Chapter 5

But did my BERNARD swear and curse? Oh no—to murmur loth, He only said, “Go, get a nurse: Be thankful that it isn’t worse; You might have broken both!”

But worms who watch without concern The cockchafer on thorns, Or beetles smashed, themselves will turn If, walking through the slippery fern, You tread upon their corns.

One night as BERNARD made his track Through Brompton home to bed, A footpad, with a vizor black, Took watch and purse, and dealt a crack On BERNARD’S saint-like head.

It was too much—his spirit rose, He looked extremely cross. Men thought him steeled to mortal foes, But no—he bowed to countless blows, But kicked against this loss.

He finally made up his mind Upon his friends to call; Subscription lists were largely signed, For men were really glad to find Him mortal, after all!

THE HAUGHTY ACTOR

AN actor—GIBBS, of Drury Lane— Of very decent station, Once happened in a part to gain Excessive approbation: It sometimes turns a fellow’s brain And makes him singularly vain When he believes that he receives Tremendous approbation.

His great success half drove him mad, But no one seemed to mind him; Well, in another piece he had Another part assigned him. This part was smaller, by a bit, Than that in which he made a hit. So, much ill-used, he straight refused To play the part assigned him.

* * * * * * * *

_That night that actor slept_, _and I’ll attempt_ _To tell you of the vivid dream he dreamt_.

THE DREAM.

In fighting with a robber band (A thing he loved sincerely) A sword struck GIBBS upon the hand, And wounded it severely. At first he didn’t heed it much, He thought it was a simple touch, But soon he found the weapon’s bound Had wounded him severely.

To Surgeon COBB he made a trip, Who’d just effected featly An amputation at the hip Particularly neatly. A rising man was Surgeon COBB But this extremely ticklish job He had achieved (as he believed) Particularly neatly.

The actor rang the surgeon’s bell. “Observe my wounded finger, Be good enough to strap it well, And prithee do not linger. That I, dear sir, may fill again The Theatre Royal Drury Lane: This very night I have to fight— So prithee do not linger.”

“I don’t strap fingers up for doles,” Replied the haughty surgeon; “To use your cant, I don’t play rôles Utility that verge on. First amputation—nothing less— That is my line of business: We surgeon nobs despise all jobs Utility that verge on

“When in your hip there lurks disease” (So dreamt this lively dreamer), “Or devastating _caries_ In _humerus_ or _femur_, If you can pay a handsome fee, Oh, then you may remember me— With joy elate I’ll amputate Your _humerus_ or _femur_.”

The disconcerted actor ceased The haughty leech to pester, But when the wound in size increased, And then began to fester, He sought a learned Counsel’s lair, And told that Counsel, then and there, How COBB’S neglect of his defect Had made his finger fester.

“Oh, bring my action, if you please, The case I pray you urge on, And win me thumping damages From COBB, that haughty surgeon. He culpably neglected me Although I proffered him his fee, So pray come down, in wig and gown, On COBB, that haughty surgeon!”

That Counsel learned in the laws, With passion almost trembled. He just had gained a mighty cause Before the Peers assembled! Said he, “How dare you have the face To come with Common Jury case To one who wings rhetoric flings Before the Peers assembled?”

Dispirited became our friend— Depressed his moral pecker— “But stay! a thought!—I’ll gain my end, And save my poor exchequer. I won’t be placed upon the shelf, I’ll take it into Court myself, And legal lore display before The Court of the Exchequer.”

He found a Baron—one of those Who with our laws supply us— In wig and silken gown and hose, As if at _Nisi Prius_. But he’d just given, off the reel, A famous judgment on Appeal: It scarce became his heightened fame To sit at _Nisi Prius_.

Our friend began, with easy wit, That half concealed his terror: “Pooh!” said the Judge, “I only sit In _Banco_ or in Error. Can you suppose, my man, that I’d O’er _Nisi Prius_ Courts preside, Or condescend my time to spend On anything but Error?”

“Too bad,” said GIBBS, “my case to shirk! You must be bad innately, To save your skill for mighty work Because it’s valued greatly!” But here he woke, with sudden start.

