Chapter 3

“Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps: I’m always thrown in some such state When on his face well-meaning chaps This wretched man congratulate.

“For, oh! this face—this pointed chin— This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too, Have always been the origin Of all the woes I ever knew!

“If to the play my way I find, To see a grand Shakesperian piece, I have no rest, no ease of mind Until the author’s puppets cease.

“Men nudge each other—thus—and say, ‘This certainly is SHAKESPEARE’S son,’ And merry wags (of course in play) Cry ‘Author!’ when the piece is done.

“In church the people stare at me, Their soul the sermon never binds; I catch them looking round to see, And thoughts of SHAKESPEARE fill their minds.

“And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile, Who find it difficult to crown A bust with BROWN’S insipid smile, Or TOMKINS’S unmannered frown,

“Yet boldly make my face their own, When (oh, presumption!) they require To animate a paving-stone With SHAKESPEARE’S intellectual fire.

“At parties where young ladies gaze, And I attempt to speak my joy, ‘Hush, pray,’ some lovely creature says, ‘The fond illusion don’t destroy!’

“Whene’er I speak, my soul is wrung With these or some such whisperings: ‘’Tis pity that a SHAKESPEARE’S tongue Should say such un-Shakesperian things!’

“I should not thus be criticised Had I a face of common wont: Don’t envy me—now, be advised!” And, now I think of it, I don’t!

GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

A LEAFY cot, where no dry rot Had ever been by tenant seen, Where ivy clung and wopses stung, Where beeses hummed and drummed and strummed, Where treeses grew and breezes blew— A thatchy roof, quite waterproof, Where countless herds of dicky-birds Built twiggy beds to lay their heads (My mother begs I’ll make it “eggs,” But though it’s true that dickies do Construct a nest with chirpy noise, With view to rest their eggy joys, ’Neath eavy sheds, yet eggs and beds, As I explain to her in vain Five hundred times, are faulty rhymes). ’Neath such a cot, built on a plot Of freehold land, dwelt MARY and Her worthy father, named by me GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

He knew no guile, this simple man, No worldly wile, or plot, or plan, Except that plot of freehold land That held the cot, and MARY, and Her worthy father, named by me GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

A grave and learned scholar he, Yet simple as a child could be. He’d shirk his meal to sit and cram A goodish deal of Eton Gram. No man alive could him nonplus With vocative of _filius_; No man alive more fully knew The passive of a verb or two; None better knew the worth than he Of words that end in _b_, _d_, _t_. Upon his green in early spring He might be seen endeavouring To understand the hooks and crooks Of HENRY and his Latin books; Or calling for his “Cæsar on The Gallic War,” like any don; Or, p’raps, expounding unto all How mythic BALBUS built a wall. So lived the sage who’s named by me GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

To him one autumn day there came A lovely youth of mystic name: He took a lodging in the house, And fell a-dodging snipe and grouse, For, oh! that mild scholastic one Let shooting for a single gun.

By three or four, when sport was o’er, The Mystic One laid by his gun, And made sheep’s eyes of giant size, Till after tea, at MARY P. And MARY P. (so kind was she), She, too, made eyes of giant size, Whose every dart right through the heart Appeared to run that Mystic One. The Doctor’s whim engrossing him, He did not know they flirted so. For, save at tea, “_musa musæ_,” As I’m advised, monopolised And rendered blind his giant mind. But looking up above his cup One afternoon, he saw them spoon. “Aha!” quoth he, “you naughty lass! As quaint old OVID says, ‘Amas!’”

The Mystic Youth avowed the truth, And, claiming ruth, he said, “In sooth I love your daughter, aged man: Refuse to join us if you can. Treat not my offer, sir, with scorn, I’m wealthy though I’m lowly born.” “Young sir,” the aged scholar said, “I never thought you meant to wed: Engrossed completely with my books, I little noticed lovers’ looks. I’ve lived so long away from man, I do not know of any plan By which to test a lover’s worth, Except, perhaps, the test of birth. I’ve half forgotten in this wild A father’s duty to his child. It is his place, I think it’s said, To see his daughters richly wed To dignitaries of the earth— If possible, of noble birth. If noble birth is not at hand, A father may, I understand (And this affords a chance for you), Be satisfied to wed her to A BOUCICAULT or BARING—which Means any one who’s very rich. Now, there’s an Earl who lives hard by,— My child and I will go and try If he will make the maid his bride— If not, to you she shall be tied.”

They sought the Earl that very day; The Sage began to say his say. The Earl (a very wicked man, Whose face bore Vice’s blackest ban) Cut short the scholar’s simple tale, And said in voice to make them quail, “Pooh! go along! you’re drunk, no doubt— Here, PETERS, turn these people out!”

The Sage, rebuffed in mode uncouth, Returning, met the Mystic Youth. “My darling boy,” the Scholar said, “Take MARY—blessings on your head!”

The Mystic Boy undid his vest, And took a parchment from his breast, And said, “Now, by that noble brow, I ne’er knew father such as thou! The sterling rule of common sense Now reaps its proper recompense. Rejoice, my soul’s unequalled Queen, For I am DUKE OF GRETNA GREEN!”

THE KING OF CANOODLE-DUM

THE story of FREDERICK GOWLER, A mariner of the sea, Who quitted his ship, the _Howler_, A-sailing in Caribbee. For many a day he wandered, Till he met in a state of rum CALAMITY POP VON PEPPERMINT DROP, The King of Canoodle-Dum.

That monarch addressed him gaily, “Hum! Golly de do to-day? Hum! Lily-white Buckra Sailee”— (You notice his playful way?)— “What dickens you doin’ here, sar? Why debbil you want to come? Hum! Picaninnee, dere isn’t no sea In City Canoodle-Dum!”

And GOWLER he answered sadly, “Oh, mine is a doleful tale! They’ve treated me werry badly In Lunnon, from where I hail. I’m one of the Family Royal— No common Jack Tar you see; I’m WILLIAM THE FOURTH, far up in the North, A King in my own countree!”

Bang-bang! How the tom-toms thundered! Bang-bang! How they thumped this gongs! Bang-bang! How the people wondered! Bang-bang! At it hammer and tongs! Alliance with Kings of Europe Is an honour Canoodlers seek, Her monarchs don’t stop with PEPPERMINT DROP Every day in the week!

FRED told them that he was _un_done, For his people all went insane, And fired the Tower of London, And Grinnidge’s Naval Fane. And some of them racked St. James’s, And vented their rage upon The Church of St. Paul, the Fishmongers’ Hall, And the Angel at Islington.

CALAMITY POP implored him In his capital to remain Till those people of his restored him To power and rank again. CALAMITY POP he made him A Prince of Canoodle-Dum, With a couple of caves, some beautiful slaves, And the run of the royal rum.

Pop gave him his only daughter, HUM PICKETY WIMPLE TIP: FRED vowed that if over the water He went, in an English ship, He’d make her his Queen,—though truly It is an unusual thing For a Caribbee brat who’s as black as your hat To be wife of an English King.

And all the Canoodle-Dummers They copied his rolling walk, His method of draining rummers, His emblematical talk. For his dress and his graceful breeding, His delicate taste in rum, And his nautical way, were the talk of the day In the Court of Canoodle-Dum.

CALAMITY POP most wisely Determined in everything To model his Court precisely On that of the English King; And ordered that every lady And every lady’s lord Should masticate jacky (a kind of tobaccy), And scatter its juice abroad.

They signified wonder roundly At any astounding yarn, By darning their dear eyes roundly (’T was all they had to darn). They “hoisted their slacks,” adjusting Garments of plantain-leaves With nautical twitches (as if they wore breeches, Instead of a dress like EVE’S!)

They shivered their timbers proudly, At a phantom forelock dragged, And called for a hornpipe loudly Whenever amusement flagged. “Hum! Golly! him POP resemble, Him Britisher sov’reign, hum! CALAMITY POP VON PEPPERMINT DROP, De King of Canoodle-Dum!”

The mariner’s lively “Hollo!” Enlivened Canoodle’s plain (For blessings unnumbered follow In Civilization’s train). But Fortune, who loves a bathos, A terrible ending planned, For ADMIRAL D. CHICKABIDDY, C.B., Placed foot on Canoodle land!

That rebel, he seized KING GOWLER, He threatened his royal brains, And put him aboard the _Howler_, And fastened him down with chains. The _Howler_ she weighed her anchor, With FREDERICK nicely nailed, And off to the North with WILLIAM THE FOURTH These horrible pirates sailed.

CALAMITY said (with folly), “Hum! nebber want him again— Him civilize all of us, golly! CALAMITY suck him brain!” The people, however, were pained when They saw him aboard his ship, But none of them wept for their FREDDY, except HUM PICKETY WIMPLE TIP.

FIRST LOVE

A CLERGYMAN in Berkshire dwelt, The REVEREND BERNARD POWLES, And in his church there weekly knelt At least a hundred souls.

There little ELLEN you might see, The modest rustic belle; In maidenly simplicity, She loved her BERNARD well.

Though ELLEN wore a plain silk gown Untrimmed with lace or fur, Yet not a husband in the town But wished his wife like her.

Though sterner memories might fade, You never could forget The child-form of that baby-maid, The Village Violet!

A simple frightened loveliness, Whose sacred spirit-part Shrank timidly from worldly stress, And nestled in your heart.

POWLES woo’d with every well-worn plan And all the usual wiles With which a well-schooled gentleman A simple heart beguiles.

The hackneyed compliments that bore World-folks like you and me, Appeared to her as if they wore The crown of Poesy.

His winking eyelid sang a song Her heart could understand, Eternity seemed scarce too long When BERNARD squeezed her hand.

He ordered down the martial crew Of GODFREY’S Grenadiers, And COOTE conspired with TINNEY to Ecstaticise her ears.

Beneath her window, veiled from eye, They nightly took their stand; On birthdays supplemented by The Covent Garden band.

And little ELLEN, all alone, Enraptured sat above, And thought how blest she was to own The wealth of POWLES’S love.

I often, often wonder what Poor ELLEN saw in him; For calculated he was _not_ To please a woman’s whim.

He wasn’t good, despite the air An M.B. waistcoat gives; Indeed, his dearest friends declare No greater humbug lives.

No kind of virtue decked this priest, He’d nothing to allure; He wasn’t handsome in the least,— He wasn’t even poor.

No—he was cursed with acres fat (A Christian’s direst ban), And gold—yet, notwithstanding that, Poor ELLEN loved the man.

As unlike BERNARD as could be Was poor old AARON WOOD (Disgraceful BERNARD’S curate he): He was extremely good.

A BAYARD in his moral pluck Without reproach or fear, A quiet venerable duck With fifty pounds a year.

No fault had he—no fad, except A tendency to strum, In mode at which you would have wept, A dull harmonium.

He had no gold with which to hire The minstrels who could best Convey a notion of the fire That raged within his breast.

And so, when COOTE and TINNEY’S Own Had tootled all they knew, And when the Guards, completely blown, Exhaustedly withdrew,

And NELL began to sleepy feel, Poor AARON then would come, And underneath her window wheel His plain harmonium.

He woke her every morn at two, And having gained her ear, In vivid colours AARON drew The sluggard’s grim career.

He warbled Apiarian praise, And taught her in his chant To shun the dog’s pugnacious ways, And imitate the ant.

Still NELL seemed not, how much he played, To love him out and out, Although the admirable maid Respected him, no doubt.

She told him of her early vow, And said as BERNARD’S wife It might be hers to show him how To rectify his life.

“You are so pure, so kind, so true, Your goodness shines so bright, What use would ELLEN be to you? Believe me, you’re all right.”

She wished him happiness and health, And flew on lightning wings To BERNARD with his dangerous wealth And all the woes it brings.

BRAVE ALUM BEY

OH, big was the bosom of brave ALUM BEY, And also the region that under it lay, In safety and peril remarkably cool, And he dwelt on the banks of the river Stamboul.

Each morning he went to his garden, to cull A bunch of zenana or sprig of bul-bul, And offered the bouquet, in exquisite bloom, To BACKSHEESH, the daughter of RAHAT LAKOUM.

No maiden like BACKSHEESH could tastily cook A kettle of kismet or joint of tchibouk, As ALUM, brave fellow! sat pensively by, With a bright sympathetic ka-bob in his eye.

Stern duty compelled him to leave her one day— (A ship’s supercargo was brave ALUM BEY)— To pretty young BACKSHEESH he made a salaam, And sailed to the isle of Seringapatam.

“O ALUM,” said she, “think again, ere you go— Hareems may arise and Moguls they may blow; You may strike on a fez, or be drowned, which is wuss!” But ALUM embraced her and spoke to her thus:

“Cease weeping, fair BACKSHEESH! I willingly swear Cork jackets and trousers I always will wear, And I also throw in a large number of oaths That I never—no, _never_—will take off my clothes!”

* * * * *

They left Madagascar away on their right, And made Clapham Common the following night, Then lay on their oars for a fortnight or two, Becalmed in the ocean of Honololu.

One day ALUM saw, with alarm in his breast, A cloud on the nor-sow-sow-nor-sow-nor-west; The wind it arose, and the crew gave a scream, For they knew it—they knew it!—the dreaded Hareem!!

The mast it went over, and so did the sails, Brave ALUM threw over his casks and his bales; The billows arose as the weather grew thick, And all except ALUM were terribly sick.

The crew were but three, but they holloa’d for nine, They howled and they blubbered with wail and with whine: The skipper he fainted away in the fore, For he hadn’t the heart for to skip any more.

“Ho, coward!” said ALUM, “with heart of a child! Thou son of a party whose grave is defiled! Is ALUM in terror? is ALUM afeard? Ho! ho! If you had one I’d laugh at your beard.”

His eyeball it gleamed like a furnace of coke; He boldly inflated his clothes as he spoke; He daringly felt for the corks on his chest, And he recklessly tightened the belt at his breast.

For he knew, the brave ALUM, that, happen what might, With belts and cork-jacketing, _he_ was all right; Though others might sink, he was certain to swim,— No Hareem whatever had terrors for him!

They begged him to spare from his personal store A single cork garment—they asked for no more; But he couldn’t, because of the number of oaths That he never—no, never!—would take off his clothes.

The billows dash o’er them and topple around, They see they are pretty near sure to be drowned. A terrible wave o’er the quarter-deck breaks, And the vessel it sinks in a couple of shakes!

The dreadful Hareem, though it knows how to blow, Expends all its strength in a minute or so; When the vessel had foundered, as I have detailed, The tempest subsided, and quiet prevailed.

One seized on a cork with a yelling “Ha! ha!” (Its bottle had ’prisoned a pint of Pacha)— Another a toothpick—another a tray— “Alas! it is useless!” said brave ALUM BEY.

“To holloa and kick is a very bad plan: Get it over, my tulips, as soon as you can; You’d better lay hold of a good lump of lead, And cling to it tightly until you are dead.

“Just raise your hands over your pretty heads—so— Right down to the bottom you’re certain to go. Ta! ta! I’m afraid we shall not meet again”— For the truly courageous are truly humane.

Brave ALUM was picked up the very next day— A man-o’-war sighted him smoking away; With hunger and cold he was ready to drop, So they sent him below and they gave him a chop.

O reader, or readress, whichever you be, You weep for the crew who have sunk in the sea? O reader, or readress, read farther, and dry The bright sympathetic ka-bob in your eye.

That ship had a grapple with three iron spikes,— It’s lowered, and, ha! on a something it strikes! They haul it aboard with a British “heave-ho!” And what it has fished the drawing will show.

There was WILSON, and PARKER, and TOMLINSON, too— (The first was the captain, the others the crew)— As lively and spry as a Malabar ape, Quite pleased and surprised at their happy escape.

And ALUM, brave fellow, who stood in the fore, And never expected to look on them more, Was really delighted to see them again, For the truly courageous are truly humane.

SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO

THIS is SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO, Last of a noble race, BARNABY BAMPTON, coming to woo, All at a deuce of a pace. BARNABY BAMPTON BOO, Here is a health to you: Here is wishing you luck, you elderly buck— BARNABY BAMPTON BOO!

The excellent women of Tuptonvee Knew SIR BARNABY BOO; One of them surely his bride would be, But dickens a soul knew who. Women of Tuptonvee, Here is a health to ye For a Baronet, dears, you would cut off your ears, Women of Tuptonvee!

Here are old MR. and MRS. DE PLOW (PETER his Christian name), They kept seven oxen, a pig, and a cow— Farming it was their game. Worthy old PETER DE PLOW, Here is a health to thou: Your race isn’t run, though you’re seventy-one, Worthy old PETER DE PLOW!

To excellent MR. and MRS. DE PLOW Came SIR BARNABY BOO, He asked for their daughter, and told ’em as how He was as rich as a Jew. BARNABY BAMPTON’S wealth, Here is your jolly good health: I’d never repine if you came to be mine, BARNABY BAMPTON’S wealth!

“O great SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO” (Said PLOW to that titled swell), “My missus has given me daughters two— AMELIA and VOLATILE NELL!” AMELIA and VOLATILE NELL, I hope you’re uncommonly well: You two pretty pearls—you extremely nice girls— AMELIA and VOLATILE NELL!

“AMELIA is passable only, in face, But, oh! she’s a worthy girl; Superior morals like hers would grace The home of a belted Earl.” Morality, heavenly link! To you I’ll eternally drink: I’m awfully fond of that heavenly bond, Morality, heavenly link!

“Now NELLY’S the prettier, p’raps, of my gals, But, oh! she’s a wayward chit; She dresses herself in her showy fal-lals, And doesn’t read TUPPER a bit!” O TUPPER, philosopher true, How do you happen to do? A publisher looks with respect on your books, For they _do_ sell, philosopher true!

The Bart. (I’ll be hanged if I drink him again, Or care if he’s ill or well), He sneered at the goodness of MILLY THE PLAIN, And cottoned to VOLATILE NELL! O VOLATILE NELLY DE P.! Be hanged if I’ll empty to thee: I like worthy maids, not mere frivolous jades, VOLATILE NELLY DE P.!

They bolted, the Bart. and his frivolous dear, And MILLY was left to pout; For years they’ve got on very well, as I hear, But soon he will rue it, no doubt. O excellent MILLY DE PLOW, I really can’t drink to you now; My head isn’t strong, and the song has been long, Excellent MILLY DE PLOW!

THE MODEST COUPLE

WHEN man and maiden meet, I like to see a drooping eye, I always droop my own—I am the shyest of the shy. I’m also fond of bashfulness, and sitting down on thorns, For modesty’s a quality that womankind adorns.

Whenever I am introduced to any pretty maid, My knees they knock together, just as if I were afraid; I flutter, and I stammer, and I turn a pleasing red, For to laugh, and flirt, and ogle I consider most ill-bred.

But still in all these matters, as in other things below, There is a proper medium, as I’m about to show. I do not recommend a newly-married pair to try To carry on as PETER carried on with SARAH BLIGH.

Betrothed they were when very young—before they’d learnt to speak (For SARAH was but six days old, and PETER was a week); Though little more than babies at those early ages, yet They bashfully would faint when they occasionally met.

They blushed, and flushed, and fainted, till they reached the age of nine, When PETER’S good papa (he was a Baron of the Rhine) Determined to endeavour some sound argument to find To bring these shy young people to a proper frame of mind.

He told them that as SARAH was to be his PETER’S bride, They might at least consent to sit at table side by side; He begged that they would now and then shake hands, till he was hoarse, Which SARAH thought indelicate, and PETER very coarse.

And PETER in a tremble to the blushing maid would say, “You must excuse papa, MISS BLIGH,—it is his mountain way.” Says SARAH, “His behaviour I’ll endeavour to forget, But your papa’s the coarsest person that I ever met.

“He plighted us without our leave, when we were very young, Before we had begun articulating with the tongue. His underbred suggestions fill your SARAH with alarm; Why, gracious me! he’ll ask us next to walk out arm-in-arm!”

At length when SARAH reached the legal age of twenty-one, The Baron he determined to unite her to his son; And SARAH in a fainting-fit for weeks unconscious lay, And PETER blushed so hard you might have heard him miles away.

And when the time arrived for taking SARAH to his heart, They were married in two churches half-a-dozen miles apart (Intending to escape all public ridicule and chaff), And the service was conducted by electric telegraph.

And when it was concluded, and the priest had said his say, Until the time arrived when they were both to drive away, They never spoke or offered for to fondle or to fawn, For _he_ waited in the attic, and _she_ waited on the lawn.