Part 2
But though parodies of this sort are of more serious worth, the other classes show examples quite as good in their own way.
Lewis Carroll’s immortal parody of Southey’s “Father William” is merely a burlesque of the word-rendering type, yet it is perfect of its kind and defies adverse criticism.
Miss Cary was a pioneer of parody in America and one of the few women writers who have done clever work of this sort. Miss Cary’s parodies are numerous and uniformly first-class examples of their kind. They are collected in a small book, now out of print, and are well worth reading.
Of course, parodies which burlesque the actual words of the original are necessarily parodies of some particular poem, and often not so good an imitation of the style of the author.
More difficult than the parody of a particular poem is the imitation or burlesque of the literary style of an author. To accomplish this, the parodist must be himself a master of style, a student of language, and possessed of a power of mimicry with an instant appreciation of opportunities.
“Diversions of the Echo Club,” by Bayard Taylor, are among the best of this class of parodies. Aside from their cleverness they are marked by good taste, fairness, justice, and a true poetic instinct.
Naturally, parodies of literary style are founded on the works of those authors whose individual characteristics invite imitation.
Parody is inevitable where sense is sacrificed to sound, where affectations of speech are evident, or where unwarrantable extravagance of any sort is indulged in. This explains the numerous (and usually worthless) parodies of Walt Whitman.
Swinburne and Browning are often parodied for these (perhaps only apparent) reasons, and the poets of the æsthetic school of course offered especially fine opportunities.
Parodies of Rossetti and his followers are often exceedingly funny, though not at all difficult to write, as the originals both in manner and matter fairly invite absurd incongruities.
Nursery Rhymes seem to find favor with the parodists as themes to work upon. A collection of Mother Goose’s Melodies as they have been reset by clever pens, would be both large and interesting.
The masters of parody, however, are as a rule to be found among the master poets. Thackeray turned his genius to imitative account; Swinburne parodied himself as well as his fellow-poets; Rudyard Kipling has done some of the best parodies in the language, and C. S. Calverley’s burlesques are classics. The work of these writers may be said to be in the third class; for not only do they preserve the diction and style of the author imitated, but they seem to go beyond that, and, assimilating for the moment his very mentality, caricature not only his expressed thoughts but his abstract cerebrations.
It is easy to understand how Swinburne with his facile fancy and wonderful command of words could be among the best parodists. In his “Heptalogia” are long and careful parodies of no less than seven prominent poets, each of which is a masterpiece, and the parody of Browning is especially good. Browning, of course, has always been a tempting mark for the parodists, but though it is easy to imitate his eccentricities superficially, it is only the greater minds that have parodied his subtler peculiarities. Among the best are Calverley’s and Kipling’s.
Kipling’s parodies, written in his early days, and not often to be found in editions of his collected works, rank with the highest. His parody of Swinburne, while going to the very limit of legitimate imitation, is restrained by a powerful hand, and so kept within convincing bounds. The great fault with most parodies of Swinburne is that exaggeration is given play too freely, and the result is merely a meaningless mass of sound. Clever in a different way is Owen Seaman’s parody of Swinburne. Mr. Seaman is one of the most brilliant of modern parodists and his parodies, though long, are perfect in all respects.
Among the most exquisite parodies we have ever read must be counted those of Anthony C. Deane, originally published in various London papers, and Calverley’s works are too well known even to require mention.
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam is often parodied, but rarely worthily. One reason for this lies in the fact that it is not Omar who is parodied at all, but Fitzgerald; consequently, the imitation is merely a form-rendering and more often only lines in the Rubaiyat metre.
Shakespeare, with the exception of one or two of his most hackneyed speeches, is rarely parodied; doubtless owing to the fact that his harmonious work shows no incongruities of matter or manner, and strikes no false notes for the parodists to catch at.
The extent of the domain of parody is vastly larger than is imagined by the average reader, and its already published bibliographies show thousands of collected parodies of varying degrees of merit.
Of all the poets Tennyson has probably been parodied the most; followed closely in this respect by Edgar Allan Poe. After these, Browning, Swinburne, and Walt Whitman; then Moore, Wordsworth, Longfellow, and Thomas Campbell.
Of single poems the one showing the greatest number of parodies is “My Mother,” by Ann Taylor; after this those most used for the purpose have been “The Raven,” Gray’s “Elegy,” “The Song of the Shirt,” “The May Queen,” “Locksley Hall,” “The Burial of Sir John Moore,” and Kingsley’s “Three Fishers.”
Parody, then, is a tribute to popularity, and consequently to merit of one sort or another, and in the hands of the initiate may be considered a touch-stone that proves true worth.