* * * * * * * *

He wrote to say he’d play the part. I’ve but to tell he played it well— The author’s words—his native wit Combined, achieved a perfect “hit”— The papers praised him greatly.

THE TWO MAJORS

AN excellent soldier who’s worthy the name Loves officers dashing and strict: When good, he’s content with escaping all blame, When naughty, he likes to be licked.

He likes for a fault to be bullied and stormed, Or imprisoned for several days, And hates, for a duty correctly performed, To be slavered with sickening praise.

No officer sickened with praises his _corps_ So little as MAJOR LA GUERRE— No officer swore at his warriors more Than MAJOR MAKREDI PREPERE.

Their soldiers adored them, and every grade Delighted to hear their abuse; Though whenever these officers came on parade They shivered and shook in their shoes.

For, oh! if LA GUERRE could all praises withhold, Why, so could MAKREDI PREPERE, And, oh! if MAKREDI could bluster and scold, Why, so could the mighty LA GUERRE.

“No doubt we deserve it—no mercy we crave— Go on—you’re conferring a boon; We would rather be slanged by a warrior brave, Than praised by a wretched poltroon!”

MAKREDI would say that in battle’s fierce rage True happiness only was met: Poor MAJOR MAKREDI, though fifty his age, Had never known happiness yet!

LA GUERRE would declare, “With the blood of a foe No tipple is worthy to clink.” Poor fellow! he hadn’t, though sixty or so, Yet tasted his favourite drink!

They agreed at their mess—they agreed in the glass— They agreed in the choice of their “set,” And they also agreed in adoring, alas! The Vivandière, pretty FILLETTE.

Agreement, you see, may be carried too far, And after agreeing all round For years—in this soldierly “maid of the bar,” A bone of contention they found!

It may seem improper to call such a pet— By a metaphor, even—a bone; But though they agreed in adoring her, yet Each wanted to make her his own.

“On the day that you marry her,” muttered PREPERE (With a pistol he quietly played), “I’ll scatter the brains in your noddle, I swear, All over the stony parade!”

“I cannot do _that_ to you,” answered LA GUERRE, “Whatever events may befall; But this _I can_ do—_if you_ wed her, _mon cher_! I’ll eat you, moustachios and all!”

The rivals, although they would never engage, Yet quarrelled whenever they met; They met in a fury and left in a rage, But neither took pretty FILLETTE.

“I am not afraid,” thought MAKREDI PREPERE: “For country I’m ready to fall; But nobody wants, for a mere Vivandière, To be eaten, moustachios and all!

“Besides, though LA GUERRE has his faults, I’ll allow He’s one of the bravest of men: My goodness! if I disagree with him now, I might disagree with him then.”

“No coward am I,” said LA GUERRE, “as you guess— I sneer at an enemy’s blade; But I don’t want PREPERE to get into a mess For splashing the stony parade!”

One day on parade to PREPERE and LA GUERRE Came CORPORAL JACOT DEBETTE, And trembling all over, he prayed of them there To give him the pretty FILLETTE.

“You see, I am willing to marry my bride Until you’ve arranged this affair; I will blow out my brains when your honours decide Which marries the sweet Vivandière!”

“Well, take her,” said both of them in a duet (A favourite form of reply), “But when I am ready to marry FILLETTE. Remember you’ve promised to die!”

He married her then: from the flowery plains Of existence the roses they cull: He lived and he died with his wife; and his brains Are reposing in peace in his skull.

EMILY, JOHN, JAMES, AND I.

A DERBY LEGEND

EMILY JANE was a nursery maid, JAMES was a bold Life Guard, JOHN was a constable, poorly paid (And I am a doggerel bard).

A very good girl was EMILY JANE, JIMMY was good and true, JOHN was a very good man in the main (And I am a good man too).

Rivals for EMMIE were JOHNNY and JAMES, Though EMILY liked them both; She couldn’t tell which had the strongest claims (And _I_ couldn’t take my oath).

But sooner or later you’re certain to find Your sentiments can’t lie hid— JANE thought it was time that she made up her mind (And I think it was time she did).

