness toppling from the height, The feathery train of granite Night?

'Shall he, grown gray among his peers, Through the thick curtain of his tears Catch glimpses of his earlier years,

'And hear the sounds he knew of yore, Old shufflings on the sanded floor, Old knuckles tapping at the door?

'Yet still before him as he flies One pallid form shall ever rise, And, bodying forth in glassy eyes

'The vision of a vanished good, Low peering through the tangled wood, Shall freeze the current of his blood.'

Still from each fact, with skill uncouth And savage rapture, like a tooth She wrenched a slow reluctant truth.

Till, like some silent water-mill, When summer suns have dried the rill, She reached a full stop, and was still.

Dead calm succeeded to the fuss, As when the loaded omnibus Has reached the railway terminus:

When, for the tumult of the street, Is heard the engine's stifled beat, The velvet tread of porters' feet.

With glance that ever sought the ground, She moved her lips without a sound, And every now and then she frowned.

He gazed upon the sleeping sea, And joyed in its tranquillity, And in that silence dead, but she

To muse a little space did seem, Then, like the echo of a dream, Harped back upon her threadbare theme.

Still an attentive ear he lent, But could not fathom what she meant: She was not deep, nor eloquent.

He marked the ripple on the sand: The even swaying of her hand Was all that he could understand.

He left her, and he turned aside: He sat and watched the coming tide Across the shores so newly dried.

He wondered at the waters clear, The breeze that whispered in his ear, The billows heaving far and near;

And why he had so long preferred To hang upon her every word; 'In truth,' he said, 'it was absurd.'

_The Third Voice._

Not long this transport held its place: Within a little moment's space Quick tears were raining down his face.

His heart stood still, aghast with fear; A wordless voice, nor far nor near, He seemed to hear and not to hear.

'Tears kindle not the doubtful spark: If so, why not? Of this remark The bearings are profoundly dark.'

'Her speech,' he said, 'hath caused this pain; Easier I count it to explain The jargon of the howling main,

'Or, stretched beside some sedgy brook, To con, with inexpressive look, An unintelligible book.'

Low spake the voice within his head, In words imagined more than said, Soundless as ghost's intended tread:

'If thou art duller than before, Why quittedst thou the voice of lore? Why not endure, expecting more?'

'Rather than that,' he groaned aghast, 'I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast, Some loathly vampire's rich repast.'

''Twere hard,' it answered, 'themes immense To coop within the narrow fence That rings _thy_ scant intelligence.'

'Not so,' he urged, 'nor once alone: But there was that within her tone Which chilled me to the very bone.

'Her style was anything but clear, And most unpleasantly severe; Her epithets were very queer.

'And yet, so grand were her replies, I could not choose but deem her wise; I did not dare to criticise;

'Nor did I leave her, till she went So deep in tangled argument That all my powers of thought were spent,'

A little whisper inly slid; 'Yet truth is truth: you know you did--' A little wink beneath the lid.

And, sickened with excess of dread, Prone to the dust he bent his head, And lay like one three-quarters dead.

Forth went the whisper like a breeze; Left him amid the wondering trees, Left him by no means at his ease.

Once more he weltered in despair, With hands, through denser-matted hair, More tightly clenched than then they were.

When, bathed in dawn of living red, Majestic frowned the mountain head, 'Tell me my fault,' was all he said.

When, at high noon, the blazing sky Scorched in his head each haggard eye, Then keenest rose his weary cry.

And when at eve the unpitying sun Smiled grimly on the solemn fun, 'Alack,' he sighed, 'what _have_ I done?'

But saddest, darkest was the sight, When the cold grasp of leaden Night Dashed him to earth, and held him tight.

Tortured, unaided, and alone, Thunders were silence to his groan, Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:

'What? Ever thus, in dismal round, Shall Pain and Misery profound Pursue me like a sleepless hound,

'With crimson-dashed and eager jaws, Me, still in ignorance of the cause, Unknowing what I brake of laws?'

The whisper to his ear did seem Like echoed flow of silent stream, Or shadow of forgotten dream;

The whisper trembling in the wind: 'Her fate with thine was intertwined,' So spake it in his inner mind:

'Each orbed on each a baleful star, Each proved the other's blight and bar, Each unto each were best, most far:

'Yea, each to each was worse than foe, Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low, And she, an avalanche of woe.'

BEAUTIFUL SOUP.

(UNCERTAIN)

Beautiful Soup, so rich and green, Waiting in a hot tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop? Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Soo--oop of the e--e--evening, Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

Beautiful Soup! who cares for fish, Game, or any other dish? Who would not give all else for two Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup? Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup? Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Soo--oop of the e--e--evening Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP!

THOMAS HOOD THE YOUNGER.

RAVINGS.

(BY E., A POE-T)

The autumn upon us was rushing, The Parks were deserted and lone-- The streets were unpeopled and lone; My foot through the sere leaves was brushing, That over the pathway were strown-- By the wind in its wanderings strown. I sighed--for my feelings were gushing Round Mnemosyne's porphyry throne, Like lava liquescent lay gushing, And rose to the porphyry throne-- To the filigree footstool were gushing, That stands on the steps of that throne-- On the stolid stone steps of that throne!

I cried--'Shall the winter-leaves fret us?' Oh, turn--we must turn to the fruit, To the freshness and force of the fruit! To the gifts wherewith Autumn has met us-- Her music that never grows mute (That maunders but never grows mute), The tendrils the vine branches net us, The lily, the lettuce, the lute-- The esculent, succulent lettuce, And the languishing lily, and lute;-- Yes;--the lotos-like leaves of the lettuce; Late lily and lingering lute.

Then come--let us fly from the city! Let us travel in orient isles-- In the purple of orient isles-- Oh, bear me--yes, bear me in pity To climes where a sun ever smiles-- Ever smoothly and speciously smiles! Where the swarth-browed Arabian's wild ditty Enhances pyramidal piles: Where his wild, weird, and wonderful ditty Awakens pyramidal piles-- Yes:--his pointless perpetual ditty Perplexes pyramidal piles!

IN MEMORIAM TECHNICAM.

(TENNYSON)

I count it true which sages teach-- That passion sways not with repose, That love, confounding these with those, Is ever welding each with each.

And so when time has ebbed away, Like childish wreaths too lightly held, The song of immemorial eld Shall moan about the belted bay,

Where slant Orion slopes his star To swelter in the rolling seas, Till slowly widening by degrees, The grey climbs upward from afar,

And golden youth and passion stray Along the ridges of the strand-- Not far apart, but hand in hand-- With all the darkness danced away!

THE WEDDING.

('OWEN MEREDITH')

Lady Clara Vere de Vere! I hardly know what I must say, But I'm to be Queen of the May, mother I'm to be Queen of the May! I am half-crazed; I don't feel grave, Let me rave! Whole weeks and months, early and late, To win his love I lay in wait. Oh, the Earl was fair to see, As fair as any man could be:-- The wind is howling in turret and tree!

We two shall be wed to-morrow morn, And I shall be the Lady Clare, And when my marriage morn shall fall I hardly know what I shall wear. But I shan't say 'my life is dreary,' And sadly hang my head, With the remark, 'I'm very weary, And wish that I were dead.'

But on my husband's arm I'll lean, And roundly waste his plenteous gold, Passing the honeymoon serene In that new world which is the old. For down we'll go and take the boat Beside St. Katherine's Docks afloat, Which round about its prow has wrote-- 'The Lady of Shalotter' (Mondays and Thursdays--Captain Foat), Bound for the Dam of Rotter.

(From _Ten Hours, or the Warbling Wag'ner_. BY OWING MERRYTHIEF.)

POETS AND LINNETS.

(BROWNING)

Where'er there's a thistle to feed a linnet And linnets are plenty, thistles rife-- Or an acorn-cup to catch dew-drops in it There's ample promise of further life. Now, mark how we begin it.

For linnets will follow, if linnets are minded, As blows the white-feather parachute; And ships will reel by the tempest blinded-- Aye, ships and shiploads of men to boot! How deep whole fleets you'll find hid.

And we blow the thistle-down hither and thither Forgetful of linnets, and men, and God. The dew! for its want an oak will wither-- By the dull hoof into the dust is trod, And then who strikes the cither?

But thistles were only for donkeys intended, And that donkeys are common enough is clear, And that drop! what a vessel it might have befriended, Does it add any flavour to Glugabib's beer? Well, there's my musing ended.

WALTER WILLIAM SKEAT.

A CLERK THER WAS OF CAUNTEBRIGGE ALSO.

(CHAUCER)

A Clerk ther was of Cauntebrigge also, That unto rowing haddè long y-go. Of thinnè shidès[112] wolde he shippès makè, And he was nat right fat, I undertakè. And whan his ship he wrought had attè fullè, Right gladly by the river wolde he pullè, And eek returne as blythly as he wentè. Him rekkèd nevere that the sonne him brentè,[113] Ne stinted he his cours for reyn ne snowè; It was a joyè for to seen him rowè! Yit was him lever, in his shelves newè, Six oldè textès,[114] clad in greenish hewè, Of Chaucer and his oldè poesyè Than ale, or wyn of Lepe,[115] or Malvoisyè. And therwithal he wex a philosofre; And peyned him to gadren gold in cofre Of sundry folk; and al that he mighte hentè[116] On textès and emprinting he it spentè; And busily gan bokès to purveyè For hem that yeve him wherwith to scoleyè.[117] Of glossaryès took he hede and curè[118]; And when he spyèd had, by aventurè, A word that semèd him or strange or rarè, To henten[119] it anon he noldè sparè,[120] But wolde it on a shrede[121] of paper wrytè, And in a cheste he dide his shredès whytè, And preyèd every man to doon the samè; Swich maner study was to him but gamè. And on this wysè many a yeer he wroughté, Ay storing every shreed that men him broughtè, Til, attè lastè, from the noble pressè Of Clarendoun, at Oxenforde, I gessè, Cam stalking forth the Gretè Dictionárie That no man wel may pinche at[122] ne contrárie. But for to tellen alle his queintè gerès,[123] They wolden occupye wel seven yerès; Therefore I passe as lightly as I may; Ne speke I of his hatte or his array, Ne how his berd by every wind was shakè When as, for hete, his hat he wolde of takè. Souning in[124] Erly English was his spechè, 'And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly techè.'

HENRY SAMBROOKE LEIGH.

ONLY SEVEN.

(A PASTORAL STORY, AFTER WORDSWORTH)

I marvelled why a simple child That lightly draws its breath Should utter groans so very wild, And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone, I asked her why she cried; The damsel answered, with a groan, 'I've got a pain inside.

'I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven;' Said I, 'What is it makes you bad? How many apples have you had?' She answered, 'Only seven!'

'And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?' quoth I. 'Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four, But _they_ were in a pie!'

'If that's the case,' I stammered out, 'Of course you've had eleven;' The maiden answered, with a pout, 'I ain't had more nor seven!'

I wondered hugely what she meant, And said, 'I'm bad at riddles, But I know where little girls are sent For telling tarradiddles.

'Now, if you don't reform,' said I, 'You'll never go to heaven.' But all in vain; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, 'I ain't had more nor seven!'

POSTSCRIPT.

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I'd better call my song, 'Lines after _Ache-inside_.'

CHATEAUX D'ESPAGNE.

(A REMINISCENCE OF 'DAVID GARRICK' AND 'THE BATTLE OF ANDALUSIA.')

(E. A. POE)

Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord Dundreary With his quaint and curious humour set the town in such a roar, With my shilling I stood rapping--only very gently tapping--

For the man in charge was napping--at the money-taker's door. It was Mr. Buckstone's playhouse, where I lingered at the door; Paid half price and nothing more.

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

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

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

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

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

Then I ask'd in quite a tremble--it was useless to dissemble-- 'Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more; Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear'd so sorrow laden In the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door?' Quoth my neighbour, 'Nelly Moore.'

* * * * *

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

ROBERT HENRY NEWELL.

('ORPHEUS C. KERR')

REJECTED NATIONAL ANTHEMS.

I.

(BRYANT)

The sun sinks softly to his evening post, The sun swells grandly to his morning crown; Yet not a star our flag of Heav'n has lost, And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those, New thrones may rise, to totter like the last; But still our country's nobler planet glows While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

II.

(EMERSON)

Source immaterial of material naught, Focus of light infinitesimal, Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought, Of which the abnormal man is decimal.

Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars To the stars blent incipient on our flag, The beam translucent, neutrifying death; And raise to immortality the rag.

III.

(WILLIS)

One hue of our flag is taken From the cheeks of my blushing Pet, And its stars beat time and sparkle Like the studs on her chemisette. Its blue is the ocean shadow That hides in her dreamy eyes, It conquers all men, like her, And still for a Union flies.

IV.

(LONGFELLOW)

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch Over the sea-ribb'd land of the fleet-footed Norsemen, Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens-- Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.

Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner, Wildly he started--for there in the heavens before him Flutter'd and flew the original Star-Spangled Banner.

V.

(WHITTIER)

My native land, thy Puritanic stock Stills finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock, And all thy sons unite in one grand wish-- To keep the virtues of Preservéd Fish.

