Part 1 — Bret Harte.

WHICH I wish to remark— And my language is plain— That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name; And I will not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise. Which we had a small game And Ah Sin took a hand. It was Euchre. The same He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With a smile that was childlike and bland. Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve: Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive. But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see— Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour"— And he went for that heathen Chinee. In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand; But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In the game "he did not understand." In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs— Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers—that's wax. Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar— Which the same I am free to maintain. 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, Bacchæ, 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. Light Green (W. Metcalfe and Son) Cambridge.

WHICH I wish to remark, That a pleasure in vain Is a kiss in the dark When it leaveth a stain: And a maid who strikes quickly her colours When pressed, I shall never maintain. It was at a "surprise," Where fair ladies are found To kill time, while it flies, With their beaux, who were bound On having a social re-union, At the cost of—well, more than a pound. Just here let me say To the ladies below, Who in polka display Their fantastic light tow, That their husbands, upstairs, also "poker" Yes, ladies, you well may cry "Owe!" If the husbands but knew How their wives flirt below, They would sing to them—"Glou!" For they'd stick to them so That the popinjays all would look elsewhere, Nor want for a trip of the toe. In the waltz I embraced A fair maid with soft eyes; O! the size of her waist Made me waste many sighs: And I likened her cheeks to red roses, And whispered, "Sweet love never dyes." Then together we strayed In the light of the moon, Where I kissed that sweet maid; She pretended to swoon, But her faint was a feint, so I kissed her Again, for I relished the boon, Back again on the floor, With my sweetheart I danced, While the people there wore Merry smiles, as they glanced At my partner, so stayed—in her manner, And at me, so completely entranced. When my love turned around I was shocked at the sight; Where the roses were found, One had met with a blight; While a cheek was still blooming and rosy, The other was fearfully white. From my good-looking lass, Filled with fright, I straight flew To a bad looking-glass, Where I gazed: then I knew That my nose, which was formerly turn-up, Was radish—bright crimson in hue. Which is why I remark, That a pleasure in vain Is a kiss in the dark When it leaveth a stain; And a maiden who runs when you kiss her, Is fast—which I'll ever maintain. Merry Folks.

WHICH I wish to remark— And my language is plain— That for ways that are dark, And tricks far from vain, The Germany Jew is peculiar, Which the same I'm about to explain. Eim Gott was his name; And I shall not deny In regard to the same, He was wonderful "fly," But his watch-chain was vulgar and massive, And his manner was dapper and spry. It's two years come the time, Since the mine first came out; Which in language sublime It was puffed all about:— But if there's a mine called Miss Emma I'm beginning to werry much doubt. Which there was a small game And Eim Gott had a hand In promoting! The same He did well understand; But he sat at Miss Emma's board-table, With a smile that was child-like and bland. Yet the shares they were "bulled," In a way that I grieve, And the public was fooled, Which Eim Gott, I believe, Sold 22,000 Miss Emmas, And the same with intent to deceive. And the tricks that were played By that Germany Jew, And the pounds that he made Are quite well known to you. But the way that he flooded Miss Emma Is a "watering" of shares that is new. Which it woke up MacD——, And his words were but few, For he said, "Can this be?" And he whistled a "Whew!" "We are ruined by German-Jew Swindlers!"— And he went for that Germany Jew. In the trial that ensued I did not take a hand; But the Court was quite filled With the fi-nancing band, And Eim Gott was "had" with hard labour, For the games he did well understand. Which is why I remark— And my language is plain— That for ways that are dark, And for tricks far from vain, The Germany Jew was peculiar,— But he won't soon be at it again. Jon Duan.