Said JANE, with a smirk, and a blush on her face, “I’ll promise to wed the boy Who takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!” (Which I would have done, with joy).

From JOHNNY escaped an expression of pain, But Jimmy said, “Done with you! I’ll take you with pleasure, my EMILY JANE!” (And I would have said so too).

JOHN lay on the ground, and he roared like mad (For JOHNNY was sore perplexed), And he kicked very hard at a very small lad (Which _I_ often do, when vexed).

For JOHN was on duty next day with the Force, To punish all Epsom crimes; Young people _will_ cross when they’re clearing the course (I do it myself, sometimes).

* * * * * * * *

The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads, On maidens with gamboge hair, On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads, (For I, with my harp, was there).

And JIMMY went down with his JANE that day, And JOHN by the collar or nape Seized everybody who came in his way (And _I_ had a narrow escape).

He noticed his EMILY JANE with JIM, And envied the well-made elf; And people remarked that he muttered “Oh, dim!” (I often say “dim!” myself).

JOHN dogged them all day, without asking their leaves; For his sergeant he told, aside, That JIMMY and JANE were notorious thieves (And I think he was justified).

But JAMES wouldn’t dream of abstracting a fork, And JENNY would blush with shame At stealing so much as a bottle or cork (A bottle I think fair game).

But, ah! there’s another more serious crime! They wickedly strayed upon The course, at a critical moment of time (I pointed them out to JOHN).

The constable fell on the pair in a crack— And then, with a demon smile, Let JENNY cross over, but sent JIMMY back (I played on my harp the while).

Stern JOHNNY their agony loud derides With a very triumphant sneer— They weep and they wail from the opposite sides (And _I_ shed a silent tear).

And JENNY is crying away like mad, And JIMMY is swearing hard; And JOHNNY is looking uncommonly glad (And I am a doggerel bard).

But JIMMY he ventured on crossing again The scenes of our Isthmian Games— JOHN caught him, and collared him, giving him pain (I felt very much for JAMES).

JOHN led him away with a victor’s hand, And JIMMY was shortly seen In the station-house under the grand Grand Stand (As many a time _I’ve_ been).

And JIMMY, bad boy, was imprisoned for life, Though EMILY pleaded hard; And JOHNNY had EMILY JANE to wife (And I am a doggerel bard).

THE PERILS OF INVISIBILITY

OLD PETER led a wretched life— Old PETER had a furious wife; Old PETER too was truly stout, He measured several yards about.

The little fairy PICKLEKIN One summer afternoon looked in, And said, “Old PETER, how de do? Can I do anything for you?

“I have three gifts—the first will give Unbounded riches while you live; The second health where’er you be; The third, invisibility.”

“O little fairy PICKLEKIN,” Old PETER answered with a grin, “To hesitate would be absurd,— Undoubtedly I choose the third.”

“’Tis yours,” the fairy said; “be quite Invisible to mortal sight Whene’er you please. Remember me Most kindly, pray, to MRS. P.”

Old MRS. PETER overheard Wee PICKLEKIN’S concluding word, And, jealous of her girlhood’s choice, Said, “That was some young woman’s voice!”

Old PETER let her scold and swear— Old PETER, bless him, didn’t care. “My dear, your rage is wasted quite— Observe, I disappear from sight!”

A well-bred fairy (so I’ve heard) Is always faithful to her word: Old PETER vanished like a shot, Put then—_his suit of clothes did not_!

For when conferred the fairy slim Invisibility on _him_, She popped away on fairy wings, Without referring to his “things.”

So there remained a coat of blue, A vest and double eyeglass too, His tail, his shoes, his socks as well, His pair of—no, I must not tell.

Old MRS. PETER soon began To see the failure of his plan, And then resolved (I quote the Bard) To “hoist him with his own petard.”

Old PETER woke next day and dressed, Put on his coat, and shoes, and vest, His shirt and stock; _but could not find_ _His only pair of_—never mind!

Old PETER was a decent man, And though he twigged his lady’s plan, Yet, hearing her approaching, he Resumed invisibility.

“Dear MRS. P., my only joy,” Exclaimed the horrified old boy, “Now, give them up, I beg of you— You know what I’m referring to!”