Preservéd Fish the Deacon stern and true Told our New England what her sons should do, And should they swerve from loyalty and right, Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.

VI.

(HOLMES)

A diagnosis of our hist'ry proves Our native land a land its native loves; Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

To love it more behold, how foreign shores Sink into nothingness beside its stores; Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra-grand-- The 'Boston Common' of Victoria's land.

VII.

(STODDARD)

Behold the flag! Is it not a flag? Deny it, man, if you dare; And midway spread, 'twixt earth and sky, It hangs like a written prayer.

Would impious hand of foe disturb Its memories' holy spell, And blight it with a dew of blood? Ha, tr-r-aitor!!.... It is well.

VIII.

(ALDRICH)

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn The cricket quaintly sings; The emerald pigeon nods his head, And the shad in the river springs, The dainty sunflower hangs its head On the shore of the summer sea; And better far that I were dead, If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, And the cricket that quaintly sings; And the emerald pigeon that nods his head, And the shad that gaily springs. I love the dainty sunflower, too, And Maud with her snowy breast; I love them all;--but I love--I love-- I love my country best.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THE POET AND THE WOODLOUSE

(E. B. BROWNING)

Said a poet to a woodlouse--'Thou art certainly my brother; I discern in thee the markings of the fingers of the Whole; And I recognize, in spite of all the terrene smut and smother, In the colours shaded off thee, the suggestions of a soul.

'Yea,' the poet said, 'I smell thee by some passive divination, I am satisfied with insight of the measure of thine house; What had happened I conjecture, in a blank and rhythmic passion, Had the æons thought of making thee a man, and me a louse.

'The broad lives of upper planets, their absorption and digestion, Food and famine, health and sickness, I can scrutinize and test; Through a shiver of the senses comes a resonance of question, And by proof of balanced answer I decide that I am best.

'Man, the fleshly marvel, alway feels a certain kind of awe stick To the skirts of contemplation, cramped with nympholeptic weight: Feels his faint sense charred and branded by the touch of solar caustic, On the forehead of his spirit feels the footprint of a Fate.'

'Notwithstanding which, O poet,' spake the woodlouse, very blandly, 'I am likewise the created,--I the equipoise of thee; I the particle, the atom, I behold on either hand lie The inane of measured ages that were embryos of me.

'I am fed with intimations, I am clothed with consequences, And the air I breathe is coloured with apocalyptic blush: Ripest-budded odours blossom out of dim chaotic stenches, And the Soul plants spirit-lilies in sick leagues of human slush.

'I am thrilled half cosmically through by cryptophantic surgings, Till the rhythmic hills roar silent through a spongious kind of blee: And earth's soul yawns disembowelled of her pancreatic organs, Like a madrepore if mesmerized, in rapt catalepsy.

'And I sacrifice, a Levite--and I palpitate, a poet;-- Can I close dead ears against the rush and resonance of things? Symbols in me breathe and flicker up the heights of the heroic; Earth's worst spawn, you said, and cursèd me? look! approve me! I have wings.

'Ah, men's poets! men's conventions crust you round and swathe you mist-like, And the world's wheels grind your spirits down the dust ye overtrod: We stand sinlessly stark-naked in effulgence of the Christlight, And our polecat chokes not cherubs; and our skunk smells sweet to God.

'For He grasps the pale Created by some thousand vital handles, Till a Godshine, bluely winnowed through the sieve of thunderstorms, Shimmers up the non-existent round the churning feet of angels; And the atoms of that glory may be seraphs, being worms.

'Friends, your nature underlies us and your pulses overplay us; Ye, with social sores unbandaged, can ye sing right and steer wrong? For the transient cosmic, rooted in imperishable chaos, Must be kneaded into drastics as material for a song.

'Eyes once purged from homebred vapours through humanitarian passion See that monochrome a despot through a democratic prism; Hands that rip the soul up, reeking from divine evisceration, Not with priestlike oil anoint him, but a stronger-smelling chrism.

'Pass, O poet, retransfigured! God, the psychometric rhapsode, Fills with fiery rhythms the silence, stings the dark with stars that blink; All eternities hang round him like an old man's clothes collapsèd, While he makes his mundane music--AND HE WILL NOT STOP, I THINK.'

THE PERSON OF THE HOUSE.

IDYL CCCLXVI. THE KID.

(PATMORE)

My spirit, in the doorway's pause, Fluttered with fancies in my breast; Obsequious to all decent laws, I felt exceedingly distressed. I knew it rude to enter there With Mrs. V. in such a state; And, 'neath a magisterial air, Felt actually indelicate. I knew the nurse began to grin; I turned to greet my Love. Said she-- 'Confound your modesty, come in! --What shall we call the darling, V.?' (There are so many charming names! Girls'--Peg, Moll, Doll, Fan, Kate, Blanche, Bab: Boys'--Mahershalal-hashbaz, James, Luke, Nick, Dick, Mark, Aminadab.)

Lo, as the acorn to the oak, As well-heads to the river's height, As to the chicken the moist yolk, As to high noon the day's first white-- Such is the baby to the man. There, straddling one red arm and leg, Lay my last work, in length a span, Half hatched, and conscious of the egg. A creditable child, I hoped; And half a score of joys to be Through sunny lengths of prospect sloped Smooth to the bland futurity. O, fate surpassing other dooms, O, hope above all wrecks of time! O, light that fills all vanquished glooms, O, silent song o'ermastering rhyme! I covered either little foot, I drew the strings about its waist; Pink as the unshell'd inner fruit, But barely decent, hardly chaste, Its nudity had startled me; But when the petticoats were on, 'I know,' I said; 'its name shall be Paul Cyril Athanasius John.' 'Why,' said my wife, 'the child's a girl.' My brain swooned, sick with failing sense; With all perception in a whirl, How could I tell the difference?

'Nay,' smiled the nurse, 'the child's a boy.' And all my soul was soothed to hear That so it was: then startled Joy Mocked Sorrow with a doubtful tear. And I was glad as one who sees For sensual optics things unmeet: As purity makes passion freeze, So faith warns science off her beat. Blessed are they that have not seen, And yet, not seeing, have believed: To walk by faith, as preached the Dean, And not by sight, have I achieved. Let love, that does not look, believe; Let knowledge, that believes not, look: Truth pins her trust on falsehood's sleeve, While reason blunders by the book. Then Mrs. Prig addressed me thus: 'Sir, if you'll be advised by me, You'll leave the blessed babe to us; It's my belief he wants his tea.'

NEPHELIDIA.

(SWINBURNE)

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat? Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past; Flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death: Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses-- 'Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die.' Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, As they grope through the graveyard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer: Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things; Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.

FRANCIS BRET HARTE.

A GEOLOGICAL MADRIGAL.

(SHENSTONE)

I have found out a sift for my fair; I know where the fossils abound, Where the footprints of _Aves_ declare The birds that once walked on the ground; Oh, come, and--in technical speech-- We'll walk this Devonian shore, Or on some Silurian beach We'll wander, my love, evermore.

I will show thee the sinuous track By the slow-moving annelid made, Or the Trilobite that, farther back, In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid; Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb, The Plesiosaurus embalmed; In his Oolitic prime and his bloom, Iguanodon safe and unharmed!

You wished--I remember it well, And I loved you the more for that wish-- For a perfect cystedian shell, And a _whole_ holocephalic fish. And oh, if Earth's strata contains In its lowest Silurian drift, Or palæozoic remains The same,--'tis your lover's free gift!

Than come, love, and never say nay, But calm all your maidenly fears; We'll note, love, in one summer's day The record of millions of years; And though the Darwinian plan Your sensitive feelings may shock, We'll find the beginning of man,-- Our fossil ancestors, in rock!

MRS. JUDGE JENKINS.

[Being the only genuine sequel to 'Maud Muller.']

(WHITTIER)

Maud Muller all that summer day Raked the meadows sweet with hay;

Yet, looking down the distant lane, She hoped the judge would come again.

But when he came, with smile and bow, Maud only blushed, and stammered, 'Ha-ow?'

And spoke of her 'pa,' and wondered whether He'd give consent they should wed together.

Old Muller burst in tears, and then Begged that the judge would lend him 'ten';

For trade was dull, and wages low, And the 'craps' this year were somewhat slow.

And ere the languid summer died, Sweet Maud became the judge's bride.

But on the day that they were mated Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated;

And Maud's relations, twelve in all, Were very drunk at the judge's hall.

And when the summer came again, The young bride bore him babies twain.

And the judge was blest, but thought it strange That bearing children made such a change:

For Maud grew broad and red and stout: And the waist that his arm once clasped about

Was more than he now could span; and he Sighed as he pondered, ruefully,

How that which in Maud was native grace In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;

And thought of the twins, and wished that they Looked less like the man who raked the hay

On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain Of the day he wandered down the lane,

And, looking down that dreary track, He half regretted that he came back.

For, had he waited, he might have wed Some maiden fair and thoroughbred;

For there be women fair as she, Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.

Alas for maiden! alas for judge! And the sentimental,--that's one-half 'fudge';

For Maud soon thought the judge a bore, With all his learning and all his lore.

And the judge would have bartered Maud's fair face For more refinement and social grace.

If, of all words of tongue and pen, The saddest are, 'It might have been,'

More sad are these we daily see: 'It is, but hadn't ought to be.'

THE WILLOWS.

(POE)

The skies they were ashen and sober, The streets they were dirty and drear; It was night in the month of October, Of my most immemorial year; Like the skies I was perfectly sober, As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,-- At the Nightingale,--perfectly sober, And the willowy woodland, down here.

Here, once in an alley Titanic Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul,-- Of Ten-pins,--with Mary, my soul; They were days when my heart was volcanic, And impelled me to frequently roll, And make me resistlessly roll, Till my ten-strikes created a panic In the realms of the Boreal pole, Till my ten-strikes created a panic With the monkey atop of his pole.

I repeat, I was perfectly sober, But my thoughts they were palsied and sere,-- My thoughts were decidedly queer; For I knew not the month was October, And I marked not the night of the year, I forgot that sweet _morceau_ of Auber That the band oft performed down here, And I mixed the sweet music of Auber With the Nightingale's music by Shear.

And now as the night was senescent, And the star-dials pointed to morn, And car-drivers hinted of morn, At the end of the path a liquescent And bibulous lustre was born; 'Twas made by the bar-keeper present, Who mixéd a duplicate horn,-- His two hands describing a crescent Distinct with a duplicate horn.

And I said: 'This looks perfectly regal, For it's warm, and I know I feel dry,-- I am confident that I feel dry; We have come past the emu and eagle, And watched the gay monkey on high; Let us drink to the emu and eagle,-- To the swan and the monkey on high,-- To the eagle and monkey on high; For this bar-keeper will not inveigle,-- Bully boy with the vitreous eye; He surely would never inveigle,-- Sweet youth with the crystalline eye.'

But Mary, uplifting her finger, Said, 'Sadly this bar I mistrust,-- I fear that this bar does not trust. O hasten! O let us not linger! O fly,--let us fly,--ere we must!' In terror she cried, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,-- In agony sobbed, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,-- Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

Then I pacified Mary and kissed her, And tempted her into the room, And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the end of the vista, But were stopped by the warning of doom,-- By some words that were warning of doom; And I said, 'What is written, sweet sister, At the opposite end of the room?' She sobbed, as she answered, 'All liquors Must be paid for ere leaving the room.'

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober, As the streets were deserted and drear,-- For my pockets were empty and drear; And I cried, 'It was surely October, On this very night of last year, That I journeyed--I journeyed down here,-- That I brought a fair maiden down here, On this night of all nights in the year. Ah! to me that inscription is clear; Well I know now, I'm perfectly sober, Why no longer they credit me here,-- Well I know now that music of Auber, And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear.'

HENRY DUFF TRAILL.

VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ.

(LOCKER-LAMPSON)

There, pay it, James! 'tis cheaply earned; My conscience! how one's cabman charges! But never mind, so I'm returned Safe to my native street of Clarges. I've just an hour for one cigar (What style these Reinas have, and _what_ ash!) One hour to watch the evening star With just one Curaçao-and-potash.

Ah me! that face beneath the leaves And blossoms of its piquant bonnet! Who would have thought that forty thieves Of years had laid their fingers on it! Could you have managed to enchant At Lord's to-day old lovers simple, Had Robber Time not played gallant, And spared you every youthful dimple!

That Robber bold, like courtier Claude, Who danced the gay coranto jesting, By your bright beauty charmed and awed, Has bowed and passed you unmolesting. No feet of many-wintered crows Have traced about your eyes a wrinkle; Your sunny hair has thawed the snows That other heads with silver sprinkle.

I wonder if that pair of gloves I won of you you'll ever pay me! I wonder if our early loves Were wise or foolish, cousin Amy? I wonder if our childish tiff Now seems to you, like me, a blunder! I wonder if you wonder if I ever wonder if you wonder.

I wonder if you'd think it bliss Once more to be the fashion's leader! I wonder if the trick of this Escapes the unsuspecting reader! And as for him who does or can Delight in it, I wonder whether He knows that almost any man Could reel it off by yards together!

I wonder if-- What's that? a knock? Is that you, James? Eh? What? God bless me! How time has flown! It's eight o'clock, And here's my fellow come to dress me. Be quick, or I shall be the guest Whom Lady Mary never pardons; I trust you, James, to do your best To save the soup at Grosvenor Gardens.

FROM 'THE PUSS AND THE BOOTS.'

(BROWNING)

Put case I circumvent and kill him: good. Good riddance--wipes at least from book o' th' world The ugly admiration-note-like blot-- Gives honesty more elbow-room by just The three dimensions of one wicked knave. But then slips in the plaguy After-voice. 'Wicked? Holloa! my friend, whither away So fast? Who made you, Moses-like, a judge And ruler over men to spare or slay? A blot wiped off forsooth! Produce forthwith Credentials of your mission to erase The ink-spots of mankind--t' abolish ill For being what it is, is bound to be, Its nature being so--cut wizards off In flower of their necromantic lives For being wizards, when 'tis plain enough That they have no more wrought their wizardship Than cats their cathood.' Thus the plaguy Voice, Puzzling withal not overmuch, for thus I turn the enemy's flank: 'Meseems, my friend, Your argument's a thought too fine of mesh, And catches what you would not. Every mouse Trapped i' the larder by the kitchen wench Might reason so--but scarcely with effect. Methinks 'twould little serve the captured thief To plead, "The fault's Dame Nature's, guiltless I. Am I to blame that in the parcelling-out Of my ingredients the Great Chemist set Just so much here, there so much, and no more (Since 'tis but question, after all is said, Of mere proportion 'twixt the part that feels And that which guides), so much proclivity To nightly cupboard-breaking, so much lust Of bacon-scraps, such tendency to think Old Stilton-rind the noblest thing on earth? Then the _per contra_--so much power to choose The right and shun the wrong; so much of force Of uncorrupted will to stoutly bar The sensory inlets of the murine soul, And, when by night the floating rare-bit fume Lures like a siren's song, stop nostrils fast With more than Odusseian sailor-wax: Lastly so much of wholesome fear of trap To keep self-abnegation sweet. Then comes The hour of trial, when lo! the suadent scale Sinks instant, the deterrent kicks the beam, The heavier falls, the lighter mounts (as much A thing of law with motives as with plums), And I, forsooth, must die simply because Dame Nature, having chosen so to load The dishes, did not choose suspend for me The gravitation of the moral world." How would the kitchen-wench reply? Why thus (If given, as scullions use, to logic-fence And keen retorsion of dilemmata In speeches of a hundred lines or so): "Grant your plea valid. Good. There's mine to hear. 'Twas Nature made you? well: and me, no less; You she by forces past your own control Made a cheese-stealer? Be it so: of me By forces as resistless and her own She made a mouse-killer. Thus, either plays A rôle in no wise chosen of himself, But takes what part the great Stage Manager Cast him for, when, the play was set afoot. Remains we act ours--without private spite, But still with spirit and fidelity, As fits good actors: you I blame no whit For nibbling cheese--simply I throw you down Unblamed--nay, even morally assoiled, To pussy there: blame thou not me for that." Or say perhaps the girl is slow of wit, Something inapt at ethics--why, then thus. "Enough of prating, little thief! This talk Of 'fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,' Is hugely out of place! What next indeed, If all the casuistry of the schools Be prayed in aid by every pilfering mouse That's caught i' th' trap? See here, my thieving friend, Thus I resolve the problem. We prefer To keep our cheeses for our own behoof, And eat them with our proper jaws; and so, Having command of mouse-traps, we will catch Whatever mice we can, and promptly kill Whatever mice we catch. _Entendez vous?_ Aye, and we _will_, though all the mice on earth Pass indignation votes, obtest the faith Of gods and men, and make the welkin ring With world-resounding dissonance of squeak!"'

But hist! here comes my wizard! Ready then My nerves--and talons--for the trial of strength! A stout heart, feline cunning, and--who knows?

AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI.

(ROSSETTI)

'Why do you wear your hair like a man, Sister Helen? This week is the third since you began.' 'I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can, Little brother. (_O Mother Carey, mother!_ _What chickens are these between sea and heaven?_)'

'But why does your figure appear so lean, Sister Helen? And why do you dress in sage, sage green?' 'Children should never be heard, if seen, Little brother. (_O Mother Carey, mother!_ _What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!_)'

'But why is your face so yellowy white, Sister Helen? And why are your skirts so funnily tight?' 'Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write, Little brother? (_O Mother Carey, mother!_ _How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!_)'

'And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train, Sister Helen? And why do you call her again and again?' 'You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain, Little brother. (_O Mother Carey, mother!_ _What work is toward in the startled heaven?_)'

'And what's a refrain? What a curious word, Sister Helen! Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?' 'Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd, Little brother. (_O Mother Carey, mother!_ _Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven._)'

(A big brother speaketh:) 'The refrain you've studied a meaning had, Sister Helen! It gave strange force to a weird ballàd. But refrains have become a ridiculous "fad," Little brother. And _Mother Carey, mother_, Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.

'But the finical fashion has had its day, Sister Helen. And let's try in the style of a different lay To bid it adieu in poetical way, Little brother. So, Mother Carey, mother! Collect your chickens and go to--heaven.' (_A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanying himself in a plaintive wise on the triangle:_)

'Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was, I am also called Played-out and Done-to-death, And It-will-wash-no-more. Awakeneth Slowly, but sure awakening it has, The common-sense of man; and I, alas! The ballad-burden trick, now known too well, Am turned to scorn, and grown contemptible-- A too transparent artifice to pass.

'What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dart Tin-kettled through the streets in wild surprise Assail judicious ears not otherwise; And yet no critics praise the urchin's "art," Who to the wretched creature's caudal part Its foolish empty-jingling "burden" ties.'

ANDREW LANG.

'OH, NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER.'

(ROSSETTI)

Love spake to me and said: 'O lips, be mute; Let that one name be dead, That memory flown and fled, Untouched that lute! Go forth,' said Love, 'with willow in thy hand, And in thy hair Dead blossoms wear, Blown from the sunless land.

'Go forth,' said Love; 'thou never more shalt see Her shadow, glimmer by the trysting tree; But _she_ is glad, With roses crowned and clad, Who hath forgotten thee!' But I made answer: 'Love! Tell me no more thereof, For she has drunk of that same cup as I. Yea, though her eyes be dry, She garners there for me Tears salter than the sea, Even till the day she die.' So gave I Love the lie.

BALLADE OF CRICKET.

TO T. W. LANG.

(SWINBURNE)

The burden of hard hitting: slog away! Here shalt thou make a 'five' and there a 'four,' And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say, That thou art in for an uncommon score. Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar, And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire, When lo, the Umpire gives thee 'leg before,'-- 'This is the end of every man's desire!'

The burden of much bowling, when the stay Of all thy team is 'collared,' swift or slower, When 'bailers' break not in their wonted way, And 'yorkers' come not off as here-to-fore, When length balls shoot no more, ah never more, When all deliveries lose their former fire, When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,-- 'This is the end of every man's desire!'

The burden of long fielding, when the clay Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour, And running still thou stumblest, or the ray Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore. And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore, Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a 'skyer,' And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,-- 'This is the end of every man's desire!'

ENVOY.

Alas, yet liefer on Youth's hither shore Would I be some poor Player on scant hire, Than King among the old, who play no more,-- '_This_ is the end of every man's desire!'

BRAHMA.

(EMERSON)

If the wild bowler thinks he bowls, Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled, They know not, poor misguided souls, They, too, shall perish unconsoled. _I_ am the batsman and the bat, _I_ am the bowler and the ball, The umpire, the pavilion cat, The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all.

THE PALACE OF BRIC-À-BRAC.

(SWINBURNE)

Here, where old Nankin glitters, Here, where men's tumult seems As faint as feeble twitters Of sparrows heard in dreams, We watch Limoges enamel, An old chased silver camel, A shawl, the gift of Schamyl, And manuscripts in reams.

Here, where the hawthorn pattern On flawless cup and plate Need fear no housemaid slattern, Fell minister of fate, 'Mid webs divinely woven, And helms and hauberks cloven, On music of Beethoven We dream and meditate.

We know not, and we need not To know how mortals fare, Of Bills that pass, or speed not, Time finds us unaware, Yea, creeds and codes may crumble, And Dilke and Gladstone stumble. And eat the pie that's humble, We neither know nor care!

Can kings or clergies alter The crackle on one plate? Can creeds or systems palter With what is truly great? With Corots and with Millets, With April daffodillies, Or make the maiden lilies Bloom early or bloom late?

Nay, here 'midst Rhodian roses, 'Midst tissues of Cashmere, The Soul sublime reposes, And knows not hope nor fear; Here all she sees her own is, And musical her moan is, O'er Caxtons and Bodonis, Aldine and Elzevir!

'GAILY THE TROUBADOUR.'

(MORRIS)

Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might, _Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_ Soldans seven hath he slain in fight, _Honneur à la belle Isoline!_

Sir Ralph he rideth in riven mail, _Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_ Beneath his nasal is his dark face pale, _Honneur à la belle Isoline!_

His eyes they blaze as the burning coal, _Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_ He smiteth a stave on his gold citole, _'Honneur à la belle Isoline!'_

From her mangonel she looketh forth, _Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_ 'Who is he spurreth so late to the north?' _Honneur à la belle Isoline!_

Hark! for he speaketh a knightly name, _Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_ And her wan cheek glows as a burning flame, _Honneur à la belle Isoline!_

For Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might, _Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_ And his love shall ungirdle his sword to-night, _Honneur à la belle Isoline!_

ARTHUR CLEMENT HILTON.

THE VULTURE AND THE HUSBANDMAN.

BY LOUISA CAROLINE.

('LEWIS CARROLL')

N.B.--A _Vulture_ is a rapacious and obscene bird, which destroys its prey by _plucking_ it limb from limb with its powerful beak and talons.

A _Husbandman_ is a man in a low position of life, who supports himself by the use of the _plough_.--_Johnson's Dictionary._

The rain was raining cheerfully, As if it had been May; The Senate-House appeared inside Unusually gay; And this was strange, because it was A Viva-Voce day.

The men were sitting sulkily, Their paper work was done; They wanted much to go away To ride or row or run; 'It's very rude,' they said, 'to keep Us here, and spoil our fun.'

The papers they had finished lay In piles of blue and white. They answered everything they could, And wrote with all their might, But, though they wrote it all by rote, They did not write it right.

The Vulture and the Husbandman Beside these piles did stand, They wept like anything to see The work they had in hand, 'If this were only finished up,' Said they, 'it would be grand!'

'If seven D's or seven C's We give to all the crowd, Do you suppose,' the Vulture said, 'That we could get them ploughed?' 'I think so,' said the Husbandman, 'But pray don't talk so loud.'

'O undergraduates, come up,' The Vulture did beseech, 'And let us see if you can learn As well as we can teach; We cannot do with more than two To have a word with each.'

Two Undergraduates came up, And slowly took a seat, They knit their brows, and bit their thumbs, As if they found them sweet, And this was odd, because you know Thumbs are not good to eat.

'The time has come,' the Vulture said, 'To talk of many things, Of Accidence and Adjectives, And names of Jewish kings, How many notes a sackbut has, And whether shawms have strings.'

'Please, sir,' the Undergraduates said, Turning a little blue, 'We did not know that was the sort Of thing we had to do.' 'We thank you much,' the Vulture said, 'Send up another two.'

Two more came up, and then two more; And more, and more, and more; And some looked upwards at the roof, Some down upon the floor, But none were any wiser than The pair that went before.

'I weep for you,' the Vulture said, 'I deeply sympathize!' With sobs and tears he gave them all D's of the largest size, While at the Husbandman he winked One of his streaming eyes.

'I think,' observed the Husbandman, 'We're getting on too quick. Are we not putting down the D's A little bit too thick?' The Vulture said with much disgust 'Their answers make me sick.'

'Now, Undergraduates,' he cried, 'Our fun is nearly done, Will anybody else come up?' But answer came there none; And this was scarcely odd, because They'd ploughed them every one!

THE HEATHEN PASS-EE.

BEING THE STORY OF A PASS EXAMINATION. BY BRED HARD.

(BRET HARTE)

Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for plots that are dark And not always in vain, The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar, And the same I would rise to explain.

I would also premise That the term of Pass-ee Most fitly applies, As you probably see, To one whose vocation is passing The 'ordinary B.A. degree.'

Tom Crib was his name. And I shall not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply, But his face it was trustful and childlike, And he had the most innocent eye.

Upon April the First The Little-Go fell, And that was the worst Of the gentleman's sell, For he fooled the Examining Body In a way I'm reluctant to tell.

The candidates came And Tom Crib soon appeared; It was Euclid. The same Was 'the subject he feared,' But he smiled as he sat by the table With a smile that was wary and weird.

Yet he did what he could, And the papers he showed Were remarkably good, And his countenance glowed With pride when I met him soon after As he walked down the Trumpington Road.

We did not find him out, Which I bitterly grieve, For I've not the least doubt That he'd placed up his sleeve Mr. Todhunter's excellent Euclid, The same with intent to deceive.

But I shall not forget How the next day at two A stiff paper was set By Examiner U... On Euripides' tragedy, Bacchae. A subject Tom 'partially knew.'

But the knowledge displayed By that heathen Pass-ee, And the answers he made Were quite frightful to see, For he rapidly floored the whole paper By about twenty minutes to three.

Then I looked up at U... And he gazed upon me. I observed, 'This won't do.' He replied, 'Goodness me! We are fooled by this artful young person,' And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee.

The scene that ensued Was disgraceful to view, For the floor it was strewed With a tolerable few Of the 'tips' that Tom Crib had been hiding For the 'subject he partially knew.'

On the cuff of his shirt He had managed to get What we hoped had been dirt, But which proved, I regret, To be notes on the rise of the Drama, A question invariably set.

In his various coats We proceeded to seek, Where we found sundry notes And--with sorrow I speak-- One of Bohn's publications, so useful To the student of Latin or Greek.

In the crown of his cap Were the Furies and Fates, And a delicate map Of the Dorian States, And we found in his palms which were hollow, What are frequent in palms,--that is dates.

Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for plots that are dark And not always in vain, The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar, Which the same I am free to maintain.

OCTOPUS.[125]

BY ALGERNON CHARLES SIN-BURN.

(SWINBURNE)

Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed, Whence camest to dazzle our eyes? With thy bosom bespangled and banded With the hues of the seas and the skies; Is thy home European or Asian, O mystical monster marine? Part molluscous and partly crustacean, Betwixt and between.

Wast thou born to the sound of sea-trumpets? Hast thou eaten and drunk to excess Of the sponges--thy muffins and crumpets, Of the seaweed--thy mustard and cress? Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral, Remote from reproof or restraint? Art thou innocent, art thou immoral, Sinburnian or Saint?

Lithe limbs, curling free, as a creeper That creeps in a desolate place, To enrol and envelop the sleeper In a silent and stealthy embrace, Cruel beak craning forward to bite us, Our juices to drain and to drink, Or to whelm us in waves of Cocytus, Indelible ink!

O breast, that 'twere rapture to writhe on! O arms 'twere delicious to feel Clinging close with the crush of the Python, When she maketh her murderous meal! In thy eight-fold embraces enfolden, Let our empty existence escape; Give us death that is glorious and golden, Crushed all out of shape!

Ah! thy red lips, lascivious and luscious, With death in their amorous kiss! Cling round us, and clasp us, and crush us, With bitings of agonized bliss; We are sick with the poison of pleasure, Dispense us the potion of pain; Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure And bite us again!

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER.

HOME, SWEET HOME, WITH VARIATIONS.

BEING SUGGESTIONS OF THE VARIOUS STYLES IN WHICH AN OLD THEME MIGHT HAVE BEEN TREATED BY CERTAIN METRICAL COMPOSERS.

FANTASIA.

I.

THE ORIGINAL THEME, AS JOHN HOWARD PAYNE WROTE IT:

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere. Home, Home! Sweet, Sweet Home! There's no place like Home!

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain! Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! The birds singing gaily that came at my call! Give me them! and the peace of mind dearer than all. Home, Home! Sweet, Sweet Home! There's no place like Home!

II.

AS ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE MIGHT HAVE WRAPPED IT UP IN VARIATIONS:

[_'Mid pleasures and palaces_--]

As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of brine that is drifted Hither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze, Though we wander on gusts of a god's breath shaken and shifted, The salt of us stings, and is sore for the sobbing seas. For home's sake hungry at heart, we sicken in pillared porches Of bliss, made sick for a life that is barren of bliss, For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that sears not nor scorches, Nor elsewhere than this.

[_An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain_--]

For here we know shall no gold thing glisten, No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine; Nor Love lower never an ear to listen To words that work in the heart like wine. What time we are set from our land apart, For pain of passion and hunger of heart, Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen, Or sing at the Cytherean's shrine.

[VARIATION: _An exile from home_--]

Whether with him whose head Of gods is honourèd, With song made splendent in the sight of men-- Whose heart most sweetly stout, From ravished France cast out, Being firstly hers, was hers most wholly then-- Or where on shining seas like wine The dove's wings draw the drooping Erycine.

[_Give me my lowly thatched cottage_--]

For Joy finds Love grow bitter, And spreads his wings to quit her, At thought of birds that twitter Beneath the roof-tree's straw-- Of birds that come for calling, No fear or fright appalling, When dews of dusk are falling, Or daylight's draperies draw.

[_Give me them, and the peace of mind_--]

Give me these things then back, though the giving Be at cost of earth's garner of gold; There is no life without these worth living, No treasure where these are not told. For the heart give the hope that it knows not, Give the balm for the burn of the breast-- For the soul and the mind that repose not, O, give us a rest!

III.

AS MR. FRANCIS BRET HARTE MIGHT HAVE WOVEN IT INTO A TOUCHING TALE OF A WESTERN GENTLEMAN IN A RED SHIRT:

Brown o' San Juan, Stranger, I'm Brown. Come up this mornin' from Frisco-- Be'n a-saltin' my specie-stacks down.

Be'n a-knockin' around, Fer a man from San Juan, Putty consid'able frequent-- Jes' catch onter that streak o' the dawn!

Right thar lies my home-- Right thar in the red-- I could slop over, stranger, in po'try Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.

Stranger, you freeze to this: there ain't no kinder gin-palace, Nor no variety-show lays over a man's own rancho. Maybe it hain't no style, but the Queen in the Tower o' London Ain't got naathin' I'd swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.

Thar is my ole gal, 'n' the kids, 'n' the rest o' my live stock; Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there's a griddle-cake br'ilin'-- For the two of us, pard--and thar, I allow, the heavens Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.

Stranger, nowhere else I don't take no satisfaction. Gimme my ranch, 'n' them friendly old Shanghai chickens-- I brung the original pair f'm the States in eighteen-'n'-fifty-- Gimme them and the feelin' of solid domestic comfort.

Yer parding, young man-- But this landscape a kind Er flickers--I 'low 'twuz the po'try-- I thought thet my eyes hed gone blind.

* * * * *

Take that pop from my belt! Hi, thar--gimme yer han'-- Or I'll kill myself--Lizzie!--she's left me-- _Gone off with a purtier man!_

Thar, I'll quit--the ole gal An' the kids--run away! I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard-- The griddle-cake's thar, anyway.

IV.

AS AUSTIN DOBSON MIGHT HAVE TRANSLATED IT FROM HORACE, IF IT HAD EVER OCCURRED TO HORACE TO WRITE IT:

RONDEAU.

Palatiis in remotis voluptates Si quæris... FLACCUS, 2. HORATIUS, _Carmina, Lib. V._, 1

At home alone, O Nomades, Although Maecenas' marble frieze Stand not between you and the sky, Nor Persian luxury supply Its rosy surfeit, find ye ease. Tempt not the far Ægean breeze; With home-made wine and books that please, To duns and bores the door deny At home, alone.

Strange joys may lure. Your deities Smile here alone. Oh, give me these: Low eaves, where birds familiar fly, And peace of mind, and, fluttering by, My Lydia's graceful draperies, At home, _alone_.

V.

AS IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN CONSTRUCTED IN 1744, OLIVER GOLDSMITH, AT 19, WRITING THE FIRST STANZA, AND ALEXANDER POPE, AT 52, THE SECOND:

Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise; Lift us from earth, and draw toward the skies! 'Mid mirag'd towers, or meretricious joys, Although we roam, one thought the mind employs: Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome, Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home. There, where affection warms the father's breast, There is the spot of heav'n most surely blest. Howe'er we search, though wandering with the wind Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind, Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know, The light of heav'n upon our dark below.

When from our dearest hope and haven reft, Delight nor dazzles, nor is luxury left, We long, obedient to our nature's law, To see again our hovel thatched with straw: See birds that know our avenaceous store Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar: But, of all hopes the wanderer's soul that share, His pristine peace of mind 's his final prayer.

VI.

AS WALT WHITMAN MIGHT HAVE WRITTEN ALL AROUND IT:

1.

You over there, young man with the guide-book, red-bound, covered flexibly with red linen, Come here, I want to talk with you; I, Walt, the Manhattanese, citizen of these States, call you. Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with oil'd hair; a garlicky look about him generally; him, too, I take in, just as I would a coyote, or a king, or a toad-stool, or a ham-sandwich, or anything or anybody else in the world. Where are you going? You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good time; in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a good time; you want to see Venice. Come with me. I will give you a good time; I will give you all the Venice you want, and most of the Paris. I, Walt, I call to you. I am all on deck! Come and loaf with me! Let me tote you around by your elbow and show you things. You listen to my ophicleide! Home! Home, I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspir'd by the thought of home. Come in!--take a front seat; the jostle of the crowd not minding; there is room enough for all of you. This is my exhibition--it is the greatest show on earth --there is no charge for admission. All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza.

2.

1. The brown-stone house; the father coming home worried from a bad day's business; the wife meets him in the marble-pav'd vestibule; she throws her arms about him; she presses him close to her; she looks him full in the face with affectionate eyes; the frown from his brow disappearing. _Darling, she says, Johnny has fallen down and cut his head; the cook is going away, and the boiler leaks._ 2. The mechanic's dark little third story room, seen in a flash from the Elevated Railway train; the sewing-machine in a corner; the small cook-stove; the whole family eating cabbage around a kerosene lamp; of the clatter and roar and groaning wail of the Elevated train unconscious; of the smell of the cabbage unconscious. Me, passant, in the train, of the cabbage not quite so unconscious. 3. The French flat; the small rooms, all right angles, unindividual; the narrow halls; the gaudy cheap decorations everywhere. The janitor and the cook exchanging compliments up and down the elevator-shaft; the refusal to send up more coal, the solid splash of the water upon his head, the language he sends up the shaft, the triumphant laughter of the cook, to her kitchen retiring. 4. The widow's small house in the suburbs of the city; the widow's boy coming home from his first day down town; he is flushed with happiness and pride; he is no longer a school-boy, he is earning money; he takes on the airs of a man and talks learnedly of business. 5. The room in the third-class boarding-house; the mean little hard-coal fire, the slovenly Irish servant-girl making it, the ashes on the hearth, the faded furniture, the private provender hid away in the closet, the dreary back-yard out the window; the young girl at the glass, with her mouth full of hair-pins, doing up her hair to go downstairs and flirt with the young fellows in the parlour. 6. The kitchen of the old farm-house; the young convict just return'd from prison--it was his first offence, and the judges were lenient to him. He is taking his first meal out of prison; he has been receiv'd back, kiss'd, encourag'd to start again; his lungs, his nostrils expand with the big breaths of free air; with shame, with wonderment, with a trembling joy, his heart too expanding. The old mother busies herself about the table; she has ready for him the dishes he us'd to like; the father sits with his back to them, reading the newspaper, the newspaper shaking and rustling much; the children hang wondering around the prodigal----they have been caution'd: _Do not ask where our Jim has been; only say you are glad to see him_. The elder daughter is there, pale-fac'd, quiet; her young man went back on her four years ago; his folks would not let him marry a convict's sister. She sits by the window, sewing on the children's clothes, the clothes not only patching up; her hunger for children of her own invisibly patching up. The brother looks up; he catches her eye, he fearful, apologetic; she smiles back at him, not reproachfully smiling, with loving pretence of hope smiling --it is too much for him; he buries his face in the folds of the mother's black gown. 7. The best room of the house, on the Sabbath only open'd; the smell of horse-hair furniture and mahogany varnish; the ornaments on the whatnot in the corner; the wax-fruit, dusty, sunken, sagged in, consumptive-looking, under a glass globe; the sealing-wax imitation of coral; the cigar boxes with shells plastered over; the perforated card-board motto. The kitchen; the housewife sprinkling the clothes for the fine ironing to-morrow--it is Third-day night, and the plain things are already iron'd, now in cupboards, in drawers stowed away. The wife waiting for the husband--he is at the tavern, jovial, carousing; she, alone in the kitchen sprinkling clothes--the little red wood clock with peaked top, with pendulum wagging behind a pane of gaily painted glass, strikes twelve. The sound of the husband's voice on the still night air--he is singing: _We won't go home till morning!_ --the wife arising, toward the wood-shed hastily going, stealthily entering, the voice all the time coming nearer, inebriate, chantant. The wood-shed; the club behind the door of the wood-shed; the wife annexing the club; the husband approaching, always inebriate, chantant. The husband passing the door of the wood-shed; the club over his head, now with his head in contact; the sudden cessation of the song; the temperance pledge signed the next morning; the benediction of peace over the domestic foyer temporarily resting.

3.

I sing the soothing influences of home. You, young man, thoughtlessly wandering, with courier, with guide-book wandering, You hearken to the melody of my steam-calliope. Yawp!

JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN.

ODE ON A RETROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

(GRAY)

Ye bigot spires, ye Tory towers, That crown the watery lea, Where grateful science still adores The aristocracy: A happy usher once I strayed Beneath your lofty elm trees' shade, With mind untouched by guilt or woe: But mad ambition made me stray Beyond the round of work and play Wherein we ought to go.

My office was to teach the young Idea how to shoot: But, ah! I joined with eager tongue Political dispute: I ventured humbly to suggest That all things were not for the best Among the Irish peasantry: And finding all the world abuse My simple unpretending views, I thought I'd go and see.

I boldly left the College bounds: Across the sea I went, To probe the economic grounds Of Irish discontent. My constant goings to and fro Excited some alarm; and so Policemen girded up their loins, And, from his innocent pursuits,-- Morose unsympathetic brutes,-- They snatched a fearful Joynes.

Escaped, I speedily returned To teach the boys again: But ah, my spirit inly burned To think on Ireland's pain. Such wrongs must out: and then, you see, My own adventures might not be Uninteresting to my friends: I therefore ventured to prepare A little book, designed with care, To serve these humble ends.

Our stern head-master spoke to me Severely:--'You appear (_Horresco referens_) to be A party pamphleteer. If you _must_ write, let Cæsar's page Or Virgil's poetry engage Your all too numerous leisure hours: But now annihilate and quash This impious philanthropic bosh: Or quit these antique towers.'

It seems that he who dares to write Is all unfit to teach: And literary fame is quite Beyond an usher's reach. I dared imprisonment in vain: The little bantling of my brain I am compelled to sacrifice. The moral, after all, is this:-- That here, where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

A SONNET.

(WORDSWORTH)

Two voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep: And one is of an old half-witted sheep Which bleats articulate monotony, And indicates that two and one are three, That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep: And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes, The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst: At other times--good Lord! I'd rather be Quite unacquainted with the ABC Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

SINCERE FLATTERY OF R. B.

(BROWNING)

Birthdays? yes, in a general way; For the most if not for the best of men: You were born (I suppose) on a certain day: So was I: or perhaps in the night: what then?

Only this: or at least, if more, You must know, not think it, and learn, not speak: There is truth to be found on the unknown shore, And many will find where few will seek.

For many are called and few are chosen, And the few grow many as ages lapse: But when will the many grow few: what dozen Is fused into one by Time's hammer-taps?

A bare brown stone in a babbling brook:-- It was wanton to hurl it there, you say: And the moss, which clung in the sheltered nook (Yet the stream runs cooler), is washed away.

That begs the question: many a prater Thinks such a suggestion a sound 'stop thief!' Which, may I ask, do you think the greater, Sergeant-at-arms or a Robber Chief?

And if it were not so? still you doubt? Ah! yours is a birthday indeed if so. That were something to write a poem about, If one thought a little. I only know.

P.S.

There's a Me Society down at Cambridge, Where my works, _cum notis variorum_, Are talked about; well, I require the same bridge That Euclid took toll at as _Asinorum_:

And, as they have got through several ditties I thought were as stiff as a brick-built wall, I've composed the above, and a stiff one _it_ is, A bridge to stop asses at, once for all.

SINCERE FLATTERY OF W. W. (AMERICANUS).

(WHITMAN)

The clear cool note of the cuckoo which has ousted the legitimate nest-holder, The whistle of the railway guard dispatching the train to the inevitable collision, The maiden's monosyllabic reply to a polysyllabic proposal, The fundamental note of the last trump, which is presumably D natural; All of these are sounds to rejoice in, yea to let your very ribs re-echo with: But better than all of them is the absolutely last chord of the apparently inexhaustible pianoforte player.

TO A. T. M.

(F. W. H. MYERS)

See where the K., in sturdy self-reliance, Thoughtful and placid as a brooding dove, Stands, firmly sucking, in the cause of science, Just such a peppermint as schoolboys love.

Suck, placid K.: the world will be thy debtor; Though thine eyes water and thine heart grow faint, Suck: and the less thou likest it the better; Suck for our sake, and utter no complaint.

Near thee a being, passionate and gentle, Man's latest teacher, wisdom's pioneer, Calmly majestically monumental, Stands: the august Telepathist is here.

Waves of perception, subtle emanations, Thrill through the ether, circulate amain; Delicate soft impalpable sensations, Born of thy palate, quiver in his brain.

Lo! with a voice unspeakably dramatic, Lo! with a gesture singularly fine, He makes at last a lucid and emphatic Statement of what is in that mouth of thine.

He could detect that peppermint's existence, He read its nature in the book of doom; Standing at some considerable distance; Standing, in fact, in quite another room.

Was there a faint impenetrable essence Wafted towards him from the sucking K.? Did some pale ghost inform him of its presence? Or did it happen in some other way?

These are the questions nobody can answer, These are the problems nobody can solve; Only we know that Man is an Advancer: Only we know the Centuries revolve.

FRANCIS THOMPSON.

WAKE! FOR THE RUDDY BALL HAS TAKEN FLIGHT.

(EDWARD FITZGERALD)

I.

Wake! for the Ruddy Ball has taken flight That scatters the slow Wicket of the Night; And the swift Batsman of the Dawn has driven Against the Star-spiked Rails a fiery Smite.

Wake, my Belovèd! take the Bat that clears The sluggish Liver, and Dyspeptics cheers: To-morrow? Why, to-morrow I may be Myself with Hambledon and all its Peers.

To-day a Score of Batsmen brings, you say? Yes, but where leaves the Bats of yesterday? And this same summer day that brings a Knight May take the Grace and Ranjitsinjh away.

Willsher the famed is gone with all his 'throws,' And Alfred's Six-foot Reach where no man knows; And Hornby--that great hitter--his own Son Plays in his place, yet recks not the Red Rose.

And Silver Billy, Fuller Pilch and Small, Alike the pigmy Briggs and Ulyett tall, Have swung their Bats an hour or two before, But none played out the last and silent Ball.

Well, let them Perish! What have we to do With Gilbert Grace the Great, or that Hindu? Let Hirst and Spooner slog them as they list, Or Warren bowl his 'snorter'; care not you!

With me along the Strip of Herbage strown, That is not laid or watered, rolled or sown, Where name of Lord's and Oval is forgot, And peace to Nicholas on his bomb-girt Throne.

A level Wicket, as the Ground allow, A driving Bat, a lively Ball, and thou Before me bowling on the Cricket-Pitch-- O Cricket-pitch were Paradise enow!

II.

I listened where the Grass was shaven small, And heard the Bat that groaned against the Ball: Thou pitchest Here and There, and Left and Right, Nor deem I where the Spot thou next may'st Fall.

Forward I play, and Back, and Left and Right, And overthrown at once, or stay till Night: But this I know, where nothing else I know, The last is Thine, how so the Bat shall smite.

This thing is sure, where nothing else is sure, The boldest Bat may but a Space endure; And he who One or who a Hundred hits Falleth at ending to thy Force or Lure.

Wherefore am I allotted but a Day To taste Delight, and make so brief a stay; For Meed of all my Labour laid aside, Ended alike the Player and the Play?

Behold, there is an Arm behind the Ball, Nor the Bat's Stroke of its own Striking all; And who the Gamesters, to what end the Game, I think thereof our Willing is but small.

Against the Attack and Twist of Circumstance Though I oppose Defence and shifty Glance, What Power gives Nerve to me, and what Assaults,-- This is the Riddle. Let dull bats cry 'Chance.'

Is there a Foe that [domineers] the Ball? And one that Shapes and wields us Willows all? Be patient if Thy Creature in Thy Hand Break, and the so-long-guarded Wicket fall!

Thus spoke the Bat. Perchance a foolish Speech And wooden, for a Bat has straitened Reach: Yet thought I, I had heard Philosophers Prate much on this wise, and aspire to Teach.

Ah, let us take our Stand, and play the Game, But rather for the Cause than for the Fame; Albeit right evil is the Ground, and we Know our Defence thereon will be but lame.

O Love, if thou and I could but Conspire Against this Pitch of Life, so false with Mire, Would we not Doctor it afresh, and then Roll it out smoother to the Bat's Desire?

ROBERT FULLER MURRAY.

THE POET'S HAT.

(TENNYSON)

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He passed through the doorway into the street, A strong wind lifted his hat from his head, And he uttered some words that were far from sweet. And then he started to follow the chase, And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet, It made the people pause in a crowd, And lay odds as to which would beat.

The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat, The errand-boy shouted hooray! The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand, And smiled in a very rude way; And the clergyman thought, 'I have heard many words, But never, until to-day, Did I hear any words that were quite so bad As I heard that young man say.'

A TENNYSONIAN FRAGMENT.

[Inserted by special permission of the Proprietors of _Punch_.]

(TENNYSON)

So in the village inn the poet dwelt. His honey-dew was gone; only the pouch, His cousin's work, her empty labour, left. But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung And lingered all about the broidered flowers. Then came his landlord, saying in broad Scotch 'Smoke plug, mon,' whom he looked at doubtfully. Then came the grocer, saying, 'Hae some twist At tippence,' whom he answered with a qualm.

But when they left him to himself again, Twist, like a fiend's breath from a distant room Diffusing through the passage, crept; the smell Deepening had power upon him, and he mixt His fancies with the billow-lifted bay Of Biscay and the rollings of a ship.

And on that night he made a little song, And called his song 'The Song of Twist and Plug,' And sang it; scarcely could he make or sing.

'Rank is black plug, though smoked in wind and rain; And rank is twist, which gives no end of pain; I know not which is ranker, no, not I.

'Plug, art thou rank? then milder twist must be; Plug, thou art milder: rank is twist to me. O twist, if plug be milder, let me buy.

'Rank twist that seems to make me fade away, Rank plug, that navvies smoke in loveless clay, I know not which is ranker, no, not I.

'I fain would purchase flake, if that could be; I needs must purchase plug, ah, woe is me! Plug and a cutty, a cutty, let me buy.'

ANDREW M'CRIE.

(FROM THE UNPUBLISHED REMAINS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE)

It was many and many a year ago, In a city by the sea, That a man there lived whom I happened to know By the name of Andrew M'Crie; And this man he slept in another room, But ground and had meals with me.

I was an ass and he was an ass, In this city by the sea; But we ground in a way which was more than a grind, I and Andrew M'Crie; In a way that the idle semis next door Declared was shameful to see.

And this was the reason that, one dark night, In this city by the sea, A stone flew in at the window, hitting The milk-jug and Andrew M'Crie. And once some low-bred tertians came, And bore him away from me, And shoved him into a private house Where the people were having tea.

Professors, not half so well up in their work, Went envying him and me-- Yes!--that was the reason, I always thought (And Andrew agreed with me), Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year, Chilling and killing poor Andrew M'Crie.

But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts Of many more famous than he-- Of many more gory than he-- And neither visits to foreign coasts, Nor tonics, can ever set free Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith Of the injured Andrew M'Crie.

For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream, 'Have mercy, Mr. M'Crie!' And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes, And the very first thing they will see, When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls, Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals, With a volume of notes on its knee, Is the spectre of Andrew M'Crie.

UNKNOWN.

THE TOWN LIFE

(ROGERS)

Mine is a house at Notting Hill: The Indian's tum-tum smites my ear; A crowd enjoys a casual 'mill' With no policeman lingering near.

The thief attempts the chain and watch Conspicuous in my spacious vest; Their balls of brass the tumblers catch, In soiled and spangled garments dressed.

Around my steps street-organs bring The dirtiest brats that can be seen; And boys turn wheels, and niggers sing To banjo and to tambourine.

The dustman bawls; the beggars tease When coppers are not duly given; Whilst papers, flowers, and fusees, Annoy me six days out of seven.

FISH HAVE THEIR TIMES TO BITE.

(MRS. HEMANS)

Fish have their times to bite-- The bream in summer, and the trout in spring, What time the hawthorn buds are white, And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering.

The pike bite free when fall The autumn leaves before the north-wind's breath, And tench in June, but there are all-- There are all seasons for the gudgeon's death.

The trout his ambush keeps Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne's eddying pools, And patient still in Marlow deeps For the shy barbel wait expectant fools.

Many the perch but small That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought Like Cookham's pike, but, oh! in all-- Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught.

The old man angles still For roach, and sits red-faced and fills his chair; And perch, the boy expects to kill, And roves and fishes here and fishes there.

The child but three feet tall For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply His bending hazel, but by all-- Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.

ANOTHER ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND

(KINGSLEY)

Hang thee, vile North Easter: Other things may be Very bad to bear with, Nothing equals thee. Grim and grey North Easter, From each Essex-bog, From the Plaistow marshes, Rolling London fog-- 'Tired we are of Summer' Kingsley may declare, I give the assertion Contradiction bare, I, in bed, this morning Felt thee, as I lay: 'There's a vile North Easter Out of doors to-day!' Set the dust clouds blowing Till each face they strike, With the blacks is growing Chimney-sweeper like. Fill our rooms with smoke gusts From the chimney-pipe. Fill our eyes with water, That defies the wipe. Through the draughty passage Whistle loud and high, Making doors and windows Rattle, flap and fly; Mark, that vile North Easter Roaring up the vent, Nipping soul and body, Breeding discontent! Squall, my noisy children; Smoke, my parlour grate; Scold, my shrewish partner; I accept my fate. All is quite in tune with This North Eastern Blast; Who can look for comfort Till this wind be past? If all goes contrary, Who can feel surprise, With this Rude North Easter In his teeth and eyes? It blows much too often. Nine days out of ten, Yet we boast our climate, Like true English men! In their soft South Easters Could I bask at ease, I'd let France and Naples Bully as they please, But while this North Easter In one's teeth is hurled, Liberty seems worth just Nothing in the world. Come, as came our fathers Heralded by thee, Blasting, blighting, burning Out of Normandy. Come and flay and skin us, And dry up our blood-- All to have a Kingsley Swear it does him good!

A GIRTONIAN FUNERAL.

(BROWNING)

The _Academy_ reports that the students of Girton College have dissolved their 'Browning Society,' and expended its remaining funds, two shillings and twopence, upon chocolate creams.

Let us begin and portion out these sweets, Sitting together. Leave we our deep debates, our sage conceits,-- Wherefore? and whether? Thus with a fine that fits the work begun Our labours crowning, For we, in sooth, our duty well have done By Robert Browning. Have we not wrought at essay and critique, Scorning supine ease? Wrestled with clauses crabbed as Bito's Greek, Baffling as Chinese? Out the Inn Album's mystic heart we took, Lucid of soul, and Threaded the mazes of the Ring and Book; Cleared up Childe Roland. We settled Fifine's business--let her be-- (Strangest of lasses;) Watched by the hour some thick-veiled truth to see Where Pippa passes. (Though, dare we own, secure in victors' gains, Ample to shield us? Red Cotton Night-cap Country for our pains Little would yield us.) What then to do? Our culture-feast drag out E'en to satiety? Oft such the fate that findeth, nothing doubt, Such a Society. Oh, the dull meetings! Some one yawns an _aye_, One gapes again a _yea_. We girls determined not to yawn, but buy Chocolate Ménier. Fry's creams are cheap, but Cadbury's excel, (Quick, Maud, for none wait) Nay, now, 'tis Ménier bears away the bell, Sold by the ton-weight. So, with unburdened brains and spirits light, Blithe did we troop hence, All our funds voted for this closing rite,-- Just two-and-two-pence. Do--make in scorn, old Crœsus, proud and glum, Peaked eyebrow lift eye; Put case one stick's a halfpenny; work the sum; Full two and fifty. Off with the twine! who scans each smooth brown slab Yet not supposeth What soft, sweet, cold, pure whiteness, bound in drab. Tooth's bite discloseth? Are they not grand? Why (you may think it odd) Some power alchemic Turns, as we munch, to Zeus-assenting nod Sneers Academic. Till, when one cries, ''Ware hours that fleet like clouds, Time, deft escaper!' We answer bold: 'Leave Time to Dons and Dowds; (Grace, pass the paper) Say, boots it aught to evermore affect Raptures high-flying? Though _we_ choose chocolate, will the world suspect Genius undying?'

NOTES

P. 1. _Rejected Addresses._ First published anonymously in the autumn of 1812. The authors, James Smith (1775-1839) and Horace Smith (1779-1849) were brothers, the former a solicitor, the latter a stockbroker. James wrote a number of 'entertainments' for Charles Mathews, who described him as 'the only man in London who can write good nonsense.' Horace wrote more than a score of novels and collections of stories, of which, perhaps, _Brambletye House_ is the best remembered. It was of him that Shelley wrote, in the _Letter to Maria Gisborne_:

Wit and sense, Virtue and human knowledge; all that might Make this dull world a business of delight, Are all combined in Horace Smith.

How the _Rejected Addresses_ came to be written is told in the authors' prefaces:

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

On the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement appeared in most of the daily papers:--

'_Rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre._

'The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair competition for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of the Theatre, which will take place on the 10th of October next. They have, therefore, thought fit to announce to the public, that they will be glad to receive any such compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the Treasury Office, in Drury Lane, on or before the 10th of September, sealed up; with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, on the cover, corresponding with the inscription on a separate sealed paper, containing the name of the author, which will not be opened unless containing the name of the successful candidate.'

Upon the propriety of this plan, men's minds were, as they usually are upon matters of moment, much divided. Some thought it a fair promise of the future intention of the Committee to abolish that phalanx of authors who usurp the stage, to the exclusion of a large assortment of dramatic talent blushing unseen in the background; while others contended, that the scheme would prevent men of real eminence from descending into an amphitheatre in which all Grub Street (that is to say, all London and Westminster) would be arrayed against them. The event has proved both parties to be in a degree right, and in a degree wrong. One hundred and twelve 'Addresses' have been sent in, each sealed and signed, and mottoed, 'as per order,' some written by men of great, some by men of little, and some by men of no, talent.

Many of the public prints have censured the taste of the Committee, in thus contracting for 'Addresses,' as they would for nails--by the gross; but it is surprising that none should have censured their _temerity_. One hundred and eleven of the 'Addresses' must, of course, be unsuccessful: to each of the authors, thus infallibly classed with the _genus irritabile_, it would be very hard to deny six staunch friends, who consider his the best of all possible 'Addresses,' and whose tongues will be as ready to laud him, as to hiss his adversary. These, with the potent aid of the Bard himself, make seven foes per Address; and thus will be created seven hundred and seventy-seven implacable auditors, prepared to condemn the strains of Apollo himself--a band of adversaries which no prudent manager would think of exasperating.

But, leaving the Committee to encounter the responsibility they have incurred, the public have at least to thank them for ascertaining and establishing one point, which might otherwise have admitted of controversy. When it is considered that many amateur writers have been discouraged from becoming competitors, and that few, if any, of the professional authors can afford to write for nothing, and, of course, have not been candidates for the honorary prize at Drury Lane, we may confidently pronounce that, as far as regards NUMBER, the present is undoubtedly the Augustan age of English poetry. Whether or not this distinction will be extended to the QUALITY of its productions, must be decided at the tribunal of posterity; though the natural anxiety of our authors on this score ought to be considerably diminished when they reflect how few will, in all probability, be had up for judgement.

It is not necessary for the Editor to mention the manner in which he became possessed of this 'fair sample of the present state of poetry in Great Britain.' It was his first intention to publish the whole; but a little reflection convinced him that, by so doing, he might depress the good, without elevating the bad. He has therefore culled what had the appearance of flowers, from what possessed the reality of weeds, and is extremely sorry that, in so doing, he has diminished his collection to twenty-one. Those which he has rejected may possibly make their appearance in a separate volume, or they may be admitted as volunteers in the files of some of the Newspapers; or, at all events, they are sure of being received among the awkward squad of the Magazines. In general, they bear a close resemblance to each other; thirty of them contain extravagant compliments to the immortal Wellington and the indefatigable Whitbread; and, as the last-mentioned gentleman is said to dislike praise in the exact proportion in which he deserves it, these laudatory writers may have been only building a wall against which they might run their own heads.

The Editor here begs leave to advance a few words in behalf of that useful and much abused bird the Phœnix; and in so doing he is biased by no partiality, as he assures the reader he not only never saw one, but (_mirabile dictu!_) never caged one in a simile in the whole course of his life. Not less than sixty-nine of the competitors have invoked the aid of this native of Arabia; but as, from their manner of using him after they had caught him, he does not by any means appear to have been a native of _Arabia Felix_, the Editor has left the proprietors to treat with Mr. Polito, and refused to receive this _rara avis_, or black swan, into the present collection. One exception occurs, in which the admirable treatment of this feathered incombustible, entitles the author to great praise; that address has been preserved, and was thought worthy of taking the lead.

Perhaps the reason why several of the subjoined productions of the MUSÆ LONDINENSES have failed of selection, may be discovered in their being penned in a metre unusual upon occasions of this sort, and in their not being written with that attention to stage effect, the want of which, like want of manners in the concerns of life, is more prejudicial than a deficiency of talent. There is an art of writing for the Theatre, technically called _touch and go_, which is indispensable when we consider the small quantum of patience which so motley an assemblage as a London audience can be expected to afford. All the contributors have been very exact in sending their initials and mottoes. Those belonging to the present collection have been carefully preserved, and each has been affixed to its respective poem. The letters that accompanied the Addresses having been honourably destroyed unopened, it is impossible to state the real authors with any certainty; but the ingenious reader, after comparing the initials with the motto, and both with the poem will form his own conclusions.

We do not anticipate any disapprobation from thus giving publicity to a small portion of the _Rejected Addresses_; for unless we are widely mistaken in assigning the respective authors, the fame of each Individual is established on much too firm a basis to be shaken by so trifling and evanescent a publication as the present:

----neque ego illi detrahere ausim Hærentem capiti multa cum laude coronam.

Of the numerous pieces already sent to the Committee for performance, we have only availed ourselves of three vocal Travesties, which we have selected, not for their merit, but simply for their brevity. Above one hundred spectacles, melodramas, operas, and pantomimes have been transmitted, besides the two first acts of one legitimate comedy. Some of these evince considerable smartness of manual dialogue, and several brilliant repartees of chairs, tables, and other inanimate wits; but the authors seem to have forgotten that in the new Drury Lane the audience can hear as well as see. Of late our theatres have been so constructed, that John Bull has been compelled to have very long ears, or none at all; to keep them dangling about his skull like discarded servants, while his eyes were gazing at piebalds and elephants, or else to stretch them out to an asinine length to catch the congenial sound of braying trumpets. An auricular revolution is, we trust, about to take place; and as many people have been much puzzled to define the meaning of the new era, of which we have heard so much, we venture to pronounce, that as far as regards Drury Lane Theatre, the new era means the reign of ears. If the past affords any pledge for the future, we may confidently expect from the Committee of that House everything that can be accomplished by the union of taste and assiduity.

The text of the _Rejected Addresses_ here given is that of the eighteenth edition with Horace Smith's annotations. The footnotes from the _Edinburgh Review_ were taken from an article by Lord Jeffrey in the number for November, 1812. It may be mentioned that the actual addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Committee are preserved with their covering letters in the Manuscript Department of the British Museum, and that on the immediate success of the Smiths' parodies an enterprising publisher issued a volume of _Genuine Rejected Addresses_ from the forty-three competitors who responded to his appeal for such.

The following is from the Preface to the eighteenth edition:

Our first difficulty, that of selection, was by no means a light one. Some of our most eminent poets, such, for instance, as Rogers and Campbell, presented so much beauty, harmony, and proportion in their writings, both as to style and sentiment, that if we had attempted to caricature them, nobody would have recognized the likeness; and if we had endeavoured to give a servile copy of their manner, it would only have amounted, at best, to a tame and unamusing portrait, which it was not our object to present. Although fully aware that their names would, in the theatrical phrase, have conferred great strength upon our bill, we were reluctantly compelled to forgo them, and to confine ourselves to writers whose style and habit of thought, being more marked and peculiar, was more capable of exaggeration and distortion. To avoid politics and personality, to imitate the turn of mind, as well as the phraseology of our originals, and, at all events, to raise a harmless laugh, were our main objects: in the attainment of which united aims, we were sometimes hurried into extravagance, by attaching much more importance to the last than to the two first. In no instance were we thus betrayed into a greater injustice than in the case of Mr. Wordsworth--the touching sentiment, profound wisdom, and copious harmony of whose loftier writings we left unnoticed, in the desire of burlesquing them; while we pounced upon his popular ballads, and exerted ourselves to push their simplicity into puerility and silliness. With pride and pleasure do we now claim to be ranked among the most ardent admirers of this true poet; and if he himself could see the state of his works, which are ever at our right hand, he would, perhaps, receive the manifest evidences they exhibit of constant reference, and delighted re-perusal, as some sort of _amende honorable_ for the unfairness of which we were guilty, when we were less conversant with the higher inspirations of his muse. To Mr. Coleridge, and others of our originals, we must also do a tardy act of justice, by declaring that our burlesque of their peculiarities, has never blinded us to those beauties and talents which are beyond the reach of all ridicule.

One of us had written a genuine Address for the occasion, which was sent to the Committee, and shared the fate it merited, in being rejected. To swell the bulk, or rather to diminish the tenuity of our little work, we added it to the Imitations; and prefixing the initials of S. T. P. for the purpose of puzzling the critics, were not a little amused, in the sequel, by the many guesses and conjectures into which we had ensnared some of our readers. We could even enjoy the mysticism, qualified as it was by the poor compliment, that our carefully written Address exhibited no 'very prominent trait of absurdity,' when we saw it thus noticed in the _Edinburgh Review_ for November, 1812. 'An Address by S. T. P. we can make nothing of; and professing our ignorance of the author designated by these letters, we can only add, that the Address, though a little affected, and not very full of meaning, has no very prominent trait of absurdity, that we can detect; and might have been adopted and spoken, so far as we can perceive, without any hazard of ridicule. In our simplicity we consider it as a very decent, mellifluous, occasional prologue; and do not understand how it has found its way into its present company.'

Urged forward by hurry, and trusting to chance, two very bad coadjutors in any enterprise, we at length congratulated ourselves on having completed our task in time to have it printed and published by the opening of the theatre. But, alas! our difficulties, so far from being surmounted, seemed only to be beginning. Strangers to the arcana of the bookseller's trade, and unacquainted with their almost invincible objection to single volumes of low price, especially when tendered by writers who have acquired no previous name, we little anticipated that they would refuse to publish our _Rejected Addresses_, even although we asked nothing for the copyright. Such however, proved to be the case. Our manuscript was perused and returned to us by several of the most eminent publishers. Well do we remember betaking ourselves to one of the craft in Bond Street, whom we found in a back parlour, with his gouty leg propped upon a cushion, in spite of which warning he diluted his luncheon with frequent glasses of Madeira. 'What have you already written?' was his first question, an interrogatory to which we had been subjected in almost every instance. 'Nothing by which we can be known.' 'Then I am afraid to undertake the publication.' We presumed timidly to suggest that every writer must have a beginning, and that to refuse to publish for him until he had acquired a name, was to imitate the sapient mother who cautioned her son against going into the water until he could swim. 'An old joke--a regular Joe!' exclaimed our companion, tossing off another bumper. 'Still older than Joe Miller,' was our reply; 'for, if we mistake not, it is the very first anecdote in the facetiæ of Hierocles.' 'Ha, sirs!' resumed the bibliopolist, 'you are learned, are you? So, soh!--Well, leave your manuscript with me; I will look it over to-night, and give you an answer to-morrow.' Punctual as the clock we presented ourselves at his door on the following morning, when our papers were returned to us with the observation--'These trifles are really not deficient in smartness; they are well, vastly well for beginners; but they will never do--never. They would not pay for advertising, and without it I should not sell fifty copies.'

This was discouraging enough. If the most experienced publishers feared to be out of pocket by the work, it was manifest, _a fortiori_, that its writers ran a risk of being still more heavy losers, should they undertake the publication on their own account. We had no objection to raise a laugh at the expense of others; but to do it at our own cost, uncertain as we were to what extent we might be involved, had never entered into our contemplation. In this dilemma, our _Addresses_, now in every sense rejected, might probably have never seen the light, had not some good angel whispered us to betake ourselves to Mr. John Miller, a dramatic publisher, then residing in Bow Street, Covent Garden. No sooner had this gentleman looked over our manuscript, than he immediately offered to take upon himself all the risk of publication, and to give us half the profits, _should there be any_; a liberal proposition, with which we gladly closed. So rapid and decided was its success, at which none were more unfeignedly astonished than its authors, that Mr. Miller advised us to collect some _Imitations of Horace_, which had appeared anonymously in the _Monthly Mirror_, offering to publish them upon the same terms. We did so accordingly; and as new editions of the _Rejected Addresses_ were called for in quick succession, we were shortly enabled to sell our half copyright in the two works to Mr. Miller, for one thousand pounds!! We have entered into this unimportant detail, not to gratify any vanity of our own, but to encourage such literary beginners as may be placed in similar circumstances; as well as to impress upon publishers the propriety of giving more consideration to the possible merit of the works submitted to them, than to the mere magic of a name.

To the credit of the _genus irritabile_ be it recorded, that not one of those whom we had parodied or burlesqued ever betrayed the least soreness on the occasion, or refused to join in the laugh that we had occasioned. With most of them we subsequently formed acquaintanceship; while some honoured us with an intimacy which still continues, where it has not been severed by the rude hand of Death. Alas! it is painful to reflect, that of the twelve writers whom we presumed to imitate, five are now no more; the list of the deceased being unhappily swelled by the most illustrious of all, the _clarum et venerabile nomen_ of Sir Walter Scott! From that distinguished writer, whose transcendent talents were only to be equalled by his virtues and his amiability, we received favours and notice, both public and private, which it will be difficult to forget, because we had not the smallest claim upon his kindness. 'I certainly must have written this myself!' said that fine-tempered man to one of the authors, pointing to the description of the Fire, 'although I forget upon what occasion.' Lydia White, a literary lady, who was prone to feed the lions of the day, invited one of us to dinner; but, recollecting afterwards that William Spencer formed one of the party, wrote to the latter to put him off; telling him that a man was to be at her table whom he 'would not like to meet.' 'Pray who is this whom I should not like to meet?' inquired the poet. 'Oh!' answered the lady, 'one of those men who have made that shameful attack upon you!' 'The very man upon earth I should like to know!' rejoined the lively and careless bard. The two individuals accordingly met, and have continued fast friends, ever since. Lord Byron, too, wrote thus to Mr. Murray from Italy--'Tell him we forgive him, were he twenty times our satirist.'

It may not be amiss to notice, in this place, one criticism of a Leicestershire clergyman, which may be pronounced unique: 'I do not see why they should have been rejected,' observed the matter-of-fact annotator; 'I think some of them very good!'

P. 1. _Loyal Effusion._ By Horace Smith. Fitzgerald (1759?-1829) was a ready versifier who was self-appointed laureate of public events for a number of years. He was especially notable for his persistent recital of patriotic lines at the annual dinners of the Royal Literary Fund. The piece of his which Smith possibly had more particularly in mind was the 'Address to every Loyal Briton on the Threatened Invasion of his Country.'

P. 2. _By Wyatt's trowel._ James Wyatt (1746-1813) was the architect of the rebuilt Drury Lane Theatre.

_Let hoarse Fitzgerald bawl._ Byron (_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_, line 1) wrote 'shall,' not 'let.'

P. 4. _The Baby's Debut._ By James Smith.

P. 6. _the Young Betty mania._ William Henry West Betty (1791-1874) first appeared on the stage in his twelfth year, and retired with a fortune in his seventeenth. Though he occasionally reappeared on the boards in manhood, he never repeated his early success.

P. 7. _An Address without a Phœnix._ This was the genuine address which Horace Smith had sent in for competition (see p. 397).

P. 9. _Cui Bono._ The opening stanza by James, the rest by Horace Smith.

P. 13. _The Tradesman duns._ Originally, 'The plaintiff calls.'

P. 15. _To the Secretary_ and _a Hampshire Farmer_. By James Smith. William Cobbett (1762-1835) became Member of Parliament for Oldham in 1832.

P. 16. _Mr. Whitbread._ Samuel Whitbread (1758-1815), brewer and politician, Member of Parliament for Bedford, was Chairman of the Committee for the rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre.

P. 19. _The Living Lustres._ By Horace Smith.

The following three stanzas were originally included:--between the third and fourth:

Each pillar that opens our stage to the circle is Verdant antique, like Ninon de l'Enclos; I'd ramble from them to the pillars of Hercules, Give me but Rosa wherever I go.

Between the fourth and fifth:

Attun'd to the scene when the pale yellow moon is on Tower and tree they'd look sober and sage. And when they all winked their dear peepers in unison, Night, pitchy night would envelop the stage.

Ah! could I some girl from yon box for her youth pick, I'd love her as long as she blossomed in youth; Oh! white is the ivory case of her toothpick, But when beauty smiles how much whiter the tooth!

P. 21. _The Rebuilding._ By James Smith.

P. 29. _Laura Matilda._ Horace Smith, the author of _Drury's Dirge_, wrote that 'the authors, as in gallantly bound, wish this lady to continue anonymous,' and as a consequence there have been several attempts to pierce the veil of anonymity. One annotator boldly 'assumes the lady to have been' Letitia Elizabeth Landon (1802-1836), who was ten years of age when the _Rejected Addresses_ were published. The motto from _The Baviad_ which stands at the head of the parody is sufficient indication that the original was to be found among the 'Della Cruscans,' whose 'namby-pamby' verses, after appearing in the _World_, were published in two volumes as _The British Album_ in 1790 (see the note on p. 405). The chief lady among those sentimentals was 'Anna Matilda,' otherwise Hannah Cowley (1743-1809), a dramatist of considerable, and a poet of but little, ability. As Mrs. Cowley had died three years before the Addresses were sent in, it is probable either that the parodists did not know of her death or that they merely meant to make fun of the school of which she was a leader. The passage from Gifford's _Baviad_ given by way of motto is taken from that part of the satire in which the writers of _The British Album_ are more particularly castigated.

P. 32. _A Tale of Drury Lane._ By Horace Smith.

P. 38. _Johnson's Ghost._ By Horace Smith.

P. 42. _The Beautiful Incendiary._ By Horace Smith. Spencer's best-remembered work is the tragic ballad of _Beth Gelert_.

P. 46. _Fire and Ale._ By Horace Smith.

P. 49. _Playhouse Musings._ By James Smith.

P. 52. _Drury Lane Hustings._ By James Smith. The 'Pic-Nic Poet,' in parodying the popular songs of the day, seems a very good imitation of the improvisings for which Theodore Hook came to be famous. The description suggests, however, that no particular writer was aimed at in the parody. Both James and Horace Smith had ten years before been contributors to a short-lived magazine entitled the _Pic-Nic_.

P. 54. _Architectural Atoms._ By Horace Smith. Thomas Busby (1755-1838), organist, musical composer, and man of letters. By way of supplement to the authors' note it may be said that the Address printed in the newspapers at the time as that sent in by Dr. Busby, and parodied by Lord Byron (see p. 174), was not the Address actually sent in, for that (preserved in the British Museum) begins:

Ye social Energies! that link mankind In golden bonds--as potent as refined!

Byron used quotation effectively in _Don Juan_, Canto I, ccxxii.:

'Go, little book, from this my solitude! I cast thee on the waters--go thy ways! And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, The world will find thee after many days.' When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood, I can't help putting in my claim to praise-- The four first rhymes are Southey's, every line: For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine! BYRON: _Don Juan_, Canto I., ccxxii.

P. 62. _Theatrical Alarm Bell._ By James Smith. _committee of O.P.'s, etc._ Referring to the tumultuous scenes at Covent Garden Theatre in 1809, when for sixty-seven successive nights there was uproar due to the attempt of the management to raise the prices of admission. Both James and Horace Smith appear to have written verse contributions to the newspaper warfare which accompanied, and served to stimulate, the disturbance in the theatre in favour of Old Prices.

P. 64. _The Theatre._ By James Smith. Spencer, referred to in the footnote, is the writer of society verse parodied in _The Beautiful Incendiary_ (p. 42).

P. 69. _To the Managing Committee, etc._ By James Smith.

_The Hamlet Travestie._ By John Poole. Was published in 1810, and acted at Drury Lane in 1813.

_The Stranger_, translated by Benjamin Thompson from _Menschenhass und Reue_, by August von Kotzebue (1761-1819)--one line is remembered: 'There is another and a better world'--and _George Barnwell_, by George Lillo (1693-1739), based on the ballad in Percy's _Reliques_, were sensational plays that enjoyed considerable popularity in the early part of the nineteenth century.

P. 72. _Mrs. Haller._ One of the principal characters in _The Stranger_.

P. 76. _Punch's Apotheosis._ By Horace Smith. Theodore Hook wrote a number of light plays and farces before he was out of his teens, and was long notable for the way in which he could improvise such false gallop of verses as is parodied in _Punch's Apotheosis_.

P. 82. _Can Bartolozzi's... Could Grignion's._ The work of the engravers, Francesco Bartolozzi (1725-1815) and Charles Grignion (1717-1810), was much in use for sumptuously illustrated books.

_The epic rage of Blackmore._ Sir Richard Blackmore (d. 1729), a physician-poet, who wrote _Prince Arthur, an Heroick Poem_; _Eliza, an Epic Poem_; _Alfred, an Epic Poem_; and various other works which the world has willingly let die.

P. 83. _With Griffiths, Langhorne, Kenrick, etc._ Ralph Griffiths (1720-1803) was founder, proprietor, publisher, and sometime editor of _The Monthly Review_, the contributors to which included John Langhorne (1735-1779), the translator of Plutarch, and William Kenrick (1725?-1779).

P. 86. The first lines are an imitation of Pope's _Dunciad_:

The mighty Mother, and her son, who brings The Smithfield Muses to the ears of Kings, etc.

_Lo! the poor toper_ is imitated from Pope's _Essay on Man_:

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, and hears Him in the wind, etc.

P. 87. _Catherine Fanshawe._ The parody on Gray was sent by Miss Fanshawe to her friend, Miss Berry (one of Walpole's Misses Berry), with a letter purporting to be a letter of thanks to her for permission to read the verses, which, it was pretended, had been sent by Miss Berry, their author, to Miss Fanshawe for approval. The reference to Sydney Smith is to his lectures on 'Moral Philosophy' delivered at the Royal Institution, 1804-1806. Payne was a fashionable milliner of the period.

P. 92. _A Fable._ Dryden's _The Hind and the Panther_:

A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged, Fed on the lawns and in the forest ranged.

_The Course of Time._ Robert Pollok's poem, despite this parody, was so popular that from its first publication in 1827 to 1868 it attained a sale of 78,000 copies.

P. 93. _Canning and Frere._ _The Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin_, 1852 and 1854, has been followed in attributing the authorship of the various parodies to Canning and others. The authority consists of Canning's own copy of the _Anti-Jacobin_, that of Lord Burghersh, that of Wright the publisher, and information given by Upcott.

_Inscription._ Southey's poem was an 'inscription for the apartment in Chepstow Castle where Henry Marten, the regicide, was imprisoned for thirty years.'

For thirty years secluded from mankind, Here Marten linger'd.

It was written in 1795, but Southey excluded it from later editions of his works issued when he was no longer in sympathy with the French Revolution. Mrs. Brownrigg, the wife of a house-painter, was hanged at Tyburn for murder.

P. 94. _The Soldier's Wife._ Southey's _The Soldier's Wife_:

Weary way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart, Travelling painfully over the rugged road; Wild-visaged wanderer! Ah, for thy heavy chance.

Coleridge wrote the third stanza, indicated by asterisks in the second imitation. Southey finally suppressed this poem also.

_Dilworth and Dyche._ A reference to Thomas Dilworth's _Guide to the English Tongue_ (1761) and Thomas Dyche's _Guide to the English Tongue_ (1709).

P. 95. _Sapphics._ Southey's _The Widow_:

Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell; Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked, When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore.

George Tierney was the 'Friend of Humanity.' The original shared the fate of the other two poems in being finally suppressed.

P. 97. _The Loves of the Triangles._ Darwin's _Loves of the Plants_. Frere wrote the first lines to 'And liveried lizards wait upon her call' (p. 99); Ellis from that point to 'Twine round his struggling heart, and bind with endless chain' (p. 101); Canning, Ellis, and Frere were the joint-authors of the portion from 'Thus, happy France' to 'And folds the parent-monarch to her breast' (p. 102), Canning alone being responsible for the following twelve lines; and the trio finished the parody together. As a rule only portions of this masterpiece _sui generis_ have hitherto been reprinted.

P. 104. _Lodi's blood-stained Bridge._ Napoleon beat the Austrians at Lodi on May 10, 1796.

P. 105. _Muir, Ashley, etc._ Thomas Muir (1765-1798) was a Parliamentary reformer; Thomas Paine (1737-1809), author of the _Rights of Man_; Archibald Hamilton Rowan (1751-1834), a prominent United Irishman; Ashley and Barlow evade identification.

P. 107. _Song by Rogero._ _The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement_, was a travesty of German drama, in particular of Schiller's _Robbers_, Kotzebue's _The Stranger_, and Goethe's _Stella_, and it was performed at the Haymarket Theatre in 1811. It is the work of Canning, Ellis, and Frere, but only the first two wrote this 'song' (according to some authorities Pitt is credited with the last verse), having in mind Pitt's friend, Sir Robert Adair, who was educated at Göttingen. The editors of the _Anti-Jacobin_ say: 'The song of Rogero with which the first act concludes is admitted on almost all hands to be in the very first taste, and if no German original is to be found for it, so much the worse for the credit of German literature.' This parody has itself often been parodied--by, among others, R. H. Barham, whose topic was the newly established London University.

P. 109. _James Hogg._ The Ettrick Shepherd's _Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Great Britain_, was published anonymously in 1816, and it is generally admitted that his parodies of style are among the finest in the language. They are, however, overlong, and we have been obliged to be content with the 'song' alone from the parody of Scott, which, complete, would occupy more than seventy pages.

P. 115. _The light-heel'd author of the Isle of Palms._ John Wilson ('Christopher North') who published _The Isle of Palms and other Poems_ in 1812.

P. 124. _Joan I chose._ Southey's _Joan of Arc_ was published in 1796.

_The next, a son, I bred a Mussulman. Thalaba the Destroyer_, 1801.

_A tiny thing... from the north... with vengeful spite_ was probably meant for the _Edinburgh Review_.

P. 125. _My third, a Christian and a warrior true. Madoc_, 1805.

_And next, his brother, a supreme Hindu. The Curse of Kehama_, 1810.

P. 128. _The Curse._ The closing lines are a faithful imitation of 'the Curse' in _The Curse of Kehama_, which ends:

Thou shalt live in thy pain While Kehama shall reign, With a fire in thy heart, And a fire in thy brain; And Sleep shall obey me, And visit thee never And the Curse shall be on thee For ever and ever.

P. 128. _And C--t--e shun thee._ Possibly Cottle, the publisher and friend of Southey.

P. 129. _The Gude Greye Katt._ A parody of Hogg's own narrative, _The Witch of Fyfe_.

P. 142. _Sonnets Attempted, etc._ These appeared originally in the second number of the _Monthly Magazine_ in November, 1797, with the signature of 'Nehemiah Higginbottom.' Coleridge described them as written--

'in ridicule of my own Poems, and Charles Lloyd's and Lamb's, etc., etc., exposing that affectation of unaffectedness, of jumping and misplaced accent in commonplace epithets, flat lines forced into poetry by italics (signifying how well and mouthishly the author would read them), puny pathos, etc., etc. The instances were almost all taken from myself and Lloyd and Lamb.'

The first sonnet, Coleridge said,

had for its object to excite a good-natured laugh at the spirit of doleful egotism and at the recurrence of favourite phrases, with the double object of being at once trite and licentious. The second was on low creeping language and thoughts under the pretence of _simplicity_. [Lamb had written some months earlier, 'Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge.'] The third, the phrases of which were borrowed entirely from my own poems, on the indiscriminate use of elaborate and swelling language and imagery.... So general at that time and so decided was the opinion concerning the characteristic vices of my style that a celebrated physician (now, alas! no more) speaking of me in other respects with his usual kindness to a gentleman who was about to meet me at a dinner-party could not, however, resist giving him a hint not to mention _The House that Jack Built_ in my presence, for that I was as sore as a boil about that sonnet, he not knowing that I was myself the author of it. (_See_ the Oxford Coleridge.)

P. 144. _Amatory Poems._ It is curious that Southey, who had taken offence at Coleridge's sonnet _To Simplicity_, signed 'Nehemiah Higginbottom,' believing it directed against himself, should himself have turned parodist and adopted the similar name of 'Abel Shufflebottom' a couple of years later. Coleridge wrote, so he declared, that he might do the young poets good; Southey, it may be believed, merely to make fun of that band of vain and foolish versifiers who came to be known as 'the Della Cruscans.' Haunters of the book-stalls may yet occasionally light upon two small volumes entitled _The British Album, containing the Poems of Della Crusca, Anna Matilda, Arley, Benedict, the Bard, etc., etc. Which were originally published under the Title of the Poetry of the World, revised and corrected by the Respective Authors_. The second edition was dated 1790, and the work was still current when the brothers Smith gave their Laura Matilda parody in the _Rejected Addresses_ (see p. 29). A few stanzas of one of 'Della Crusca's' poems addressed to 'Anna Matilda' will suffice to indicate the stuff which Southey was satirising:

While the _dear Songstress_ had melodious stole O'er ev'ry sense, and charm'd each nerve to rest, _Thy Bard_ in silent ecstasy of soul, Had strain'd the _dearer Woman_ to his breast.

Or had she said, that _War's the worthiest grave_, He would have felt his proud heart burn the while, Have dar'd, perhaps, to rush among the brave, Have gain'd, perhaps, the glory--of a smile.

And 'tis most true, while Time's relentless hand, With sickly grasp drags _others_ to the tomb, The Soldier scorns to wait the dull command, But springs impatient to a nobler doom.

Tho' on the plain _he_ lies, outstretch'd, and pale, Without one friend his steadfast eyes to close, Yet on his honour'd corse shall many a gale, Waft the moist fragrance of the weeping rose.

O'er that dread spot, the melancholy Moon Shall pause a while, a sadder beam to shed, And starry Night, amidst her awful noon, Sprinkle light dews upon his hallow'd head.

There too the solitary Bird shall swell With long-drawn melody her plaintive throat, While distant echo from responsive cell, Shall oft with fading force return the note.

Such recompense be Valour's due alone! To me, no proffer'd meed must e'er belong. To me, who trod the vale of life unknown, Whose proudest boast was but an idle song.

'Della Crusca,' the chief of the band, was Robert Merry (1755-1798). The 'Della Cruscans' may be said to have been killed by ridicule by Gifford's _Baviad_ and _Maeviad_.

P. 151. _Epicedium._ This appeared originally under the title 'Gone or Going' in Hone's _Table Book_ (1827), and was reprinted by Lamb in his _Album Verses_. It is an echo rather than a close parody of Michael Drayton's _Ballad of Agincourt_, of which the fifth stanza runs:

And for myself (quoth he) This my full rest shall be, England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me. Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me.

P. 153. _Hypochondriacus._ This formed part of some imitations (mostly prose) which Lamb described as _Curious Fragments extracted from a Commonplace Book which belonged to Robert Burton, the famous Author of the Anatomy of Melancholy_ (1801). Though it is parody of matter more than of manner, it has echoes of Burton's _Abstract of Melancholy_, which prefaces the _Anatomy_.

P. 154. _Nonsense Verses._ Here Lamb parodies the sentiment which had inspired his own poem, _Angel Help_, written on a picture showing a girl who had been spinning so long for the support of a bed-ridden mother that she had fallen asleep, while angels were shown finishing her work and watering a lily.

P. 155. _The Numbering of the Clergy._ Sir Charles Hanbury Williams's--

Come, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses, For sweeter sure never girl gave; But why, in the midst of my blisses, Do you ask me how many I'd have?

P. 156. _Peacock._ All these parodies but the last (the Byron) are from Peacock's _Paper Money Lyrics_ published in 1837, but written ten or twelve years earlier 'during the prevalence of an influenza to which the beautiful fabric of paper-credit is periodically subject.'

P. 160. _Prœmium of an Epic._ Southey's _Thalaba the Destroyer_: 'How beautiful is night!'

P. 165. _Song by Mr. Cypress._ The quintessence of Byron as distilled by Peacock into what Swinburne calls 'the two consummate stanzas which utter or exhale the lyric agony of Mr. Cypress.' The lines occur in _Nightmare Abbey_.

P. 166. _The Patriot's Progress._ Shakespeare, _As You Like It_, Act II., Scene 7.

P. 167. _Our Parodies are Ended. The Tempest_, Act. IV., Sc. 1.

P. 167. _Fashion._ Milton's _L'Allegro_.

P. 171. _Verses._ The 'Editor' was Leigh Hunt, editor of the _Examiner_, imprisoned for two years (1814-15) in Surrey Gaol for libelling the Prince Regent. The authorship of this parody is often wrongfully attributed.

_Never hear Mr. Br----m make a speech._ Henry, afterwards Lord, Brougham.

_Law._ Edward Law Baron Ellenborough, Lord Chief Justice.

P. 172. _But Cobbett has got his discharge._ William Cobbett had been imprisoned for two years (1810-12) for his strictures on the Government of the day.

_To Mr. Murray_. John Murray was 'Bookseller to the Admiralty and the Board of Longitude.' He had possessed, and parted with, a share in _Blackwood's Magazine_.

_Strahan, Tonson, Lintot_, the publishers and booksellers of the eighteenth century.

P. 174. _Busby._ Dr. Busby had been one of the unsuccessful writers of an Address for the opening of Drury Lane (see p. 54 and note). The lines and words in inverted commas were from the Address which Busby printed as having been sent in, not from the one that he did send in, which is preserved in the British Museum.

_As if Sir Fretful._ Sir Fretful Plagiary, of course, from Sheridan's _The Critic_.

P. 176. _Margate._ Two stanzas, complete in themselves, from Mr. Peters's story, 'The Bagman's Dog,' in the _Ingoldsby Legends_. Byron's _Childe Harold_, Canto IV.

P. 177. _Not a sous had he got._ Barham notes that during the controversy in 1824 as to the authorship of 'The Burial of Sir John Moore,' a--

claimant started up in the person of a _soi-disant_ 'Dr. Marshall,' who turned out to be a Durham blacksmith and his pretensions a hoax. It was then that a certain 'Doctor Peppercorn' put forth _his_ pretensions, to what he averred was the 'true and original' version--the somewhat vulgar parody reprinted from _The Ingoldsby Legends_.

Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.--Virgil.

I wrote these lines--... owned them--he told stories! THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

P. 178. _The Demolished Farce._ Bayly's own popular song:

Oh no, we never mention her, Her name is never heard.

See also Andrew Lang's parody, p. 353.

P. 179. _Peter Bell the Third._ Mrs. Shelley felt constrained to note that--

nothing personal to the author of _Peter Bell_ is intended in this poem. No man ever admired Wordsworth's poetry more;--he read it perpetually, and taught others to appreciate its beauties.... His idea was that a man gifted, even as transcendently as the author of _Peter Bell_, with the highest qualities of genius, must, if he fostered such errors, be infected with dullness. This poem was written as a warning--not as a narration of reality. He was unacquainted personally with Wordsworth, or with Coleridge (to whom he alludes in the fifth part of the poem), and therefore, I repeat, his poem is purely ideal;--it contains something of criticism on the compositions of those great poets, but nothing injurious to the men themselves.

P. 186. _* * *_ Mr. H. Buxton Forman says: 'All seems to me to point to Eldon as the name left out here.'

(_See_ note to p. 219.)

Byron was less respectful:

There's something in a stupid ass, And something in a heavy dunce, But never since I went to school I heard or saw so damned a fool As William Wordsworth is for once.

And now I've seen so great a fool As William Wordsworth is for once, I really wish that Peter Bell And he who wrote it, were in hell, For writing nonsense for the nonce.

P. 201. _A long poem in blank verse._ This reference in the note is to Wordsworth's _Excursion_, the lines indicated being:

And, verily, the silent creatures made A splendid sight, together thus exposed; Dead--but not sullied or deformed by death, That seemed to pity what he could not spare.