WHICH I mean to observe— And my statement is true— That for ways that unnerve, And for deeds that out-do, St. Denys of France was peculiar, And the same I'll explain unto you. Dionysius his name, And none will deny hat Denys the same Does mean and imply; And he fell in the hands of the pagans, Who doom'd him a martyr to die. 'Twas century third, As the history states, That Denys incurr'd This saddest of fates; With one Eleutherius, deacon, And Rusticus, priest, for his mates. Yet the woes that were laid On those Christians three, And the pluck they display'd Were quite frightful to see, And at first you would scarcely believe it, But the same is asserted by ME. 'Twas one of their foes' Diabolical whims, To the flames to expose The martyr's bare limbs. But Denys, for one, didn't mind it, He lay and sang psalms—likewise hymns. And then he was placed In a den of wild beasts With a preference of taste For martyrs and priests; But Denys, by crossing, so tamed them, They turned from such cannibal feasts. Next Denys was cast In a furnace of fire; All thinking at last He'd have to expire; But the flame sank so low in a minute, No bellows could make it rise higher. And when he'd been hung On the cross for a spell, St. Denys was flung With his friends in a cell, As narrow and close as a coffin, And dark as H E double L. Said the judge, stern and curt, "Bring the captives to me." When he found them unhurt He cried, "Can this be? We are ruin'd by Christian endeavor;" And he meant to destroy the whole three. On the Saints, who had long Withstood such attacks, The foe came out strong With their tortures and racks. At last, by the Governor's order, Their heads were cut off with an axe. "Do we sleep? do we dream?" All the witnesses shout; "Are men what they seem? Or is witchcraft about?" For quickly the corpse of St. Denys Rose up, and began to walk out! He took up his head, Tuck'd it under his arm, And the same, it is said, Caused surprise and alarm; Each eye on the marvel was fasten'd As if by some magical charm. Cut down to his neck, Like a flower to its stalk, The Saint met a check When he first tried to walk: But soon he felt stronger than Weston Or Webb—by a very long chalk. And angels, we're told, Led his footsteps along; While heavenwards rolled Their chorus of song; They led him two leagues from the city, To see that he didn't go wrong. I hope you'll believe That this story is fact, For I scorn to deceive, And refuse to retract; For truth I've a great reputation, And wish to preserve it intact. Which is why I observe— And my statement is true— That for ways that unnerve, And for deeds that out-do, St. Denys of France was peculiar, And the same I have proved unto you.

I—aside—may remark,— And I mean to speak plain,— That for games that are dark, Masked by manners urbane, That Infidel Earl licks me hollow— And I am no novice inane. DUFFER-IN is his name, But I'm bound to deny, In regard to the same, What that name might imply. Though his smile is so pleasant and placid, A Sheitan there lurks in each eye. Istamboul was the spot Where we played, and you'd guess That the Giaour got it hot— Found himself in a mess. Yet he played it on me, did that Giaour, In a way that was loathsome—no less. We sat down to the game, DUFFER-IN took a hand; I felt sure that the same He could not understand; But he smiled as he sat at the table With the smile that was placid and bland. My cards were well stocked,— As no doubt you'll believe,— And I felt—don't be shocked!— I'd "a bit up my sleeve." For when playing with sons of burnt fathers Our duty's to dupe and deceive. But the hands which were played By that dog DUFFER-IN, And the tricks that he made, Were a shame, and a sin, Till at last I was "bested" completely, And the Giaour scored a palpable win. Then I felt that my guile Was but simple and slight, And he rose, with a smile, And he said, "That's all right! Think I'll take the next turn with dear TEWFIK!" And he started for Cairo that night. In the little game there I may not take a hand; But, my TEWFIK, beware! He is gentle and bland, Yet he'll probably give you a hiding,— Few games that he'll not understand. Be the game short or long, He's ne'er flurried nor stuck. His lead is so strong, He has Sheitan's own luck; And you'll find in this goose—as I thought him— What occurs to geese—sometimes—that's "pluck." Which is why I remark, Though I own it with pain, That for games that are dark, Masked by manners urbane, That Infidel Earl licks me hollow, And I don't want to play him again! Punch, November 11, 1882.

Do I sleep? do I dream? Do I wander and doubt? Are things what they seem? Or is visions about? Is our civilisation a failure? Or is the Caucasian played out? * * * * BRET HARTE.

Do I sleep? Do I dream? Do I wonder and doubt? Are things what they seem, Or is libels about? Has the Eminent I. scored a failure? Or is the tragedian played out? Which questions is strong; Yet I would but imply That to them I much long To get a reply— Seeing things is kinder mixed up so, Or, leastways, they seem so to I. How he got up his name I needn't relate; Though, regarding that same, He owed Colonel Bate- Man some thanks for the way that he publish'd The fact that his genius was great. Then 'twas said with one breath Perfection was he, From the "Bells" to "Macbeth" He was as good as could be— He came, and he play'd, and he conquer'd— Like a melodramatic J. C. And all London went wild O'er this Eminent I., Save a party that smiled, And thought it good fun; But as for the late William Shakespeare, He never had had such a run. And the public fell down As though in a trance; And the West-End of town Booked their stalls in advance; Whilst the critics wrote furlongs of praises, His triumph to further enhance. And the management, gaily, Its hand on its heart, Did advertise, daily, Its love of high art; Whilst FIGARO smiled somewhat drily, And murmured, "O here's a droll start!" But at last came a night— 'Twas "Othello" you'll guess; And thought I (well I might), "Ah! another success!" But the papers next morning—O pizen! They upset this view, I confess. For I dare not repeat The things that were said:— Of a mop-stem on feet— In one weekly I read— With its arms like a pair of pump-handles, And the mop dipped in ink for the head. And another remarked That his voice wasn't clear, And the more the Moor barked, The less he could hear; Whilst a third liken'd him in the death scene, To a curate whose dreams had been queer. Scarce a paper I scann'd Had the old-fashioned praise; But on every hand I read with amaze, That the Eminent I. got a "slating" Not frequently giv'n in these days. And, thought I, this is odd! To turn round in this way: One day he's a god— Or, so they all say— And the next night they call him eccentric, Which isn't to my mind, fair play. He ain't a-gone wrong Like this in a day; He's been wrong all along In the same kind of way; And the faults they have damned in "Othello" They praised in—well, "Hamlet," I'll say. So that's why I remark, And would wish to maintain, That for hair long and dark, And a voice that was pain- Ful, the Eminent I. was peculiar— But I don't think he'll try it again. The Figaro, March 4, 1876.

Which his name it was Sam; He had sluiced for a while Up at Murderer's Dam, Till he got a good pile, And the heft of each dollar, Two thousand or more, He'd put in the Chollar, For he seed it was ore That runs thick up and down, without ceilin' or floor. And, says he, it's a game That's got but one stake; If I put up that same, It'll bust me or make. At fifty the foot I've entered my pile, And the whole derned cahoot I'll let soak for a while, And jest loaf around here,—say, Jim, will you smile? Tom Fakes was the chum, Down in Frisco, of Sam; And one mornin' there come These here telegram: "You can sell for five hundred, Come down by the train!" Sam By-Joed and By-Thundered,— 'Twas whistlin' quite plain, And down to Dutch Flat rushed with might and with main. He had no time to sarch, But he grabbed up a shirt That showed bilin' and starch, And a coat with less dirt. He jumped on the step As the train shoved away, And likewise was swep', All galliant and gay, Round the edge of the mounting and down to'rds the Bay. Seven minutes, to pass Through the hole by the Flat! Says he, I'm an ass If I can't shift in that! But the train behind time, Only three was enough,— It came pat as a rhyme— He was stripped to the buff When they jumped from the tunnel to daylight! 'Twas rough. What else? Here's to you! Which he sold of his feet At five hundred, 'tis true, And the same I repeat: But acquaintances, friends, They likes to divert, And the tale never ends Of Sam and his shirt, And to stop it from goin' he'd give all his dirt! Diversions of the Echo Club.

IT war Bob war the Bloomin' Flower, They know'd him on Poker Flat; He'd gouged a few down Gilgal way, But no one complained o' that. He scored his stiffs[7] on the heft of his knife— Forty I've heern 'em say; It might have been more—Bob kept his accounts In a loosish sorter way. Bob warn't a angel ter look at, And the Bible it warn't his book; He swore the most oaths that war swor'd in the camp, Or blarmedly I am mistook; But he warn't a outen-out bad 'un, And he'd got a heart you could touch; And he never draw'd iron[8] on boy or man As didn't pervoke him much. And you can't say fair as drinking War counted among his sins; For at nary a sittin' would he put down More nor fifteen whisky skins. But one day we was drinkin' and jawin', Round Haggarty's bar, and I fear That Haggarty riled him, bein' so slow, So he jist sliced off Haggarty's ear. Then Haggarty went for him savage, Instead of a-holding his jor; And Bob went for his 'leven-inch knife, And scatter'd Hag's scraps on the floor. One of Hag's friends then drew upon Bob, And shot Joe Harris instead; And I take it the bar floor got at last 'Bout knee-deep in red. But when the fun was over in there, Bob ran a-muck in the street; And he speared and potted each derned cuss As he chanced to meet. And quiet folks shut up their doors— They thought it safer, you see— All but a man with his wife and child, That was settin' down to tea. Into their parlour rushed Bloomin' Bob, To that father and mother's surprise: Jobb'd his bowie through one, and took The tother between the eyes. Then he clutched the innocent slumb'rin' babe, Jist meanin' to knock out its brains; But at that moment there reach'd his ear Some long-forgotten strains. * * * * Some soft and touching music this, Music solemn and sweet, Played by a common organ-man Down at the end of the street. And it went straight home to the digger's heart, And he did not squelch the child, But lay it down in its little cot, And rocked the same—and smiled! Talk soft! They say the angels That night smole down on Bob; And a sorter radiant halo Gleamed brightly round his nob. I can't swear to all this for certain, And it do seem a queerish start; But I won't set by and hear none o' you say Bob hadn't a tender heart!