But no; the cross old lady swore She’d keep his—what I said before— To make him publicly absurd; And MRS. PETER kept her word.

The poor old fellow had no rest; His coat, his stick, his shoes, his vest, Were all that now met mortal eye— The rest, invisibility!

“Now, madam, give them up, I beg— I’ve had rheumatics in my leg; Besides, until you do, it’s plain I cannot come to sight again!

“For though some mirth it might afford To see my clothes without their lord, Yet there would rise indignant oaths If he were seen without his clothes!”

But no; resolved to have her quiz, The lady held her own—and his— And PETER left his humble cot To find a pair of—you know what.

But—here’s the worst of the affair— Whene’er he came across a pair Already placed for him to don, He was too stout to get them on!

So he resolved at once to train, And walked and walked with all his main; For years he paced this mortal earth, To bring himself to decent girth.

At night, when all around is still, You’ll find him pounding up a hill; And shrieking peasants whom he meets, Fall down in terror on the peats!

Old PETER walks through wind and rain, Resolved to train, and train, and train, Until he weighs twelve stone’ or so— And when he does, I’ll let you know.

OLD PAUL AND OLD TIM

WHEN rival adorers come courting a maid, There’s something or other may often be said, Why _he_ should be pitched upon rather than _him_. This wasn’t the case with Old PAUL and Old TIM.

No soul could discover a reason at all For marrying TIMOTHY rather than PAUL; Though all could have offered good reasons, on oath, Against marrying either—or marrying both.

They were equally wealthy and equally old, They were equally timid and equally bold; They were equally tall as they stood in their shoes— Between them, in fact, there was nothing to choose.

Had I been young EMILY, I should have said, “You’re both much too old for a pretty young maid, Threescore at the least you are verging upon”; But I wasn’t young EMILY. Let us get on.

No coward’s blood ran in young EMILY’S veins, Her martial old father loved bloody campaigns; At the rumours of battles all over the globe He pricked up his ears like the war-horse in “Job.”

He chuckled to hear of a sudden surprise— Of soldiers, compelled, through an enemy’s spies, Without any knapsacks or shakos to flee— For an eminent army-contractor was he.

So when her two lovers, whose patience was tried, Implored her between them at once to decide, She told them she’d marry whichever might bring Good proofs of his doing the pluckiest thing.

They both went away with a qualified joy: That coward, Old PAUL, chose a very small boy, And when no one was looking, in spite of his fears, He set to work boxing that little boy’s ears.

The little boy struggled and tugged at his hair, But the lion was roused, and Old PAUL didn’t care; He smacked him, and whacked him, and boxed him, and kicked Till the poor little beggar was royally licked.

Old TIM knew a trick worth a dozen of that, So he called for his stick and he called for his hat. “I’ll cover myself with cheap glory—I’ll go And wallop the Frenchmen who live in Soho!

“The German invader is ravaging France With infantry rifle and cavalry lance, And beautiful Paris is fighting her best To shake herself free from her terrible guest.

“The Frenchmen in London, in craven alarms, Have all run away from the summons to arms; They haven’t the pluck of a pigeon—I’ll go And wallop the Frenchmen who skulk in Soho!”

Old TIMOTHY tried it and found it succeed: That day he caused many French noses to bleed; Through foggy Soho he spread fear and dismay, And Frenchmen all round him in agony lay.

He took care to abstain from employing his fist On the old and the crippled, for they might resist; A crippled old man may have pluck in his breast, But the young and the strong ones are cowards confest.

Old TIM and Old PAUL, with the list of their foes, Prostrated themselves at their EMILY’S toes: “Oh, which of us two is the pluckier blade?” And EMILY answered and EMILY said:

“Old TIM has thrashed runaway Frenchmen in scores, Who ought to be guarding their cities and shores; Old PAUL has made little chaps’ noses to bleed— Old PAUL has accomplished the pluckier deed!”