A PARODY ANTHOLOGY
_A Parody Anthology_
AFTER OMAR KHAYYAM
THE GOLFER’S RUBAIYAT
WAKE! for the sun has driven in equal flight The stars before him from the Tee of Night, And holed them every one without a Miss, Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light.
Now, the fresh Year reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye, And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars.
Come, choose your Ball, and in the fire of Spring, Your Red Coat and your wooden Putter fling; The Club of Time has but a little while To waggle, and the Club is on the swing.
A Bag of Clubs, a Silver Town or two, A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag, and Thou Beside me caddying in the Wilderness— Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow.
Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent Jamie and His, and heard great argument Of Grip, and Stance, and Swing; but evermore Found at the Exit but a Dollar spent.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with mine own hand sought to make it grow; And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d; “You hold it in this Way, and you swing it So.”
The swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck, Moves on; nor all your Wit or future Luck Shall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke, Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck.
No hope by Club or Ball to win the Prize; The batter’d, blacken’d Remade sweetly flies, Swept cleanly from the Tee; this is the Truth Nine-tenths is Skill, and all the rest is Lies.
And that inverted Ball they call the High, By which the Duffer thinks to live or die, Lift not your hands to It for help, for it As impotently froths as you or I.
Yon rising Moon that leads us home again, How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; How oft hereafter rising, wait for us At this same Turning—and for One in vain.
And when, like her, my Golfer, I have been And am no more above the pleasant Green, And you in your mild Journey pass the Hole I made in One—ah, pay my Forfeit then! _H. W. Boynton._
AN OMAR FOR LADIES[A]
ONE for her Club and her own Latch-key fights, Another wastes in Study her good Nights. Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go, Nor heed the grumble of the Women’s Rights!
Look at the Shop-girl all about us—“Lo, The Wages of a month,” she says, “I blow Into a Hat, and when my hair is waved, Doubtless my Friend will take me to the Show.”
And she who saved her coin for Flannels red, And she who caught Pneumonia instead, Will both be Underground in Fifty Years, And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead.
Th’ exclusive Style you set your heart upon Gets to the Bargain counters—and anon Like monograms on a Saleslady’s tie Cheers but a moment—soon for you ’tis gone.
Think, on the sad Four Hundred’s gilded halls, Whose endless Leisure ev’n themselves appalls, How Ping-pong raged so high—then faded out To those far Suburbs that still chase its Balls.
They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keep The _dernier cri_ that once was far from cheap; Green Veils, one season chic—Department stores Mark down in vain—no profit shall they reap.
I sometimes think that never lasts so long The Style as when it starts a bit too strong; That all the Pompadours the parterre boasts Some Chorus-girl began, with Dance and Song.
And this Revival of the Chignon low That fills the most of us with helpless Woe, Ah, criticise it Softly! for who knows What long-necked Peeress had to wear it so!
Ah, my beloved, try each Style you meet; To-day brooks no loose ends, you must be neat. To-morrow! why, to-morrow you may be Wearing it down your back like Marguerite!
For some we once admired, the Very Best That ever a French hand-boned Corset prest, Wore what they used to call Prunella Boots, And put on Nightcaps ere they went to rest.
And we that now make fun of Waterfalls They wore, and whom their Crinoline appalls, Ourselves shall from old dusty Fashion plates Assist our Children in their Costume balls.
Ah, make the most of what we yet may wear, Before we grow so old that we don’t care! Before we have our Hats made all alike, Sans Plumes, sans Wings, sans Chiffon, and—sans Hair! _Josephine Daskam Bacon._
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers.]
THE MODERN RUBAIYAT
(_Dobley’s Version_)
HARK! for the message cometh from the King! Winter, thy doom is spoke; thy dirges ring, Thy time is o’er—and through the Palace door Enter the Princess! Hail the new-crowned Spring!
Comes she all rose-crowned, glowing with the Joy Of Laughter and of Cupid, the God-Boy; Buds bursting on the bough in welcoming To Her we Love, whose loving will not cloy!
List! from the organ rippling in the Street Come sounds rejoicing, glad Her reign to greet. The Shad is smiling in the Market Place And eke the Little Neck! Ah—Life is Sweet!
Come, let us lilt a Merry Little Song And in an Automobile glide along Into the glory of the Year’s new Birth. Hasten! Oh, haste! For this is Spring, I Think!
Come where the Bonnets bloom within the Grove And let us pluck them for the One we Love; Violets and Things and chiffon-nested Birds. Tell me—didst ever see a Glass-Eyed Dove?
Think you how many Springs will go and come When We are Dead Ones—and the busy Hum Of life will never reach us—Nothing Done And Nothing Doing in the Silence Glum!
Listen! the cable car’s Gay Gong has rang, The Elevated on its perch, A-clang Like to a District Messenger astir. Thought you, it was a Nightingale that sang?
Ah! my Beloved, when it’s Really Spring We know it by the Buds a-blossoming, Signals from earth to sky—Tremendous Sounds That might to Some mean any Ancient Thing!
Then let us to the Caravan at Once, The Sawdust where the Peanut haunts The air with strange sweet Odors And the Elephant does Wild and Woolly Stunts!
Asparagus is glowing on the Stall, The Spring lamb cavorts on the Menu tall; Strawberries ripe—a Dollar for the Box: Wouldn’t it jar You somehow, After all?
A Book of Coon Songs underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Dozen Buns, and Thou Beside me singing rag-time? I don’t know? I wonder would a dozen be enow?
I sent my soul afling through Joy and Pain For Information that the Winds might deign. Softly the breezes pitched it, Russie-curved, And whispered slowly—sadly—“Guess Again.”
Sometimes I think the Glories that they Sing Are like the grape-vine the Fox tried to cling; But take To-day—and make the Most of It, I think it’s Just Too Sweet for anything!
What of To-morrow—say you? Oh, my Friend— To-morrow’s Not been Touched. It’s yet to Spend. I often wonder if we should expire If we could but Collect the Gold we Lend!
Ah, Love! could Thou and I Creation run, How Different our Scheme! The Summer’s sun Would see another Springtime blossoming, Another Summer’s Rose to Follow On!
And Leaning from the Sky a Little Star Would Tell Us from the Canopy afar What now we Grope for in the Dinky-dink, And wonder blindly, vaguely, What we Are!
And when Alone you dream your fancies ripe, Thyself all Hasheesh-fed—My Prototype! Smoke Up—and when you gather with the Group Where I made One—Turn Down an Empty Pipe! _Kate Masterson._
LINES WRITTEN (“BY REQUEST”) FOR A DINNER OF THE OMAR KHAYYAM CLUB
MASTER, in memory of that Verse of Thine, And of Thy rather pretty taste in Wine, We gather at this jaded Century’s end, Our Cheeks, if so we may, to incarnadine.
Thou hast the kind of Halo which outstays Most other Genii’s. Though a Laureate’s bays Should slowly crumple up, Thou livest on, Having survived a certain Paraphrase.
The Lion and the Alligator squat In Dervish Courts—the Weather being hot— Under Umbrellas. Where is Mahmud now? Plucked by the Kitchener and gone to Pot!
Not so with thee; but in Thy place of Rest, Where East is East and never can be West, Thou art the enduring Theme of dining Bards; O make allowances; they do their Best.
Our Health—Thy Prophet’s health—is but so-so; Much marred by men of Abstinence who know Of Thee and all Thy loving Tavern-lore Nothing, nor care for it one paltry Blow.
Yea, we ourselves, who beam around Thy Bowl, Somewhat to dull Convention bow the Soul, We sit in sable Trouserings and Boots, Nor do the Vine-leaves deck a single Poll.
How could they bloom in uncongenial air? Nor, though they bloomed profusely, should we wear Upon our Heads—so tight is Habit’s hold— Aught else beside our own unaided Hair.
The Epoch curbs our Fancy. What is more To BE, in any case, is now a Bore. Even in Humor there is nothing new; There is no Joke that was not made before.
But Thou! with what a fresh and poignant sting Thy Muse remarked that Time was on the Wing! Ah, Golden Age, when Virgin was the Soil, And Decadence was deemed a newish Thing.
These picturesque departures now are stale; The noblest Vices have their vogue and fail; Through some inherent Taint or lack of Nerve We cease to sin upon a generous scale.
This hour, though drinking at my Host’s expense, I fear to use a fine Incontinence, For terror of the Law and him that waits Outside, the unknown X, to hale us hence.
For, should he make of us an ill Report As pipkins of the more loquacious Sort, We might be lodged, the Lord alone knows where, Save Peace were purchased with a pewter Quart.
And yet, O Lover of the purple Vine, Haply Thy Ghost is watching how we dine; Ah, let the Whither go; we’ll take our chance Of fourteen days with option of a Fine.
Master, if we, Thy Vessels, staunch and stout, Should stagger, half-seas-over, blind with Doubt, In sound of that dread moaning of the Bar, Be near, be very near, to bail us out! _Owen Seaman._
THE BABY’S OMAR
OMAR’S the fad! Well then, let us indite The shape of verse old Omar used to write; And Juveniles are up. So we opine _A Baby’s Omar_ would be out of sight!
Methinks the stunt is easy. Stilted style, A misplaced Capital once in a while,— Other verse writers do it like a shot; And can’t I do it too? Well, I should Smile!
But how I ramble on. I must dismiss Dull Sloth, and set to Work at once, I wis; I sometimes think there’s nothing quite so hard As a Beginning. Say we start like this:
Indeed, indeed my apron oft before I tore, but was I naughty when I tore? And then, and then came Ma, and thread in hand Repaired the rent in my small pinafore.
A Penny Trumpet underneath the Bough, A Drum that’s big enough to make a Row; A Toy Fire-Engine, and a squeaking Doll, Oh, Life were Pandemonium enow.
Come, fill the Cup, then quickly on the floor Your portion of the Porridge gaily pour. The Nurse will Spank you, and she’ll be discharged,— Ah, but of Nurses there be Plenty more.
Yes, I can do it! Now, if but my Purse Some kindly Editor will reimburse, I’ll write a Baby’s Omar; for I’m sure These Sample Stanzas here are not so worse. _Carolyn Wells._
AFTER CHAUCER
YE CLERKE OF YE WETHERE
A CLERKE there was, a puissant wight was hee, Who of ye wethere hadde ye maisterie; Alway it was his mirthe and his solace— To put eche seson’s wethere oute of place.
Whanne that Aprille shoures wer our desyre, He gad us Julye sonnes as hotte as fyre; But sith ye summere togges we donned agayne, Eftsoons ye wethere chaunged to cold and rayne.
Wo was that pilgrimme who fared forth a-foote, Without ane gyngham that him list uppe-putte; And gif no mackyntosches eke had hee, A parlous state that wight befelle—pardie!
We wist not gif it nexte ben colde or hotte, Cogswounds! ye barde a grewsome colde hath gotte! Certes, that clerke’s ane mightie man withalle, Let non don him offence, lest ille befalle. _Anonymous._
AFTER SPENSER
A PORTRAIT
HE is to weet a melancholy carle: Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair, As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair Its light balloons into the summer air; Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom. No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer; No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom, But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian loom.
Ne carèd he for wine, or half and half; Ne carèd he for fish, or flesh, or fowl; And sauces held he worthless as the chaff; He ’sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl: Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl; Ne with sly lemans in the scorner’s chair; But after water-brooks this pilgrim’s soul Panted and all his food was woodland air; Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare
The slang of cities in no wise he knew, _Tipping the wink_ to him was heathen Greek; He sipped no “olden Tom,” or “ruin blue,” Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek By many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek; Nor did he know each aged watchman’s beat, Nor in obscurèd purlieus would he seek For curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat, Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet. _John Keats._
AFTER SHAKESPEARE
THE BACHELOR’S SOLILOQUY
TO wed, or not to wed? That is the question Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The pangs and arrows of outrageous love Or to take arms against the powerful flame And by oppressing quench it. To wed—to marry— And by a marriage say we end The heartache and the thousand painful shocks Love makes us heir to—’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished! to wed—to marry— Perchance a scold! aye, there’s the rub! For in that wedded life what ills may come When we have shuffled off our single state Must give us serious pause. There’s the respect That makes us Bachelors a numerous race. For who would bear the dull unsocial hours Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile To sit like hermit at a lonely board In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes With which the Bachelor is daily teased When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs By wedding some fair maid? Oh, who would live Yawning and staring sadly in the fire Till celibacy becomes a weary life But that the dread of something after wed-lock (That undiscovered state from whose strong chains No captive can get free) puzzles the will And makes us rather choose those ills we have Than fly to others which a wife may bring. Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all, And thus our natural taste for matrimony Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought. And love adventures of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn away And lose the name of Wedlock. _Anonymous._
POKER
TO draw, or not to draw,—that is the question:— Whether ’tis safer in the player to take The awful risk of skinning for a straight, Or, standing pat, to raise ’em all the limit And thus, by bluffing, get in. To draw,—to skin; No more—and by that skin to get a full, Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kings That luck is heir to—’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To draw—to skin; To skin! perchance to burst—ay, there’s the rub! For in the draw of three what cards may come, When we have shuffled off th’ uncertain pack, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes calamity of a bobtail flush; For who would bear the overwhelming blind, The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge, The insolence of pat hands and the lifts That patient merit of the bluffer takes, When he himself might be much better off By simply passing? Who would trays uphold, And go out on a small progressive raise, But that the dread of something after call— The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strength Such hands must bow, puzzles the will, And makes us rather keep the chips we have Than be curious about the hands we know not of. Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all: And thus the native hue of a four-heart flush Is sicklied with some dark and cussed club, And speculators in a jack-pot’s wealth With this regard their interest turn away And lose the right to open. _Anonymous._
TOOTHACHE