THE MYSTIC SELVAGEE

Perhaps already you may know SIR BLENNERHASSET PORTICO? A Captain in the Navy, he— A Baronet and K.C.B. You do? I thought so! It was that Captain’s favourite whim (A notion not confined to him) That RODNEY was the greatest tar Who ever wielded capstan-bar. He had been taught so.

“BENBOW! CORNWALLIS! HOOD!—Belay! Compared with RODNEY”—he would say— “No other tar is worth a rap! The great LORD RODNEY was the chap The French to polish! Though, mind you, I respect LORD HOOD; CORNWALLIS, too, was rather good; BENBOW could enemies repel, LORD NELSON, too, was pretty well— That is, tol-lol-ish!”

SIR BLENNERHASSET spent his days In learning RODNEY’S little ways, And closely imitated, too, His mode of talking to his crew— His port and paces. An ancient tar he tried to catch Who’d served in RODNEY’S famous batch; But since his time long years have fled, And RODNEY’S tars are mostly dead: _Eheu fugaces_!

But after searching near and far, At last he found an ancient tar Who served with RODNEY and his crew Against the French in ’Eighty-two, (That gained the peerage). He gave him fifty pounds a year, His rum, his baccy, and his beer; And had a comfortable den Rigged up in what, by merchantmen, Is called the steerage.

“Now, JASPER”—’t was that sailor’s name— “Don’t fear that you’ll incur my blame By saying, when it seems to you, That there is anything I do That RODNEY wouldn’t.” The ancient sailor turned his quid, Prepared to do as he was bid: “Ay, ay, yer honour; to begin, You’ve done away with ‘swifting in’— Well, sir, you shouldn’t!

“Upon your spars I see you’ve clapped Peak halliard blocks, all iron-capped. I would not christen that a crime, But ’twas not done in RODNEY’S time. It looks half-witted! Upon your maintop-stay, I see, You always clap a selvagee! Your stays, I see, are equalized— No vessel, such as RODNEY prized, Would thus be fitted!

“And RODNEY, honoured sir, would grin To see you turning deadeyes in, Not _up_, as in the ancient way, But downwards, like a cutter’s stay— You didn’t oughter; Besides, in seizing shrouds on board, Breast backstays you have quite ignored; Great RODNEY kept unto the last Breast backstays on topgallant mast— They make it tauter.”

SIR BLENNERHASSET “swifted in,” Turned deadeyes up, and lent a fin To strip (as told by JASPER KNOX) The iron capping from his blocks, Where there was any. SIR BLENNERHASSET does away, With selvagees from maintop-stay; And though it makes his sailors stare, He rigs breast backstays everywhere— In fact, too many.

One morning, when the saucy craft Lay calmed, old JASPER toddled aft. “My mind misgives me, sir, that we Were wrong about that selvagee— I should restore it.” “Good,” said the Captain, and that day Restored it to the maintop-stay. Well-practised sailors often make A much more serious mistake, And then ignore it.

Next day old JASPER came once more: “I think, sir, I was right before.” Well, up the mast the sailors skipped, The selvagee was soon unshipped, And all were merry. Again a day, and JASPER came: “I p’r’aps deserve your honour’s blame, I can’t make up my mind,” said he, “About that cursed selvagee— It’s foolish—very.

“On Monday night I could have sworn That maintop-stay it should adorn, On Tuesday morning I could swear That selvagee should not be there. The knot’s a rasper!” “Oh, you be hanged,” said CAPTAIN P., “Here, go ashore at Caribbee. Get out—good bye—shove off—all right!” Old JASPER soon was out of sight— Farewell, old JASPER!

THE CUNNING WOMAN

On all Arcadia’s sunny plain, On all Arcadia’s hill, None were so blithe as BILL and JANE, So blithe as JANE and BILL.

No social earthquake e’er occurred To rack their common mind: To them a Panic was a word— A Crisis, empty wind.

No Stock Exchange disturbed the lad With overwhelming shocks— BILL ploughed with all the shares he had, JANE planted all her stocks.

And learn in what a simple way Their pleasures they enhanced— JANE danced like any lamb all day, BILL piped as well as danced.

Surrounded by a twittling crew, Of linnet, lark, and thrush, BILL treated his young lady to This sentimental gush: