WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 12)

A Panegyric on Oxford Ale. By a Gentleman of Oxford. Mea nec Falernae Temperant vites, neque Formiani Pocula colles. Horace. Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils, Hail Juice benignant! O’er the costly cups Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught, Let Pride’s loose sons prolong the wasteful night; My sober ev’ning let the tankard bless, With toast embrown’d, and fragrant nutmeg fraught While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffs Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast! Where no crude surfeit or intemperate joys Of lawless Bacchus reign; but o’er my soul A calm lethean creeps, in drowsy trance Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod Of magic morpheus o’er mine eyes had shed Its opiate influence. What though sore ills Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals Or cheerful candle (save the make-weight’s gleam Haply remaining) heart rejoicing ALE Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies. Meantime, not mindless of the daily task Of tutor sage, upon the learned leaves Of deep Smiglecius much I meditate, While ALE inspires, and lends its kindred aid The thought-perplexing labour to pursue Sweet helicon of logic! but if friends Congenial call me from the toilsome page, To pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt, Where ALE thy votaries in full resort Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair Of monumental oak and antique mould, That long has stood the rage of conqu’ring years Inviolate, (nor in more ample chair Smokes rosy justice, when th’important cause, Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape, In all the majesty of paunch he tries) Studious of ease, and provident, I place My gladsome limbs; while in repeated round Returns replenish’d the successive cup, And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy: While haply, to relieve the ling’ring hours In innocent delight, amusive putt On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play, The vain vicissitudes of fortune shews. Nor reckoning, name tremendous, me disturbs Nor, call’d for, chills my breast with sudden fear While on the wonted door, expressive mark, The frequent penny stands describ’d to view, In snowy characters and graceful row. Hail, Ticking! surest guardian of distress Beneath thy shelter, pennyless I quaff The cheerful cup, nor hear with hopeless heart New oysters cry’d: Though much the poet’s friend, Ne’er yet attempted in poetic strain, Accept this tribute of poetic praise! Nor proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof Of pot-house, snug to visit; wiser he The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee house Of James or Juggins, where the grateful breath Of loathed tobacco ne’er diffus’d its balm; But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem’d polite, While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler ALE: In vain—the proctor’s voice arrests their joys; Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess! Nor less by day delightful is thy draught, All-powerful ALE! whose sorrow-soothing sweet Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon, When tatter’d stockings crave my mending hand Not unexperienc’d; while the tedious toil Slides unregarded. Let the tender swain 222 Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea, Companion meet of languor loving nymph: Be mine each morn with eager appetite And hunger undissembled, to repair To friendly buttery; there on smoaking crust And foaming ALE to banquet unrestrain’d, Material breakfast! Thus in ancient days Our ancestors robust, with lib’ral cups Usher’d the morn, unlike the squeamish sons Of modern times: nor ever had the might Of Britons brave decay’d, had thus they fed, With British ALE improving British worth. With ALE irriguous undismay’d I hear The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome Importunate: whether the plaintive voice Of laundress shrill awake my startled ear; Or barber spruce with supple look intrude; Or tailor with obsequious bow advance; Or groom invade me with defying front And stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds (Whene’er or Phœbus shone with kindlier beams, Or luckier chance the borrow’d boots supply’d) Had panted oft beneath my goring steel In vain they plead or threat: all-powerful ALE Excuses new supplies, and each descends With joyless pace, and debt-despairing looks: E’en Spacey with indignant brow retires, Fiercest of duns! and conquered quits the field. Why did the Gods such various blessings pour On hapless mortals, from their grateful hands So soon the short-liv’d bounty to recall? Thus, while improvident of future ill, I quaff the luscious tankard uncontroul’d, And thoughtless riot in unlicens’d bliss; Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!) The unpitying bursar’s cross-affixing hand Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad career. Nor now the friendly pot-house longer yields A sure retreat when night o’ershades the skies; Nor Sheppard, barb’rous matron, longer gives The wonted trust, and Winter ticks no more. Thus Adam, exil’d from the beauteous scene Of Eden griev’d, no more in fragrant bower On fruits divine to feast, fresh shade and vale No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot; But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness And unrejoicing solitudes to trace; Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay resounds The Splendid Shilling’s praise in nightly gloom Of lonesome garret, pin’d for cheerful ALE; Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue, Mean follower: like him with honest love Of ALE divine inspir’d, and love of song. But long may bounteous heav’n with watchful care Avert his hapless lot! enough for me, That burning with cogenial flame, I dar’d His guiding steps a distance to pursue, And sing his favourite theme in kindred strains. Anonymous. The Oxford Sausage. Cambridge, 1822.

The Suet Dumpling. Happy the man who in his pot contains A suet dumpling; he nor feels the pains Of going dinnerless, nor griping hunger; But cheerful blows the fire with merry heart, Often revolving when the happy minute That brings it to his homely board will come. Sometimes with longing eyes he gazes hard, And views it boiling in the frothy waves; Then, with his fork or spoon applied, he feels, And turns it o’er and o’er. Now time moves slowly on; The hour-glass, which in yon old corner stands, Is often view’d; for now his stomach keen, Gnawing with greedy expectation, Almost persuades him that the sands are stopp’d. Now is his table placed near the fire, His cloth of dingy hue is spread thereon; His large clasp knife from out his pocket pull’d. (A knife which oft has dealt destruction dire To many a pudding, beef, or whate’er else Came in its way; for none it spar’d;) The earthen plate which graces his old shelf, (Which late grimalkin, taking her nightly walks In search of prey, by dire mishap Threw down; but, by good care of fortune, A piece from out the brim is only broke,) Is straight in order plac’d and all’s compleat. As when the mariner, who, long from home, Far from his native land, through seas and storms And dangerous perils, homeward does return; Sudden he sees the wish’d for port appear, Joy fills his dancing heart, and now he feeds His fancy with the pleasing expectation Of mirth and joy, and heart delighting scenes. Behold the pot has yielded up its store, And reeking hot, is placed upon the plate! The three-legg’d stool is drawn, and down he sits, Elated with the goodly prospect: sudden His knife, well plung’d, dreadful incision makes; And fork, aptly applied, his joys compleat. Now direful devastation does ensue; And half the delicious morsel is destroy’d Ere he can make a pause; which having done, He smacks his lips, and liking well the sport, Proceeds again with more deliberation, Till of the luscious cates he’s made an end. Thus happy he, envying not sumptuous feasts, Nor courtly entertainments; but well pleas’d, Feasts on his homely viands; far happier than a king, He enjoys as full content, without his cares. Anonymous.

The Copper Farthing. Happy the boy, who dwells remote from School, Whose pocket, or whose rattling-box, contains A Copper Farthing! He nor grieving hears Hot cheese-cakes cried, nor savoury mutton-pies; But with his play mates, in the dusk of eve. To well-known blacksmith’s shop, or church-yard hies; Where, mindful of the sport that joys his heart, Marbles, or chuck, he instantly begins, With undissembled pleasure in his face, To draw the circle, or to pitch the dump: While I, confin’d within the hated walls Of school, resounding with a clamorous din, By still more hated books environ’d, I, With tedious lessons and long task to get, My dismal thoughts employ; or wield my pen To mark dire characters on paper white: Not blunter pen or stronger character 223Uses the sage, a chiromancer hight, Sprung from Egyptian king, and swarthy race, Amenophis, or Ptolemy, when he, In search of stolen calf, or money lost, For wondering plowman does his art employ! Or for the wish’d return of sweet-heart dear, Or apron fine, purloin’d from hawthorn hedge, For country-maid consults directing stars, Gemini, Taurus, or chill Capricorn. Thus while my lingering hours I joyless spend, With magisterial look, and solemn step, Appears my school-master, tremendous wight! Dreaded by truant boys; how can I ’scape The expected punishment for task ungot, Aghast I stand, nor fly to covert bench, Or corner dark, to hide my hapless head; So great my terror, that it quite bereaves, My limbs the power to fly, slow he ascends The appointed seat, and on his right-hand lies The bushy rod compos’d of numerous twigs, Torn from the birchen tree, or bending willow; Which to the flesh of idle boys portends, For the neglected task, a poignant smart; And with him comes another mighty elf, Yclep’d an usher, ah, terrific name To lesser wights! who, if they hapless place In station wrong pronoun or participle, Straight, by the magic of his voice, are rais’d In attitude above their lov’d compeers, Where they, reluctant, various torments bear, Till, by their dolorous plaints, that pierce the skies, They draw kind Pity, moist-eyed goddess, down, To heal, with balm of sympathy, their woe. Ye urchins, take, ah! take peculiar care, Or, when ye wot not, much he marks your ways And in his mind revolves disastrous deeds Against th’ unwary wretch. So story tells, That chanticleer, on dunghill’s top elate, With haughty step, and watchful eye askance, Each tiny prominence he views, where haply he May find conceal’d delicious grub or worm, To which his maw insatiate forebodes Certain destruction, while, behind or bush, Or pale encompassing the farmer’s yard, Skulks Reynard, fraught with many a crafty wile T’ensnare the feather’d race, who, if they stray Beyond the precincts of their mother’s ken, He straight purloins them from her careful wing, With his sharp teeth torments their tender frame, And with the crimson gore distains their sides, Relentless; nor can all the piercing cries Of duckling, chick, or turkey, yet unfledg’d, His heart obdurate move; instant he tears Each trembling limb, devours the quivering flesh, Nor leaves a remnant of the bloody feast, Save a few fluttering feathers scatter’d round (That, with their varied plumage, whilom deck’d The slaughter’d prey), to tell the hapless tale. Thus joyless do I spend those hours the sun Illuminates; and, when the silver moon Her gentle ray dispenses, and invites The swains and maids to mix in jovial dance, Around the towering may-poles of the green, Where each gay plowman does his partner choose As love or fate directs; or o’er the lawn The needle thread, or toss the bounding ball; All cheerless I, nor dance, nor pleasing sport, Nor social mirth, nor bowl of nappy ale. Partake: but, on her drooping raven wing, Sad Melancholy hovers o’er my head, Pale Envy rankles deep within my breast, And baneful venom sheds. Grim Horror too Attends my thoughts, and fills my gloomy mind With tales of gliding sprites, in milk-white shrouds Array’d, and rattling chains, and yelling ghosts Irascible! or Fancy, mimic queen, To swift imagination’s eye presents A group of tiny elves, in circling dance, Or luscious feast employ’d; such elves as danc’d When Oberon did fair Titania wed; While I, in wishes impotent and vain, For Liberty, dear object of my hopes, The tedious moments spend; or if, perchance, Morpheus invok’d, my heavy eye-lids close, Dear Liberty still haunts my sleeping thoughts, And in a short-liv’d dream those joys I taste, Which waking are denied; and beat the hoop With dextrous hand, or run with feet as swift As feather’d arrow flies from archer’s bow: Till, from my slumber wak’d, too soon I find It was illusion all, and mockery vain. Thus, comfortless, appall’d, forlorn, I pass The tardy hours, nor of those viands taste, Which are on other boys full oft bestow’d In plenteous manner, by the liberal hand Of friend indulgent; apple-pye, or tart Or trembling custard of delicious go˚t, Or frothy syllabub in copious bowl. Hard fate for me! Yet harder still betides Me, hapless youth! My faithful top, that oft Has cheer’d my drooping spirits, and reviv’d My saddening thoughts, when o’er the pavement smooth It spins, and sleeps, and to its master’s hand Does ample justice, now, alas! become To all the rude inclemencies of weather, To time and destiny’s relentless doom A miserable victim, quite decay’d With many services, and cleft throughout All useless lies; ah! sight of saddest woe To wretched me! of every hope bereft, Of every gleam of comfort. So the wretch, Who near or Ætna or Vesuvius, dwells, Beholds the sulphurous flames, the molten rocks, And feels the ground trembling beneath his feet; Till with a horrid yawn it opens wide Before his eyes, all glaring with affright; Swallows his cultur’d vines, his gardens, house, With all his soul held dear, his lovely wife, And prattling babes, the hopes of years to come; All, all are lost, in ruin-terrible!

“Nor shall thy much-lov’d Pennington remain Unsung, unhonour’d in my votive strain. See where the soft enchantress, wandering o’er The fairy ground that Philips trod before, Exalts her chemic wand, and swift behold The basest metals ripen into gold: Beneath her magic touch, with wondering eye, We view vile copper with pure sterling vie; Nor shall the Farthing, sung by her, forbear To claim the praises of the smiling fair; Till chuck and marble shall no more employ The thoughtless leisure of the truant boy.”

The School Boy. By the Rev. Mr. Maurice, Author of the Indian Antiquities. Multa tulit, fecitque Puer. Hor. Thrice happy he, whose hours the cheering smiles Of freedom bless; who wantons uncontroul’d Where Ease invites, or Pleasure’s syren voice; Him the stern tyrant with his iron scourge Annoys not, nor the dire oppressive weight Of galling chain; but, when the blushing morn Purples the East, with eager transport wild O’er hill, o’er valley, on his panting steed He bounds exulting, as in full career With horns, and hounds, and thund’ring shouts, he drives The flying stag; or when the dusky shades Of eve, advancing, veil the darken’d sky, To neighbouring tavern, blithsome, he resorts With boon companion, where they drown their cares In sprightly bumpers, and the mantling bowl. Far otherwise within these darksome walls, Whose gates, with rows of triple steel secur’d, And many a bolt, prohibit all egress, I spend my joyless days; ere dawn appears, Rous’d from my peaceful slumbers by the sound Of awe-inspiring bell, whose every stroke Chills my heart-blood, all trembling. I descend From dreary garret, round whose ancient roof, Gaping with hideous chinks, the whistling blast Perpetual raves, and fierce-descending rains Discharge their fury—dire, lethargic dews Oppress my drowsy sense; still fancy teems With fond ideal joys, and, fir’d with what Or poets sing, or fabled tale records, Presents transporting visions; goblets crown’d With juice of nectar, or the food divine Of rich ambrosia, tempting to the sight! While, in the shade of some embowering grove, I lie reclin’d, or through Elysian plains Enraptur’d stray; where every plant and flower Send forth an odorous smell, and all the air With songs of love and melody resounds. Meanwhile benumbing cold invades my joints, As with slow faltering footsteps I resort To where, of antique mold, a lofty dome Rears its tremendous front; here all at once From thousand different tongues a mighty hum Assaults my ear; loud as the distant roar Of tumbling torrents; or as in some mart Of public note, for traffic far renown’d, Where Jew with Grecian, Turk with African, Assembled, in one general peal unite Of dreadful jargon.—Straight on wooden bench I take my seat, and con with studious care Th’appointed tasks; o’er many a puzzling page Poring intent, and sage Athenian bard, With dialect, and mood, and tense perplex’d; And conjugations varied without end. When lo! with haughty stride (in size like him Who erst, extended on the burning lake, Lay floating many a rood) his sullen brow, With lowering frowns and fearful glooms o’ercast, Enters the pedagogue; terrific sight! An ample ninefold peruke, spread immense, Luxuriant waving down his shoulders plays; His right-hand fiercely grasps an oaken staff, His left a bunch of limber twigs sustains, Call’d by the vulgar birch, Tartarean root, Whose rankling points, in blackest poison dipt, Inflict a mortal pain; and, where they light, A ghastly furrow leave.—A solemn pause ensues: As when, of old, the monarch of the floods, ’Midst raging hurricanes and battling waves, Shaking the dreadful trident, rear’d aloft His awful brow.—Sudden the furious winds Were hush’d in peace, the billows ceas’d their rage: Or when (if mighty themes like these allow An humble metaphor) the sportive race Of nibbling heroes, bent on wanton play, Beneath the shelter of some well-stor’d barn, In many an airy circle wheel around; Some eye, perchance, in private nook conceal’d, Beholds Grimalkin; instant they disperse, In headlong flight, each to his secret cell; If haply he may ’scape impending fate. Thus ceas’d the general clamour; all remain In silent terror wrapt, and thought profound. Meanwhile, the pedagogue throughout the dome His fiery eye-balls, like two blazing stars, Portentous rolls, on some unthinking wretch To shed their baleful influence; whilst his voice, Like thunder, or the cannon’s sudden burst, Three times is heard, and thrice the roofs resound! A sudden-paleness gathers in my face; Through all my limbs a stiffening horror spreads, Cold as the dews of death; nor heed my eyes Their wonted function, but in stupid gaze Ken the fell monster; from my trembling hands The time-worn volume drops; oh, dire presage Of instant woe! for now the mighty sound, Pregnant with dismal tidings, once again Strikes my astonished ears: transfix’d with awe, And senseless for a time, I stand; but soon By friendly jog or neighbouring whisper rous’d, Obey the dire injunction; straight I loose Depending brogues, and mount the lofty throne Indignant, or the black oblique ascend Of sorrowful compeer; nor long delays The monarch, from his palace stalking down, With visage all inflam’d; his sable robe Sweeping in lengthening folds along the ground: He shakes his sceptre, and th’ impending scourge Brandishes high; nor tears nor shrieks avail; But with impetuous fury it descends, Imprinting horrid wounds with fatal flow Of blood attended, and convulsive pangs. Curst be the wretch, for ever doom’d to bear Infernal whippings; he, whose savage hands First grasp’d these barbarous weapons, bitter cause Of foul disgrace, and many a dolorous groan, To hapless school-boy!—Could it not suffice I groaned and toil’d beneath the merciless weight By stern relentless tyranny impos’d; But scourges too, and cudgels, were reserv’d To goad my harrow’d sides: this wretched life Loading with heavier ills! a life expos’d To all the woes of hunger, toil, distress; Cut off from every genial source of bliss; From every bland amusement, wont to sooth The youthful breast; except when father Time, In joyful change, rolls round the festive hour, That gives this meagre, pining figure back To parent fondness, and its native roofs! Fir’d with the thought, then, then, my towering son! Rises superior to its load, and spurns Its proud oppressors; frantic with delight, My fancy riots in successive scenes 225 Of bliss and pleasures: plans and schemes are laid How best the fleeting moments to improve, Nor lose one portion of so rare a boon. But soon, too soon, the glorious scenes are fled, Scarce one short moon enjoy’d; (oh! transient state Of sublunary bliss!) by bitter change, And other scenes succeeded, what fierce pangs Then rack my soul! what ceaseless floods of grief Rush down my cheeks, while strong convulsive throbs Heave all my frame, and choak the power of speech! Forlorn I sigh, nor heed the gentle voice Of friend or stranger, who, with soothing words And slender gift, would fain beguile my woes: In vain; for what can aught avail to sooth Such raging anguish? Oft with sudden glance Before my eyes in all its horror glares That well-known form, and oft I seem to hear The thundering scourge—ah me! e’en now I feel Its deadly venom, raging as the pangs That tore Alcides, when the burning vest Prey’d on his wasted sides,—At length return’d Within these hated walls, again I mourn A sullen prisoner, till the wish’d approach Of joyous holiday or festive play Releases me: ah! freedom that must end With thee, declining Sol! All hail, ye sires For sanctity renown’d, whose glorious names, In large conspicuous characters pourtray’d, Adorn the annual chronologic page Of Wing or Partridge; oft, when sore opprest With dire calamities, the glad return Of your triumphant festivals hath cheer’d My drooping soul. Nor be thy name forgot, Illustrious George: for much to thee I owe Of heart-felt rapture, as with loyal zeal Glowing, I pile the crackling bonfire high, Or hurl the mounting rocket through the air, Or fiery whizzing serpent; thus thy name Shall still be honour’d, as through future years The circling Seasons roll their festive round. Sometimes, by dire compulsive hunger press’d, I spring the neighbouring fence, and scale the trunk Of apple-tree; or wide, o’er flowery lawns, By hedge or thicket, bend my hasty steps, Intent, with secret ambush, to surprise, The straw-built nest, and unsuspecting brood Of thrush or bull-finch; oft with watchful ken Eyeing the backward lawns, lest hostile glance Observe my footsteps, while each rustling leaf, Stirr’d by the gentle gale, alarms my fears: Then, parched beneath the burning heats of noon, I plunge into the limpid stream, that laves The silent vale; or, on its grassy banks, Beneath some oak’s majestic shade recline, Envying the vagrant fishes, as they pass, Their boon of freedom; till the distant sound Of tolling curfew warns me to depart. Thus under tyrant-pow’r I groan, oppress’d With worse than slavery; yet my free-born soul Her native warmth forgets not, nor will brook Menace, or taunt, from proud insulting peer; But summons to the field the doughty foe In single combat, ’midst th’ impartial throng, There to decide our fate: oft too, inflam’d With mutual rage, two rival armies meet Of youthful warriors; kindling at the sight, My soul is filled with vast heroic thoughts, Trusting, in martial glory, to surpass Roman or Grecian chief; instant, with shouts, The mingling squadrons join the horrid fray; No need of cannon, or the murderous steel, Wide wasting nature: rage our arms supplies. Fragments of rock are hurl’d, and showers of stones Obscure the day; nor less the brawny arm, Or knotted club, avail; high in the midst Are seen the mighty chiefs, through hosts of foes Mowing their way; and now, with tenfold rage The combat burns, full many a sanguine stream Distains the field, and many a veteran brave Lies prostrate; loud triumphant shouts ascend By turns from either host; each claims the palm Of glorious conquest; nor till night’s dun shades Involve the sky, the doubtful conflict ends. Thus, when rebellion shook the thrones of heaven, And all th’ eternal powers in battle met, High o’er the rest, with vast gigantic strides, The god-like leaders, on th’ embattled plain, Came towering, breathing forth revenge and fate: Nor less terrific joined the inferior hosts Of angel-warriors, when encountering hills Tore the rent concave—flashing with the blaze Of fiery arms, and lightnings, not of Jove; All heaven resounded, and the astonish’d deep Of chaos bellow’d with the monstrous roar.

First Prize. Thus pondering how they best might frame reply, Unto their Sovereign’s speech, mute and perplexed Sat all the Peers, awaiting who appeared To second, or oppose, or undertake The perilous attempt, till Onslow, raised Alike by merit and the Premier’s choice To that bad eminence, in glib-set speech Began: “Since silent all, great powers, ye wait Counsel and guidance, I myself have framed A loyal Address of dutiful assent, Declaring confidence in this our State And those whose prudence guides it,—fit reply!” He spoke, and from the other side uprose Granville, in act most graceful and humane Of all who fell from office, breathing forth Hatred implacable, and straight denounced Revenge, and dissolution dangerous To less than Peers. Louder applause was heard As Granville ended, and his sentence pleased, Counselling revolt, which, when the Premier saw, Lord Beaconsfield, than whom of all the powers, Save the Lord Chancellor, none higher sat, With grave aspect he rose. High on his front The curl of Vivian clung, though thinned with years, Majestic still in ruin; and with knee Somewhat advanced, as if perchance to show Its mystic circlet, thus imperious spoke: “Peers of the Empire, still ye look to me, Your chief, for still to me the popular vote Inclines, here to continue, and build up here A growing Empire, so with Freedom joined; Receive my words, nor heed inferior tongues, False to their Sovereign and to our State, Counselling ignoble ease and peaceful sloth, Not peace. Well have ye judged of old, and still 226 Ye shall judge well, discerning to avoid, By me advised, shameful dismemberment Of this great realm.” He ceased, and straight the powers Their session ended, voted the Address, Momentous issue of prolonged debate. THE BABY. (Mr. John Foote, Kensington.)

Second Prize. High on a throne of Royal state which well Beseemed the rule of Britain, and of Ind, In sable vested, save for lustrous star And circlet bright of gleaming gem and gold, Victoria proudly sat by lineage raised To that fair eminence, and by desert Thus high enthroned in her people’s hearts. Meanwhile the Black-Rod usher by command Acquaints the Commons, who, their summons called From Government and Opposition ranks, Came trooping to the bar, and thronged the floor. Behold a wonder! They, who in their place Were pompous in their port as any peer, Now fight and jostle for a standing-room; Their self-importance breathless and collapsed As Æsop’s fabled frog. But far above, And at their own convenience, like their wont, The noble lords—dukes, earls, and smaller fry— In otium cum dignitate sat, Quaint demi-gods, in crimson robes and hats Shiny and tall. After short silence then, The ms. tendered, Cairns the Royal thoughts And Beaconsfield’s concoctions thus disclosed: ‘My Lords and Gentlemen, once more well met, Or classically, “Here we are again!” The firmest friendship knits us to all Powers (Save tiffs with holy Russia and the Turk, Which every week or so must needs occur). Triumphant o’er the Afghans are our arms; For since no downfall in its grip can hold All-conquering England, though repulsed awhile, I hold it victory. Despite our loss In Zululand, and Chelmsford’s blundering, Imperium et Libertas will appear More glorious to the Jingoes than no war, With what beside in Parliament or field Hath been involved in failure. To this, then, Our policy of old we now return— How best we can contrive, by force or guile, To filch our neighbours’ lands, and keep our own.’ Brian Boru. (Mr. H. Hamilton, Holloway.) The World, February 18, 1880.

“Nine times the space that measures Day and Night To mortal men, he with his horrid crew, Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf,”

Now had th’ Archangel Trumpet, raised sublime Above the walls of Heav’n, begun to sound; All Æther took the Blast, and Hell beneath Spoke with Celestial Noise; th’ Almighty Host Hot with pursuit, and reaking with the Blood Of guilty Cherubs smear’d in sulphurous Dust, Pause at the known command of sounding Gold; And first they close the wide Tartarian Gates, Th’ impenetrable Folds on Brazen Hinge Rowl creaking horrible; the Din beneath O’ercomes the Roar of Flames, and deafens Hell. * * * * *

“——Bentley, long to wrangling schools confined, And but by books acquainted with mankind— To Milton lending sense, to Horace wit, He makes them write, what never poet writ.”

Whitsuntide. Written at Winchester College on the immediate approach of the Holidays. Hence, Thou Fur-clad Winter, fly; Sire of shivering Poverty! Who, as thou creep’st with chilblains lame To the crowded charcoal flame, With chattering teeth and ague cold, Scarce thy shaking sides canst hold While thou draw’st the deep cough out: God of Football’s noisy rout, Tumult loud and boist’rous play, The dangerous slide, the snow-ball fray. But come, thou genial Son of Spring, Whitsuntide! and with thee bring Cricket, nimble boy and light, In slippers red and drawers white, Who o’er the nicely-measur’d land Ranges around his comely band, Alert to intercept each blow, Each motion of the wary Foe. Or patient take thy quiet stand, The angle trembling in thy hand, And mark, with penetrative eye, Kissing the wave the frequent fly, Where the trout with eager spring Forms the many-circled ring, And, leaping from the silver tide, Turns to the sun his speckled side. Or lead where Health or Naiad fair With rosy cheek and dripping hair, From the sultry noon-tide beam, Dives in Itchin’s crystal stream. Thy votaries, ranged in order due, To-morrow’s wish’d-for dawn shall view, Greeting the radiant Star of Light With Matin Hymn and early kite: E’en now, these hallow’d haunts among, To thee we raise the choral song[50] And swell with echoing minstrelsy The strain of joy and liberty. If pleasures such as these await Thy genial reign, with heart elate For Thee I throw my gown aside, And hail thy coming. Whitsuntide.

Christmas. Hence, Summer, indolently laid To sleep beneath the cooling shade! Panting quick with sultry heat, Thirst and faint Fatigue retreat! Come, Christmas, father Thou of Mirth, Patron of the festive hearth, Around whose social ev’ning flame The jovial song, the winter game, The chase renewed in merry tale, The season’s carols never fail. Who, tho’ winter chill the skies Canst catch the glow of exercise, Following swift the football’s course; Or with unresisted force, Where Frost arrests the harden’d tide, Shooting along the rapid slide. Who, ere the misty, morn is grey, To some high covert hark’st away; While Sport, on lofty courser borne, In concert winds his echoing horn With the deeply thund’ring hounds, Whose clangour wild, and joyful sounds. While echo swells the doubting cry, Shake the woods with harmony. How does my eager bosom glow To give the well-known Tally-Ho! Or show, with cap inverted, where Stole away the cautious hare! Or if the blast of Winter keen Spangles o’er the silvery green, Booted high thou lov’st to tread Marking through the sedgy mead, Where the creeping moor-hen lies, Or snipes with sudden twittering rise. Or joy’st the early walk to take Where, through the pheasant-haunted brake, Oft as the well-aim’d gun resounds, The eager dashing spaniel bounds. For thee of Buck my breeches tight, Clanging whip and rowels bright, The hunter’s cap my brows to guard, And suit of sportive green’s prepar’d: For since these delights are thine, Christmas with thy bands I join.

L’Allegro; or Fun, a Parody. Off, blubbering Melancholy! Of the blue devils and book-learning born, In dusty schools forlorn; Amongst black-gowns, square caps, and books unjolly, Hunt out some college cell, Where muzzing quizzes mutter monkish schemes, And the old proctor dreams; There, in thy smutty walls, o’errun with dock, As ragged as thy smock, With rusty, fusty fellows ever dwell. But come, thou baggage fat and free, By gentles called Festivity, And by us rolling kiddies, Fun, Whom Mother Shipton, one by one, 228With two Wapping wenches more, To skipping Harlequino bore: Or whether, as some deeper say, Jack Pudding on a holiday Along with Jenny Diver romping. As he met her once a pumping. * * * * * Hip! here, jade, and bring with thee Jokes and sniggering jollity, Christmas gambols, waggish tricks, Winks, wry faces, licks and kicks, Such as fall from Moggy’s, knuckles, And love to live about her buckles; Game, that hobbling watchmen boxes, And Horse-laugh hugging both his doxies; Come, and kick it as you go, On the stumping hornpipe-toe: And in thy right hand haul with thee The Mountain brim French liberty. And if I give puffing due, Fun, admit me of thy crew, To pig with her, and pig with thee, In everlasting frolicks free: To hear the sweep begin his beat, And squalling startle the dull street, From his watch-box in the alley Till the watch at six doth sally; Then to go, in spite of sleep, And at the window cry, “Sweep! sweep!” Through the street-door, or the area, Or, in the country, through the dairy; While the dustman, with his din, Bawls and rings to be let in, And at the fore, or the back-door, Slowly plods his jades before. Oft hearing the sow-gelder’s horn Harshly rouse the snoring morn, From the side of a large square, Through the long street grunting far. Sometimes walking I’ll be seen By Tower-hill, or Moorfields green, Right against Old Bedlam-gate, Where the mock king begins his state, Crown’d with straw, and rob’d with rags, Cover’d o’er with jags and tags, While the keeper near at hand Bullies those who leave their stand; And milk-maid’s screams go through your ears, And grinders sharpen rusty sheers, And every crier squalls his cry Under each window he goes by. Straight mine eye hath caught new gambols, While round and round this town it rambles; Sloppy streets and foggy day, Where the blundering folks do stray! Pavements, on whose slippery flags Swearing coach-men drive their nags; Barbers jostled ’gainst your side, Narrow streets, and gutters wide. Grub-street garrets now it sees, To the muse open and the breeze, Where perhaps some scribbler hungers, The hack of neighbouring newsmongers, Hard by, a tinker’s furnace smokes, From betwixt two pastry-cooks, Where dingy Dick and Peggy, met, Are at their scurvy dinner set, Of cow-heel, and such cellar messes, Which the splay-foot Rachael dresses; And then in haste the shop she leaves, And with the boy the bellows heaves; Or if ’tis late, and shop is shut, Scrubs at the pump her face from smut, Sometimes, all for sights agog, To t’other end of the town I jog. When St. James’s bells ring round, And the royal fiddles sound, And young and old dance down the tune, In honour of the forth of June; Till candles fail and eyes are sore, Then home we hie to talk it o’er, With stories told of many a treat, How Lady Swab the sweetmeats eat; She was pinch’d and something worse, And she was fobb’d and lost her purse, Tell how the drudging Weltjee sweat, To bake his custards duly set, When in one night, ere clock went seven, His ’prentice-lad had robb’d the oven Of more than twenty hands had put in; Then lies him down, a little glutton, Stretch’d lumbering ’fore the fire, they tell ye, And bakes the custards in his belly; Then crop-sick down the stairs he flings Before his master’s bell yet rings, Thus done the tales, to bed they creep By hoofs and wheels soon lull’d to sleep. But the city takes me then, And the hums of busy men, Where throngs of train-band captains bold In time of peace fierce meetings hold, With stores of stock-jobbers, whose lies Work change of stocks and bankruptcies; Where bulls and bears alike contend To get the cash they dare not spend. Then let aldermen appear, In scarlet robes, with chandelier, And city feasts and gluttony, With balls upon the lord mayor’s day; Sights that young ’prentices remember, Sleeping or waking, all November. Then to the play-houses anon, If Quick or Bannister be one; Or drollest Parsons, child of Drury, Bawls out his damns with comic fury, And ever, against hum-drum cares, Sing me some of Dibdin’s airs, Married to his own queer wit, Such as my shaking sides may split, In notes, with many a jolly bout, Near Beaufort Buildings oft roar’d out, With Wagging curls and smirk so cunning, His rig on many a booby running, Exposing all the ways and phizzes Of “wags, and oddities and quizzes,” That Shuter’s self might heave his head From drunken snoozes, on a bed Of pot-house benches sprawl’d, and hear Such laughing songs as won the ear Of all the town, his slip to cover, Whene’er he met ’em half-seas over. Freaks like these if thou canst give, Fun, with thee I wish to live. Anonymous.

The Hare Hunter. A Burlesque imitation of various parts of Milton’s L’Allegro and Il Penseroso. Lo I, who erst, at break of day, To Nelston Wiggs[51] betook my way, Alarming all the country round With barbarous shout and yelping hound; And many a fox in vain pursued To Bardon Hill[51] or Button Wood; And oft returned in evening dark With empty hands from Horsely Park;[51] And thought myself a clever lad, While all the neighbours thought me mad; Now condescend with nicest care To hunt the hedge-row for a hare. Hence, Fox-hunting! thou fiend forlorn, Of Uproar wild and Tumult born: No more expect me on the hill, Obedient to thy summons shrill, Where late with joy I saw thee stand, The whip new corded in thine hand, In boots thy legs entrenched strong, Thy heels well arm’d with rowels long, The cap close fitted to thy head, The blue plush coat, the waistcoat red; Thy person trim, succinct, and light Breechee’d high in buckskin tight; Mounted on a courser fleet, With ardent eyes and pawing feet; Hence, with thy tall tail-curling hound, Of tongue so shrill and ears so round. No more I listen to the noise Of “wind him, rogues,” and “to him boys,” The “touch,” the “drag,” and “tallihoe,” And “gone away,” and “there they go;” And how we earth’d him at Crick Chase, Or lost him at some cursed place; From all such ills that did attend us, Henceforth, good Jupiter, defend us! But come, thou genius of “Loo Whoore,” Sober, steadfast, and demure, Clad in a coat of clumsy size, Of double drab or knotted frieze, O’er which is drawn the warm surtout With flourish’d girdle bound about; Thy vacant forehead broad and fat, Shadow’d beneath the round-cropp’d hat. Sweet power of Thistle-whipping, hail! Whom in a solitary vale To prone-eyed Dulness long of yore The moping nymph Tantarra bore. Come, but keep your wonted state On a horse of sluggish gait; Your looks commencing with the ground, Where the close-crouching hare is found; And as across the lands you creep, Forget yourself and fall asleep Till the dull steed shall break your nap, Stumbling through the accustom’d gap. And first the waddling beagle bring, That looks as just escaped the string, With sneaking tail and heavy head, Such as by neighbour Dash are bred; And join sharp Cold with Ache severe, And Patience, that can bear to hear The pack with melancholy tone Around the scented hillock moan, And with such discord as they keep, Tempt pitying travellers to weep. Me, Genius, shalt thou often find On some hill side beneath the wind, On fallows rough or stubbles dry, Where the lone leveret loves to lie, While such mean merriment invites, Doing thy sadly-pleasing rites. Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I see the fat pack puzzling round, Where the game went long before, Sounding sad with sullen roar; With slow-paced heed, and tedious cunning, Through all her artful mazes running, Untwisting every knotty wile Both of the double and the foil; In notes with many a winding bout Of drowsy murmurings long-drawn out, Bewailing their dull master’s folly, Most pitiful, most melancholy, But chiefly let the Southern’s tongue Drag its deep dismal tone along, In bellowings loud, and utterance hoarse, Such as its mournful way may force Through all my hearing’s cavities, And bring the tears into my eyes. But let my due sight never fail, Where beaten paths divide the vale, With anxious skill and cunning care, To prick the footsteps of the hare, While I cheer the beagle’s toil, With “hoo the way,” and “hark the foil!” And when at last old age and gout Prevent my longer going out, O may I from my easy chair The wonders of my youth declare, Extol at large myself and steed, And talk of hounds of my old breed, Till I become through neighbouring shires The oracle of country squires. These pleasures, Hare Hunting, impart, And I am thine with all my heart. Mundy. Elegant Extracts from the British Poets, 1824.

Fashion. A Paraphrase of L’Allegro. Hence, loath’d vulgarity, Of Ignorance and native Dullness bred, In low unwholesome shed, ’Mongst thieves and drabs, and street sweeps, asking charity: Find some suburban haunt, Where the spruce ’prentice treats his flashy mate, And smoking cits debate: Or at a dowdy rout, or ticket ball, Giv’n at Freemason’s hall, With tawdry clothes and liveries ever flaunt. But come, thou nymph of slender waist, Known early by the name of Taste. And now denominated Fashion, Whom erst, by no unlawful passion, 230Pleasure’s fair nymph, on Britain’s shore, To radiant ey’d Apollo bore: Or Hermes (so the grave dispute is) The frolic god of chemist beauties, Found Lady Someone in the dark As once they met at — — Park, There, on a couch of damask blue, And squabs, and cushions, damask too, Fill’d her with thee, thou white-arm’d fair, So delicate and de bon air. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Steed, and light hung Tilbury, Undiscoverable rouge, Polish’d boots; and neckcloth huge, (Such as might deck a Dandy’s cheek, And draw the gazers for a week.) Mackintosh’s racy phrase, And wit, that peerless Ward might praise. Come, and let your steps be bent With a lively measurement, And bring the proper airs and graces, That make their way in certain places: And, if I give thee honour due Fashion, enroll me with the few, With Spencer, Sidney Smith, and thee, In a select society: To ride when many a lady fair, in Her morning veil begins her airing, And with the nurse and children stow’d, Drives down the Park, or Chelsea Road: Then to stop in spite of sorrow, And through the window bid good morrow Of vis-a-vis, or barouchette, Or half-open landaulet: While little Burke, with lively din, Scatters his stock of trifles thin, And at the Bridge, or Grosvenor Gate, Briskly bids his horses wait; Oft listening how the Catalani Rouses at night the applauding many, In some opera of Mozart, Winning the eye, the ear, the heart. Then in the round room not unseen,[52] Attending dames of noble mien, Right to the door in Market Lane, Where chairmen range their jostling train, And footmen stand with torch alight, In their thousand liveries dight, While the doorkeeper on the stairs, Bawls for the Marchionesses’ chairs, And young dragoons enjoy the crowd, And dowagers inveigh aloud, And lovers write a hasty scrawl, Upon the ticket of a shawl. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, As the circling crowd it measures; Virgins old with tresses gray, That in corkscrew curls do stray; Ladies, on whose softer breast, Gallants receive a hope of rest; Little feet with sandals tied, Shallow heads and shoulders wide; Necks and throats of lovely form, Bosom’d high in tippet warm, Where some beauty spreads her snare, The envy of surrounding fair. Hard by, the Op’ra being past, To some small supper let me haste, Where ladies, wits, and poets met, Are at their various banquet set, Of fifty little tempting messes, Which the neat-handed Gunter dresses: And there with satisfaction see The pullet and the early pea, Or, if the sultry dog-star reign, The melon, ice, and cool champagne. Sometimes, to a late delight Argyll advertisements invite, Where the wreathed waltz goes round, Or English tunes more briskly sound, To twice a hundred feet or more, Dancing on the chalky floor: And wise mama, well pleased to see Her daughter paired with high degree, Stays till the daylight glares amain: Then in the carriage home again, With stories told, of many a bow, And civil speech from so-and-so. She was asked to dance, she said, But scarcely down the middle led, Because his Lordship only thought, How soonest to find out a spot, Where, seated by her side, unheard, He whispered many a pretty word, Such as no poet could excel! Then, having paid his court so well, Most manifestly meaning marriage, He fetch’d the shawls and call’d the carriage, Handed her from the crowded door, And watched till she was seen no more. Thus done the tales, the flutt’ring fair Go up to bed, and curl their hair. Country houses please me too, And the jocund Christmas crew, Where chiefs of adverse politics Awhile in social circle mix, And tenants come, whose country franchise Connects them with the higher branches, Since all the great alike contend For votes, on which they all depend. Let affability be there, With cordial hand and friendly air. And private play and glittering fête, To make the rustic gentry prate,— Such joys as fill young ladies’ heads, Who judge from books of masquerades. Then will I to St. Stephen’s stray, If aught be moved by Castlereagh, Or matchless Canning mean to roll, His thunders o’er the subject soul. And sometimes, to divert my cares, Give me some flirt, with joyous airs, Married a girl, a widow now, Such as will hear each playful vow, Too young to lay upon the shelf: Meaning—as little as myself:— Still speaking, singing, walking, running, With wanton heed and giddy cunning, With a good mien to testify Her converse with good company, That Chesterfield might lift his eyes From the dark Tartarus where he lies, Beholding in her air and gait, 231 Graces that almost compensate The blunders of his awkward son And half the harm his book has done. These delights if thou canst give, Fashion, with thee I wish to live. Posthumous Parodies. (John Miller, London, 1814.)

I. Hence, chroniclers of Time, Makers of almanacs and strange predictions, Held by the wise as fictions; Begone, and wallow in the river’s slime, To calculate the tides; Or be your bed in bedlamitic cell, Where moon-calves best may dwell, To note her phases and her quarters dark, That lovers well may mark, What silvery hour for meeting best provides, But here your art is wanted not, This day—the ne’er-to-be-forgot Makes an Era of its own; And the dark Cimmerian throne Of Erebus and Nox, no more Encumbers Lethe’s barren shore, In chains of silence to oppress The victims of forgetfulness. * * * * * III. In centennial cycle we, With pomp, and feast, and revelry, Multitudinously meet, Natal day of Bard to greet, Fauns and Dryads, Sylph and Fairy, Hail this epoch centenary. See on yonder mountain top Caledonia plays Scotch-hop With swimming eye and mazy gait, (By “Mountain dew” inebriate) Summons every loyal chiel To reel the dance and dance the reel; While centuries come, and centuries go “On the light fantastic toe.” * * * * * XII. Such our day!—from morning’s light Till what time the angular flight Of the bat suggests that we Zig-zag home as well as he, Thus the mazy path we’ll go Still on the fantastic toe, Though the lightness all hath fled From the foot into the head. After festal elevation, Each descends to’s proper station Where the locomotive’s snorting, And the careful guard escorting; Or, it may be, at the feasts’ end, Some seek busses to the West End, Some with frowns and some with smiles, Debating how they’ll gang their miles, Ev’n as, through life, it doth prevail, That some do buss it,—some do rail.

Hence, hateful idleness, Thou thing accursed, of parents dread begot, And with thy selfish lot Betake thee where my eyes shall see thee less; For, sprung from such a race, Ennui thy mother, and thy father Vice, Thou never couldst be nice. Begone, where I no more shall see thy face. Come, goddess of another sort, Yclep’d by men and mortals, Sport! Come, offspring of a noble pair. Thy mother Leisure, sweet and fair, And Health thy Father, stout and strong. Come, ’tis of thee I make my song. First let me pray the tuneful Nine To aid me with a ray divine, To guide me as I sweep the string, And teach me rightly how to sing; For, sooth, no classic bard, I deem, Could ever find a nobler theme; Nay, garbed in language rich and terse, And married to immortal verse, With fairy figures richly dight, How can it fail to give delight? It is a wintry holyday, When young and old come out to play; The air is crisp, the day is bright, In sooth it is a goodly sight. As to the trysting place they hie, Right merrily the time goes by, With sportive quip, and pungent pun, With hearty laugh, and joyous fun. Then, hasting to a spot remote, Each player doffs his outer coat, And shows himself in vesture trim, Which closely fits each lissome limb; Then to the ground speeds with a will, To prove his prowess and his skill. 232 The rival chiefs, a worthy pair, Now toss the coin high in air, And he whom fortune doth befriend Makes choice of goal to guard and fend; The while his foe ’mid joyous cry First drives the aëry ball on high. Now listen to the merry din, And see the much-loved sport begin. The ball swift travels through the air, Now here, now there, and everywhere, Now sailing on with lofty bound, Now creeping slowly o’er the ground. The players now, an eager crew, The well encasèd ball pursue, Rush on and kick it as they go, With the light but well-shod toe. Now see a youth fly o’er the ground, And deftly catch it on the bound; Tight in his grasp he holds his prize, To evade the foe as on he flies. Then loud is heard the welcome cry “A scrummage, to the rescue hie!” And, with a roar of wild delight, Rush all to “scrummage,” strangely hight. And now indeed a wondrous scene Is acted on the village green; For all who play, save three or four, Rush madly on, at least a score Of heads and shoulders quickly meet, And twice as many eager feet. Now many a toe meets many a shin And leaves its mark on manly skin, And elbows, seeking cosy cribs, Find lodgment in opposing ribs; And all seem to yon blue-eyed lass A seething, surging, kicking mass. And now, while still they push and shout, The well-kicked ball creeps slowly out. A nimble-footed youth espies And after it like lightning flies, And, ere his foes see through the trick, Essays a deftly-aimèd kick. “Home,” cries the keeper of the goal, Too late from scrummage rush the shoal, The ball skims o’er the opposing hosts, And gently drops between the posts. Now change they sides, and soon again The ball is speeding o’er the plain, While after it each eager wight Scampers in transports of delight. Until at length he respite seeks, With wearied limbs but rosy cheeks. His mud-bespattered garments shows How oft on Earth he’s laid him low; But still this brings him no remorce, He feels the hot blood through him course, And knows that in his much-loved game, He’s found both pleasure, health, and fame. Pastime, September 7, 1883.

An Epitaph. On the admirable Dramatic Poet, William Shakespeare. What needs my Shakespeare for his honour’d bones, The labour of an age in pilèd stones? Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a starry pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What needs’t thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou, in our wonder and astonishment, Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, The easy numbers flow; and that each heart Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book, Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, That Kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die. John Milton.

AN EPITAPH (CONSIDERABLY) AFTER MILTON. On that admirable, but lately maligned Dramatic Poet, the divine Williams. “What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones,” The veneration of Smith, Brown, and Jones? Or that his hallowed genius should be hid From dunces by pedantic Form bestrid? “Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,” What matter if Ponsard asperse thy name? That is no wonder, no astonishment: All are not pedants on the Continent. For whilst Teutonic poetry and art Esteem thy numbers, and the German heart Prizes the leaves of thine unvalued book, What, if thou by a booby art mistook? Thou, a dull coxcomb of his rules bereaving, Hast stupified him by too much conceiving. Calling thee obsolete bonhomme!—the fly Has buzzed about thy glory—let him die.

Mr. Milton modernised. What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The sovereigns of Brown, Robinson and Jones? Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a Hepworth-Dixon pyramid? Dear son of memory—great heir of fame, Why all these little names tacked to thy name? Thou may’st feel wonder and astonishment At all this row about thy monument, While to the shame of our dramatic art, Thy plays of our stage banquet make no part. Methinks, t’were well, blushing, to bring to book, Praises so Empty, though so big they look, And with our stage ungraced of thy conceiving, Own ourselves arrant humbugs, self-deceiving; Meanwhile do thou in quiet Stratford lie, Heedless of all this buzzing of small fry.

Hence, loathed Mathematics! Of lecturer and blackest tutor born, In lecture-room forlorn, Mongst horrid quizzes, bloods, and bucks unholy; Find out some uncouth cell, Where pallid study spreads his midnight wings, And dismal ditties sings; There, mid’st unhallow’d souls, with sapless brain, Compose thy sober train, And in the mind of Reading Quizzes dwell From Gradus ad Cantabrigiam, by a Brace of Cantabs, London, John Hearne, 1824.

A Seaside Sonnet. After Milton-Oysters. How jaunty the jelly-fish frolic and roar, How wildly the winkles express their delight, Though Robinson Crusoe would frown in affright. On the footprints, by ocean all foam fizzled o’er, Of an amber-shod maiden who looks to the Nore, And heeds not her havoc—for heaving in sight Is a barque, and on board her belovèd,—but “tight” As never was British belovèd before.’ Alas! for that maiden awaiting her mate— She knew not the ways of the sons of the wave, When she bade him go ride at a rollicking rate O’er the billow that bounds; and she knows not her brave Hath struggled with “swipes” and sea sickness and fate, Till gone with his “grub” is the joy that she gave. Judy, September 8, 1880.

JOHN DRYDEN’S EPIGRAM ON MILTON Three Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn: The First in loftiness of thought surpassed; The Next in majesty; in both the Last. The force of Nature could no farther go: To make a third, she joined the former two.

Three great wise men in the same era born, Britannia’s happy island did adorn. Henley in cure of souls displayed his skill, Rock shone in physic, and in both John Hill; The force of nature could no farther go, To make a third she join’d the other two.

“For physic and farces, his equal there scarce is: His farces are physic, his physic a farce is.”

“Four forgers[53], born in one prolific age, Much critical acumen did engage: The first was soon by Doughty Douglas scar’d, Tho’ Johnson would have screen’d him had he dar’d. The next had all the cunning of a Scot, The third, invention, genius—nay, what not? Fraud now exhausted, only could dispense To her fourth Son their threefold impudence.”

“Three colonels in three distant counties born, Armagh, Sligo, and Lincoln did adorn; The first in direct bigotry surpass’d, The next in impudence, in both the last. The force of nature could no farther go, To beard the third she shaved the other two.”

“Three members, in three distant counties born, Cork, Clare, and Tipperary did adorn: The first in strength of impudence surpassed; The next in lying; and in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go— To beard the third, she shaved the former two.”

A Pen-sive Thought. Three Pens for three essential virtues famed, The Pickwick, Owl, and Waverley were named, The first in flexibility surpassed, In ease the next, in elegance the last. These points, united with attractions new, Have yielded other boons, the Phæton and Hindoo. Advertisement.

The Memorial Funds. (Mr. Punch’s Contribution.) Hemans. Hallam. Hogg. Three H’s, in three different countries born, Hibernia, Albion, Caledon adorn. The first in gentlest Poesy surpassed, The next in Justice, Humour claims the last. Send tribute to the Name most dear to you, But, reader, don’t neglect the other two. Punch, April 7, 1860.

Three brightest blessings of this thirsty race, (Whence sprung and when I don’t propose to trace); Pale brandy, potent spirit of the night, Brisk soda, welcome when the morn is bright; To make the third combine the other two, The force of Nature can no further go. Sexton. Three wishes granted to a jolly tar, Who east, and west, and south had travelled far. First, “grog enough to float a fleet!” The next Was, “all the baccy in the world!” Perplext, Imagination could no further go; “More grog and baccy!” was the final throw. Guinea Pig. Three Generals in three different counties born, England, Madras, Suakin did adorn. The first in science and success surpassed; The next in timely dash; in all the last The force of nature could no further go, To frame[54] the third she joined the other two. Captain Rock. Athenian quidnuncs when they wished to fill Their ears with gossip hastened to Mars’ Hill; Whilst Romans (ever destitute of humour) Denounced it as the lying tongues of Rumour. Wiser than either, modern wit, forsooth, Sells it for sixpence, and proclaims it Truth. Long Lane. Three coxcombs in three recent ages born, France, Cambria, and England did adorn; The first for cut and fit[55] was Fashion’s glass, The next in mould of form[56] none could surpass; Then Nature, travailing, with cunning tool, Joined Form and Fashion[57] in the third, a fool. Observer. Three champion bats in distant counties born, Kent, Nottingham, and Gloucester did adorn; The first in strong defensive drives surpassed, The next in grand leg-hits, in both the last. Old England’s genius could no further go; Australia boasts the champion batsman now. Hegira. Three insects fell amid fair summer’s joy, England and other countries do annoy; The first is felt, alas! not seen nor heard; The next seen, heard, and felt; but oh! the third! Ferocious nature could no fiercer grow, Joined midge and gnat to make the mosquito. Mordecai. Three nations’ emblems in one posy twined— Shamrock and thistle with the rose combined! One humour hath, one shrewdness for her dower; The third with both endowed, plus wealth and power! E’en Nature’s self, will own herself outdone When (happy exploit!) all are blent in one! The White Lily. Three “savants” in this nineteenth century born Have racked our brains with ethics night and morn; One tunes his harp to sound in many ears;[58] The next knows all, yet knows not what he fears.[59] Exhausted nature felt her forces sink— To make a third she found the “Missing Link.”[60] Rosbeg. Three young men in distant cities born, Did Paris, London, and New York adorn; The first, a beau, in manners far surpassed, The dandy next, in dress outdid the last; The force of nature could no further go, To make a Masher joined the other two. Deux Nigauds.

Three party leaders—Gladstone, Stafford North- Cote, and for third the leader of the “fourth;” the first in majesty of speech surpassed, The next in courtesy, in nil the last. Exhausted nature could no further go, She’d spent her powers on the other two. Miggles. 235 Three members as three trusty Jingoes sworn, Eye, Bridport town, and Woodstock did adorn; The first in rabidness of talk surpassed, The next in idiocy, in both the last. The force of Madness could no further go— To make a third she joined the other two. Aramis. Three leaders ’mong the Opposition stand, Two with a “dual control” do guide that band, The first, a haughty lord with fire doth speak, The next, less eloquent, is mild and meek. For long the Tories could no better show, But now the last[61] will oust the other two. Alfred. Three Statesmen in our happy island dwell, S. N. and C.—their names I may not tell. The first a nobleman of high degree; The next a commoner; each chief would be. The force of folly could no higher go Than that the third should try to be it too. Dryasdust. Three statesmen from three different hamlets sent, Eye, Woodstock, Bridport, fitly represent; The first excels in universal lore, The next in impudence, the last a bore. The force of nature nothing more could do, ’Twould have been merciful to make but two. Nedyrd. Three statesmen wish to lead the Tory crowd; The first’s a gartered Marquis, thundering loud, His temper fiery as the days in June; Then comes a courteous, mild, old pantaloon; The third’s too saucy, and too full of cheek. Name thy successor—shade of Dizzy speak! W. A. P. Three Statesmen with three different “fads,” were born, Two still our blood-stained Cabinet adorn; The first in felling trees and men surpassed, The next in frothy speech, Caucus the last. Britannia’s patience can no further go, For Will, and Jack, are “not a patch” on Joe! J. McGrigor Allan. Three statesmen in the age now waning born, France, Germany, and England did adorn; The first in wit and eloquence surpassed, The next in statesmanship, in all the last; For Nature in her gifts had been so free, To make a third she had to join the three. H. Marsh Green. Three Statesmen, by three rival parties sent, North Devon, Cork, Midlothian, represent; The first on apathy his censure cast, The next on energy—on both the last. Now hot, now cold, in doubt Dame Nature ran, And mixed the two to form the Grand Old Man. Brum Rogers. Three Irishmen on England’s downfall bent, Cork, Monaghan, and Cavan represent; The first delights in treasonable word, The next in spitefulness, in both the third; Though first and second as big traitors figure, Nature has made the last and least a Biggar. Indicus. Three statesmen now the Tory party head— Salisbury and Stafford, Randolph, too, ’tis said. The first in weak verbosity surpassed, The next in nothing, in untruths the last. Nature was “stumped,” for join them as she can, Out of the three she’ll never make a man. Action Front. Three statesmen in one lucky cycle born, Bucks, Lothian, and Woodstock did adorn; The first in epigram and schemes surpassed, The next in home affairs, in both the last. The force of nature could no further go, To make a third she joined the other two. Timon. Three members, at three different moments born, The British House of Commons now adorn; The first in “impudence” none can surpass, The next would rob us of a “friendly glass;” The third, to many known as “faithless Jo,” Is “Biggar” far than both the other two. Guelder Rose. Three leaders, in the nineteenth century born, The Tories of the present time adorn. For flouts and sneers Lord Salisbury’s not surpassed; But Stafford’s slow and cautious to the last. The force of nature could no further go— To Churchill make she joined the other two. Mercury Maker. Three Tories in two neighbouring Chambers placed, Lords, Commons, and a “Four-in-hand” team graced; The first in fire of eloquence surpassed, The next in doggedness, in both the last;[62] But bigger bodies nature could not grow— To make the third she dwarfed the other two. F. A. Sw. Three parties did our Parliament adorn, Whigs, Parnellites, and Tories (bigots born!) The first verbose exuberance ne’er lack’d, The next, when noisy, by the third were sack’d; The force of nature could yet further go, And made a “Fourth,” frail, frivolous, and few. Beautiful Sam. Sir Wilfrid Lawson. Three noodles in two distant countries born, Iberia and England did adorn; In one Quixote the Don—consummate ass! In t’other—Colonel Sibthorpe did surpass; The force of folly could no further go, To make a third, she join’d the other two. Grace. 236 Pitt. Fox. Gladstone. Three famous statesmen by our England bred, In turn her senate’s van have ably led; The first in wealth of eloquence did shine, The next in lore, the third doth these combine; Last in succession, foremost in degree, The Premier of Prime Ministers is he. Ivy Green.

Irving, Bancroft, and Toole. Three actors on three London stages play, Who, by their art, wile many hours away; The first in tragedy is unsurpassed; The next in comedy; in farce the last. Tho’ Nature works by neither line nor rule, Whene’er at play she needs must have a Toole. Jack. Three actors on three different stages known— Toole, Sullivan, and Irving thus are shown. The first in comedy, his “forte” was cast; The next in tragedy; in both the last; And captious critics, here and o’er the main, Admire, condemn, then praise him up again. Crystal Palace. Three players in the lap of Genius born, France, Italy, and England each adorn, The first in brilliancy of style surpassed; The next in dignity—in power the last. Dramatic Art, when pressed to further go, To make an “Irving” joined the other two. Siva. Three managers, the glory of our age, Delight the patrons of the British stage. High art to scenic glory Irving marries, Extravaganza finds her home with Harris. Whilst Wilson Barrett—enterprising man— Combines them both, and gives us Claudian. La Nina. Three lovely women grace the modern stage, A perfect face and form make one[63] the rage; And one,[64] depicting passions strong or sweet, Brings thousands breathless, spell bound to her feet. Nature, by stint, to mar perfection loth, Upon the last[65] has showered the charms of both. Truth, March 27, 1884.

To George Cruikshank. On seeing, in the Country, his Picture of “The Bottle.” Artist, whose hand, with horror winged hath torn From the rank life of towns this leaf! and flung The prodigy of full-blown crime among Valleys and men to middle fortune born, Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn— Say, what shall calm us, when such guests intrude, Like comets on the heavenly solitude? Shall breathless glades, cheered by shy Dian’s horn, Cold-bubbling springs, or caves! Not so! The soul Breasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says: ‘Why tremble? True, the nobleness of man May be by man effaced; man can control To pain, to death, the bent of his own days. Know thou the worst! So much, not more, he can.’ Matthew Arnold.

First Prize. Actor, whose horror-moving power hath been The wonder of the town this many a night— A realistic prodigy, delight Of those who from the upper galleries lean, Eager to watch that dread delirium scene,— Say, what exciting thing’s similitude Upon our startled stage will next intrude, And make us breathless? Dion’s fair Colleen, Half-drowning in the cave? Not so; the gods Now loudly clamour for some fiercer play More horrors! True, the drama’s noble plan May be by such defaced; but what’s the odds? Let pain and death be mimicked, if they pay: Degrade us more not even Zola can! V.A.C.A. (V. Amcotts.)

Second Prize. Actor, whose art, with horror clothed, hath torn From rank Parisian life this leaf, and flung This portraiture of loathsome curse among Women and men in calmer Britain born, Not guiltless of excess, yet not quite lorn Of decent instincts,—what shall calm us, say, When ghastly sights like these brood o’er our way? Shall Corneville’s hackneyed chimes, or jokes well worn From Pinafore? Not so! Each reasoning soul Speaks for itself, and, fiercely shuddering, says, ‘Why nauseate us thus? The drama’s plan May be to paint vice black; but, O, control Of pain and death these sickening displays! Can they do good? We know that harm they can.’ Fess-Gules. (Goymour Cuthbert., a.r.i.b.a.)

Artist in acting, who hast seized a part From the black dens of Paris for your own, Wherein the perfect work of drink is shown To eager lookers shivering at heart— Some drunken, none too brutalised to start,— Can subtlest skill excuse the hideous tale, And fine perception calm the inner wail, In breathless watching of victorious art And well-trained imitation? Nay, the soul Is wroth at last, and, strained too greatly, cries, ‘Record it not! Man that was made so fair Can sink below all apedom, till control Of self is lost, and soul and body dies; But mimicry of this we will not bear.’ Nocturne.

Actor, whose art, like a fell grapnel, drags Down on the bottom of the stream of crime, Sinks and returns, producing every time Some shape deform of misery and rags, Steeped in pollution, overgrown with flags, Weeds of debauchery,—let a drunkard’s cries Grate on our ears no longer! Must our eyes Gaze on his death pang? Hast no other gags To move thy hearers’ laughter but his speech? Stirs else no toothpick in their languid lips? Else will no crutch be lifted to applaud? Have they such souls no milder sight can teach, Save glorious manhood’s absolute eclipse? How foul is vice, how much to be abhorred! Caraway.

The Forsaken Merman. Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below! Now my brothers call from the day, Now the great winds shoreward blow, Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away! This way, this way! Call her once before you go— Call once yet! In a voice that she will know: ‘Margaret! Margaret!’ Children’s voices should be dear, (Call once more) to a mother’s ear; Children’s voices, wild with pain— Surely she will come again! Call her once and come away; This way, this way! Mother dear, we cannot stay! The wild white horses foam and fret! Margaret! Margaret! Come, dear children, come away down; Call no more! One last look at the white-wall’d town, And the little grey church on the windy shore; Then come down! She will not come though you call all day; Come away, come away! * * * * * But children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starr’d with broom, And high rocks throw mildly On the blanch’d sands a gloom; Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie, Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand hills, At the white, sleeping town; 238 At the church on the hill-side— And then come back down. Singing: “There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she! She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea.” Matthew Arnold.

First Prize. Rejected Addresses, by Tracy Turnerelli. Come, dear Dizzy, nor say me nay— Come, ere I go distraught; Take the garland of golden bay, Take what the people’s pennies bought, Take what the goldsmith richly wrought. Must I carry the gift away Into the shires to make it pay? Dizzy dear, ah, why not say, This way, this way? I call again with a conscience clear (’Tis no sin)— Call aloud till the deaf might hear— Benjamin! Benjamin! Flattering voices should be dear (One call more) to statesman’s ear; Flattering voices fired by zeal For the statesman’s weal. Benjamin! Benjamin! Can it be true he means that nay? (One call more ere I go away.) Once he was poor as poor as could be, And he wore no Garter below his knee; He worked his way to the top of the tree, For the Earl is clever and scholarly. He swayed, like others, from side to side, And was apt at taking the turn of tide. Then came Berlin and the Jingoes’ King Wed ‘Peace with Honour,’ like gold the ring; And now the Prime Minister says me nay To my honeyed words and my wreath of bay. Dizzy dear, why say me nay? (One call more.) He will not come, though I call all day— Shut is the door. I go, I leave him, I call no more; I call no more, yet my heart is sore; The loved one rejects me— How cruel is he! He leaves us for ever— The wreath and T. T. Observer. (Mrs. Winsloe.)

Second Prize. Turnerelli loq. Come, my people, let us go hence, Bearing the wreath of gold; Back to the towns that gave sums immense, Back with a tale that must be told; Back with a wreath that mayn’t be sold, E’en to defray the vast expense Of raising fifty thousand pence. Come, my people, let us go hence. Away, away! Call him once more by his name Pleadingly, By the name best known to fame— Disraeli, Disraeli. That name surely should be dear To the commoner grown a peer— Dizzy (call him once again)! Try to rouse some olden strain; Only once, and then away, We will not stay. Disraeli, do you quite forget The people’s crown for the coronet? Away, away! Golden leaves, that golden turn When autumn’s glories begin to burn, Will turn dull brown and fade away. But the wreath that in my hands I hold Was copper first, and turned to gold, And shall be gold for aye. People dear, is it but three years Since he went to join the Peers? Once he sat where I would be, Where still meets the august confraternity Of the Commons in conclave free; But his dreams were ever of gilded halls, And he sighed for a crown with eight golden balls, Though his race mostly hang o’er their doors but three. Vritra. (Miss M. C. Kilburn.)

O Tracy, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of some other tree! Dust from a dusty Olive’s sprays Has dimmed the lustre of those days. I would my laurels were forgot— O Turnerelli, twine them not! The thistle, shamrock—leave me those; There’s sense in them—and, yes, the rose; ’Twill symbolise—its thorns at least— Our future pathway in the East; The shamrock, too, recals to thought The “false Gibraltar” we have bought; And I would spare the thistle’s loss To those who cheered at Charing Cross,— These I can stand, but laurel, no; The laurel’s hardly apropos; So Tracy, if that wreath’s for me, Pray twine it of some other tree! The World, July 2, 1879.

Soyer.— Thrice the Palace clock hath chim’d. 2nd Cook.— Thrice: and members all have dined. 3rd Cook.— Ireland cries: ’tis time—’tis time! Soyer.— Round about the copper go, In the cheap ingredients throw. Dripping that in gallipot Days and nights has been forgot; Boneless beef in square bits cut, In two-gallon saucepan put. All.— Don’t mind trouble, were it double, Stir the copper till it bubble. Soy.— Fifteen leaves of celery top; In with turnip peelings pop. Green of two leeks on them hurl; Half a pound of barley pearl; Common flour next half a pound, In eight quarts of water drown’d. Whitest salt and sugar brown; That will make the soup go down, Then a penny charge for fuel. And for Sixpence make the gruel. All.— At a trifling cost of trouble, You may make the copper bubble. Soy.— Give it to the poor as food And ’twill be found cheap and good. Air—M. Soyer. From “La Sonnambula.” Still so gently onions peeling, The smell will bring out the feeling, Spite of all their sneers revealing, That the beef—that the beef is wholesome still. Though mock turtle soup may charm thee, And mulligatawny warm thee, Sure my soup will never harm thee: If it feed not—if it feed not—it will fill. 2nd Cook.— By the licking of my thumbs, Something weighty this way comes. Open locks, whoever knocks. Enter John Bull. John.— How now you knowing gastronomic wags, What is’t you brew? All.— A soup without a name. John.— I conjure you by that which you profess (Howe’er you came to know it), answer me. Though you tie up the winds in pudding bags, And into soufflées whip the yesty waves— Compound and swallow all creation up— Even till repletion sicken, answer me To what I ask you. Soy.— Parlez. 2nd Cook.— Ask. 3rd Cook.— Cut on. Soy.—Say would’st thou rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our platters? John.— Let me see the carte. Thunder.[66] The Apparition of a Boar’s Head rises. App.— John Bull! John Bull! beware an Irish stew! Corn riots dread! dismiss me. That will do. [Descends. John.— Thanks for the caution. Much obliged I feel. The corn-laws altogether I’ll repeal. Thunder. The Apparition of a Turkey, trussed, with a carrot in its hand, rises. John.— What’s this, That, like the scutcheon of the Prussian King, Holds in its claw a vegetable sceptre And chain of sausage-meat? All.— Hish! hold your row. App.— Make lots of metal, John, and take no care Who spends, who wastes, or who conspires to share. John Bull shall never bankrupt be, until Great Hornsey Wood shall come to Primrose Hill. [Descends. John.— Had I three mouths I’d eat thee. It can’t be. Had it been Alderman Wood and Rowland Hill, They might have met; but trees can’t cut their sticks, Nor Chalk Farm walk its chalk from Primrose Hill. Yet, tell me one thing more. Shall famine ever Reign in this kingdom. Soy.— Show! 2nd Cook.— Show!! 3rd Cook.— Show!!! Eight Cooks appear. The two last being Captain Cook and Mr. T. P. Cooke. Soy.— Whilst these great Cooks—the present and the past, Who, although many, will not spoil the broth— Vatel, who died for fish that came too late; Carême, who cooked Napoleon’s goose; and Ude Whom, if you’d known you’d have respected much. Facetious Mrs. Glass, who recommends 240 That you should catch your hare ere you do cook it. And Francatelli; who hath done a book As well as I; and Doctor Kitchiner, Oracular professor of his art. And Captain Cook, who found out foreign roots, (Though not by nature, yet a Cook by name). And T. P. Cooke, who says “Avast! belay!” Whilst in the sailor’s locker there’s a shot No swab shall starve whilst these great cooks exist (Or others like them) Famine ne’er shall reign. [They disappear. John.— Where are they? Gone! No matter; I’m at rest, Though cat’racts may destroy potatoes’ eyes— Though years may come and bring no ears of corn— Though meat may rise as high as Green’s balloon— Still, whilst our brave cooks can make all ends meat, No famine e’er shall harm us. Chorus from “Macbeth,” “We Fry by Night.” The Man in the Moon, Vol. I.

Why, what the deuce is that before my nose? It’s like a dagger now I see it close; And, rat it too, the handle turn’d this way! But come, I’ll have a grip, cost what it may. By Jove, I’ve missed it! yet I see it still, It’s cursed odd—but find it out I will. “Thou fearful, fatal vision, tell me why, “You thus elude me—is it ‘all my eye?’ “Or art thou coin’d in this thick skull of mine, “A phantom from the fumes of heat and wine?” Death, fire, and furies! why I see thee here In form as plain and palpable, I swear, As this I’m drawing;—on thy blade and dudgeon Are gouts of blood;—but, mark me! I’m no gudgeon! It’s all a lie!—I’ll not be humbugg’d thus,— ’Tis this curs’d business puts me in a fuss! The Gownsman, Cambridge, 1830.

Scene I. Where shall we three meet again? In br-th-l, hall, or sacred fane?— Ere our hurly-burly’s done, Pestilence by us begun Spread from east to set of sun!— Where the place?— The road to h—l! Let us go at it pall-mall!— I come, Salvation!— T-mps-n calls!— Anon! Fair is foul, and foul is fair; Wallow in the drains and filthy air! Scene II. Round about the office go, In the poisonous savours throw! Anecdote of rankest taste, Far too saleable to waste, Sweltered venom, creeping got, Boil those first i’ the T-mps-n pot! Double, double, stench and trouble, Pot boil, and poison bubble! Fragment of some juicy lie, Stew and flourish by and by; Dash of philanthropic twist, Tongue of sentimentalist, Breath of skunk and adder’s sting, Feathers of the Church’s wing, Winkings of the powers that be, Palate of the debauchee, For a chance of deadly trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Gushings of hysteric craze, Prayers of saints of latter days, Latest rags of virgin veil, Little coins of blackest mail, War-cry of blaspheming throats, Politician’s bid for votes, Army stock and rubble stones, Christy banjo, Christyan bones, Platform ranter’s purchased shriek, Blushes robbed from woman’s cheek, Blasted charm of household joys, Ruined souls of girls and boys, Birthright of mind-poisoned babe To the profit of a drab, Make the gruel thick and slab. Add the shield of State paternal For the ingredients of our journal! Double, double, stench and trouble, Pot boil, and poison bubble! The World, August 26, 1885.

——Dinner is a stage With knives and forks the company are players; 241 Courses have exits and swift entrances; And each guest, in his time, plays many parts, His acts being seven epochs. At first the soup Steaming and seething in the grand tureen, Then comes the whiting tasty, or the salmon With shining silver scales, sleeping serene Upon the lordly dish; and then the venison, Done to a turn, and worthy of a ballad, As any lady’s eyebrow. Then the pasties Full of rich fruits, and not too much of lard, Jellies delicious, wholesome and quickly eaten, Melting—a great desideratum— Even in the diner’s mouth—and then the stilton In fair round form, and with a napkin bound, With rind full thick, and taste extremely strong, Full of strange mites, and microscopic things; So each guest plays his part. The sixth course shifts Into the rare luxurious dessert, With sherry on this side, and port on that; A vintage good, well saved, a world too old To be much drunk; the host’s loud manly voice Turning at length quite husky, cherished pipes And weeds with coffee come. Last scene of all That ends this dinner’s faithful history, Is simple maundering and sheer oblivion, Sans sense, sans eyes, sans speech, sans every thing. Orchis. (Jack soliloquizes.) All go off alike, And all the wines and dishes seldom alter; They have their exits and their entrances, And each guest in his turn tastes many things, His share being seven courses. At first the turtle, Seething with richness in the bright tureen; And then the princely turbot, with the lemon And shrimp or oyster sauce, making it glide Most palatably down; and then the entrées, Smelling divinely in their shallow basins Made of the shining metal; then a turkey, Full of forcemeats and roasted to a turn, Swimming in gravy garnished thick with sausage, Raising the tide of expectation Even in the bishop’s mouth; and then the pudding In grand round belly, and with holly crown’d; With eyes intent we watch each slice that’s cut, Full of good things and spicy substances; And so we take a part. The sixth course drifts Into the plain and usual dessert, With walnuts ’neath one’s nose, and port each side; Our evening clothes were made on purpose wide To hold such stuff. And now some manly voice, Turning towards politics and meerschaum-pipes, Makes ladies leave the room. Last course of all That ends this dinner-party history Is coffee, cognac, weeds, and utter bliss, Sans flirts, sans prudes, sans wife, sans womankind. Crystal Palace. ——All the world’s away, And all the men and women on the tramp; They have their tourist tickets and bank credits, And each man grumbling with his bullion parts To keep his household moving. First, the infant Squalling and struggling in the nurse’s arms, And then the schoolboy with his rod and basket, Changing from place to place, at large on bail Most willingly from school. And then the matron Scolding like a fishwife, with a woful look Upon the piles of baggage; then the cabby, Full of strange oaths standing on guard, Daring the porters, sudden and quick in quarrel, Clamouring for double his remuneration Even in the tariff’s face; and then the bobby, In regulation tunic strapped and belted, With eyes severe and an imperial strut, Quoting the law, refers to modern instances, And so he plays his part. Then the “gov’nor,” drest In shooting jacket and check pantaloons, With spectacles on nose, jeered at, defied, Elbowed and buffeted on every side, On a trunk sinking, lifts his voice no more, Wipes his moist brow, and, as he fills his pipe, Whistles despairingly. Last scene of all That ends poor paterfamilias’s history, Is the home-coming, and more chivying (Sans doute) en route—ennuied, wrong everything. Prima Donna. ——Parliament’s a stage, And honourable members merely players; They have their prompters, cues, and call-boys too, And some men while they sit play many parts, Their acts being seven stages. At first the novice, Trembling and blushing while he’s introduced, And then the grumbling sportsman leaving moors Or salmon-streams behind, creeping like snail Unwillingly to vote. Then the enthusiast, Spouting like sperm-whale, with a wistful eye Fixed on his leader’s hat. Then a debater, Full of false facts and smart in repartee, Careless of courtesy, rash and quick in general. Seeking the bubble reputation By an unbridled tongue. And then the Minister, In pleasant sinecure, with good salary lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and feeble platitudes; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into a sleek and useless peer o’ the realm, With coronet on brow and ermine robes. His earlier wit, though dulled, a world to bright For his new sphere, and his once manly voice Turning again towards childish accents, drones And falters in his words. Last scene of all That ends the strange eventful history Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans power, sans fame, sans friends, sans everything. Bart. ——All Parliament’s a stage, The Lords mere supers, and the Commons players, Coming and going on and off the scenes; And each one plays a different character In seven phases. First the canvasser, Bowing and scraping, free with purse and alms; Then the young candidate, with laboured speech And blushing face, weak-kneed and pale, Creeps to the platform. Then the strong member, Like lover with his mistress, wins the mob With honied words. Then the great orator, Full of unmeaning phrases, hard to beard, Zealous in argument, fierce in retort, Seeking a wordy reputation E’en in high councils. Then the Minister, Sleek with good living, with rich income primed, Austere with knitted brow, and courtly gard, Full wise in laws and ancient precedents, 242 And so displays high art. The sixth phase shifts Into the scarlet-robed and gartered Peer, A spectacle in pose, touched with the pride Of titled state from all the world to hide His youthful pranks; his late commanding voice, Toned down to softest accents, mildly speaks In gentle pleadings. The last phase of all Is the poor part of intellect decayed In second childhood of extreme old age; Sad sight! sad hearing; sad the end of all! Old Log. ——All the night’s a stage, And all the singers on it merely cats; They have their solos and their choruses, And one cat in the night sings many tunes, Her songs being seven tortures. At first a purring, Mewing and scratching at the kitchen door, Then a whining scuffle with a neighbour’s tom About an ancient bone, bleached in the mud, Each claiming shares: and then the love duet, Burning with passion, rising to my window, In hideous cadences; then the war song Betwixt two rivals to Miss Muffet’s favour Starts up, eloquent with hisses and mad Careering up and down the area stairs Even to my very door; and then the tabby, In sleek fat form, with good grey coat of fur, With twinkling eyes and well-trimmed whiskers, Lifts her voice in wild, untuneful melody, And so she sings her part. The sixth song falls To the lean and half-starved tortoiseshell, All scratched on nose and wounded side, Her youthful freshness faded years too soon, And gone for aye, but her strong feline voice, With hideous likeness to infantile howls, Still screeches in the night. Last scene of all That ends this awful, maddening night, Is one last howl—then day breaks in upon us, Sans sleep, sans rest, sans peace, sans breakfast. Zenas Dykes. ——All the day’s a plague, And all the people merely peace-disturbers, They have their exits and their entrances, And each one plays his own discordant part Till the brain madly rages. At first the sweep, Screeching and shouting loud his wild alarm; Then that morning nuisance, with his basket And tinkling muffin-bell, shouting “all ’ot” When all his store is cool. And then the beggar, Singing, like saw-mill, a hymn or a tender ballad Smugly, yet winking his eyebrow. Then the “Army,” Causing wild oaths as, clad in monstrous garb, With drum and cornet, gaily they preach or quarrel, Seizing the soldier’s designation, But facing no cannon’s mouth, And then th’ Italian, His poor pinched belly seldom with square-meal lined, With coal-black eye and hair that should be cut. And organ belching nigger melodies. And so he plays his part. The next plague springs From German deep trombone and wild bassoon, From flute, from clarionet, and ophecleide, Teutonic youths, ill-taught, with English airs Playing strange pranks, who, from the lowest bass Alike even to the highest treble, yield Most irritating sounds. Till last of all, To close the days tormenting history. The prayer for death, and sweet oblivion Of sweeps, of bands, of Booth, of everything. Nomad. ——All the world’s a stable, And all its denizens are merely horses; They have their hardships and their pleasures, And one horse in his time sees many changes, His life being seven ages, At first, the foal, Frisking and skipping in the breeder’s yard; Then the “whinnying” colt, with curb and rein, And smack of whip, pacing, like schoolboy, Unwillingly in trammels. And then the racer, Flying like lightning for the cup or plate Given by the Jockey Club. Then the hunter, Full of high keep, and coat as sleek as silk, Perfect in shape, and proud of pedigree, Gaining a wide-spread reputation For being “in at the death.” And then to mailcoach, In splendid show indignantly is harness’d, By critics scanned at formal “meet”; then urg’d To th’ instant point of modern expedition; And so he runs his stage. “Sold up,” he shifts Into the shafts of jaunty hansom cab, With fare inside, and driver perch’d aloft; His early vigour gone, a shower of blows Are rain’d on his shrunk back; his wind is bad And he has turned a “piper” and oftimes Loudly whistles in his sound. The next phase ends His cruel and unpitied destiny; To Knacker’s yard for slaughter he is led, Sans eyes, sans hoofs, mere carcase—fit for dogs. East Anglia. ——All the world’s a field, And all the men and women cricket-players, They have their innings and their fielding out, And one man in his time plays many games, His life being seven matches. First, the infant, Mowing and poking at his nurse’s slows; And then the school-boy, boundless in ambition, But green in judging lengths, slogging like fun, And bowled by yorkers; then the undergrad, Smoking strange weeds, and blazer’d like the Turk, Heedless of honours, puppet of every fancy, Seeking a college reputation Even in the schools despite; and then the lover, Shying like Frenchman, with a woeful habit, Of dropping all his catches; then the husband, With waist expanding, to short runs inclined, With eyes correct, and coat of formal cut, Full of old joys, and new incumbrances, And so he meets his match. The sixth is played By the stiff pater with his growing lads, With spectacles on nose, and bat in hand; They trundle at the stumps a world too fast For his sore shins; yet his big, manly heart, Turning again toward youthful pleasure, glows And revels at each ball. Last match of all, Which ends the sturdy cricketer’s career, Is played in his arm-chair at second hand, Sans bat, sans ball, sans stumps, sans everything. Tub. ——All the world’s a feast, And all the men and women merely gourmands; Few have their chef, they mostly pot-luck share, But all guests in their turn try many plats, The courses being seven, At first the Soup, Unsatisfactory, greasy, and cold; Then Fish, whose shining face is seen too long, Proclaims his advent ere he comes in sight. Entrèes as twins appear; you choose of one, 243 To wish your choice had fallen on the other. Mutton disguised with mint to pass for lamb, Taking his dubious imposture Into our plates, but not beyond our palates, A bird comes next—a bird that crowed too long; Crestfallen warrior, done to death and tough; And so we sit and eat, while cheap champagne Goes round with tedious jokes, both flat and stale. At length the scene is changed—the Sweets appear; Misshapen, quiv’ring jellies, doughy tarts, The fruit but scant, the paste too thick by far. (Pale cream accompanies, whose “turn” is come,) Dessert—a prematurely-shrivelled pine, Tom from its tropic soil in early youth; Dried fruits, and nuts that, cracking, leave but dust. The end of this unpalatable dinner Is coffee weak and full of grounds; and so Our last hope flies, our time is come. We go With teeth, with eyes, with taste, unsatisfied. Chum-Chum. ——A State Church is a stage, Its well-paid priests and bishops often players; They have their stipends and emoluments, And each man, if he plays his part with skill, May gain preferment. At first the student, Reading or larking at his Alma Mater; And then the genteel curate, with chasuble, And early morning prayers, with Oxford twang, Invincible at croquet. Then the incumbent, Preaching like furnace, with a shilling pamphlet, On some new-fashioned high-go. Then the rector, Full of strange whims, robed like a queer old barb, Sudden and quick to seize the next preferment, Seeking the bubble reputation E’en in a canon’s stall. And then the bishop, In fair lawn sleeves and with a purse well lined; His youthful friends now get the formal cut, Full of anxiety to keep things pleasant; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the grand and courtly Archbishop; A spectacle he grows of pride and pomp, And thinks the Church well saved, and world beside, By his tall talk; with namby-pamby voice, Pointing again to Becket and to Laud, Like whom he would be found. Last scene of all That best will cure this curious history, Is Disestablishment and Disendowment, Sans worldly power, sans many an evil thing. A. Meeram. ——All the land’s a booth, And all the men and women merely voters, They have their franchise and their ballot-box, And one man in his time gives many votes. He votes for seven parties. The first, a Whig, Frightened and cautious in the Liberal ranks; And then the so-called Liberal, with his promises, And sheep-like party-gait, creeping like snail Towards long-sought reform. Then the Home Ruler Roaring for freedom, with a piteous tale Told of his country’s misery. Then a Radical Full of reform and moving with the time, Scenting abuses, sudden and quick to right ’em, Seeking the people’s happiness Even at the lordling’s cost. And then the Independent With smooth-tongued speech, and pocket well lined, With views severe and stuck-up formal mien, Full of advice and smug hypocrisy. And so he serves his turn. The sixth vote’s given Unto the mighty Tory landowner, With a fine porty nose, and gout beside, His ancient views—grown old—an age too late For this sharp world; and his high handed mode Turn ’gainst him all but sycophants, who’ll pipe And whistle at his bid. Last vote of all, To end this string of partisans, is given To worthless “Turncoats,” mere title hunters, Sans pride, sans shame, sans soul, sans principle. W. Val. English. ——All the world’s insane, And all the men and women fools of fancy; They have their whims and monomanias, And each man in his life hath many moods, His lot being seven crazes. And first the infant, Squealing and squalling for the distant moon: And then the schoolboy, with his breaking voice And cheap cigar, acquiring other lore Than what is taught at school. And then the lover With Richmond dinners, “fizz,” and lobster salad, To win Aspasia’s favour. Then the soldier, Full of himself, and glorious on parade, Solemn and warlike in another’s quarrel, Seeking to gain a killing reputation E’en from the sex’s mouth. And then the justice, One of the great infallible unpaid, With books of law intact and leaves uncut, Gath’ring wise utt’rance from the whisp’ring clerk, And so displays his art. The sixth craze shifts Into the fogy of the Tory club, With well-dress’d jasey and with glass in eye, The march of progress spreading far too wide For his near views; or, haply, seen by choice In some snug hostelry with port and pipe, Where Tory talk abounds. Worst craze of all, That seems the strangest in its mystery, Is the ascetic zeal miscalled religion— Saint This, Saint That, Saint T’other—Any one. B. H. D. ——All the world’s a ship, And all the men and women merely sailors; They have their exits and their entrances, And each one in his ship plays many parts, The number being seven stages. First, the cabin boy, Groaning and puking in the stewards’ arms; And then the midshipman, with his cutlass And shining, genial face, going, in doubt, Unwillingly on board. And then the boatswain, Swearing, by all that’s hot, he’ll use his rope’s end Upon some laggard’s shoulders. Then the lieutenant, Full of strange hopes and visions like the bard, Eager for honour, longing for war and quarrel, Seeking the bubble, merited advancement, E’en in an iron clad. And then the captain, In handsome uniform, with honour worn, With bright, clear eyes, and mouth that’s often shut, Full of old yarns and deeds that tell of duty. Then comes the proud and boastful admiral, With spectacle on nose and sword by side, His well-saved uniform a world to wide For his shrunk form, and his big, manly voice Turning again to peevish feebleness. And so he struts his part. Last stage of all, That ends this strange and restless history, Comes the ex-admiral, prey to oblivion, Sans fame, sans wealth, sans hope, sans everything. Tib. 244 ——The world’s a fashion-plate, And all the men and women tailors’ dummies, Who note the march of time by changing clothes, A masher once, a man’s a masher always, No matter what his age is. At first a baby In a lace gown ogling his ancient nurse; And then the public schoolboy, with his collar Broad and snow-white, who gives his mind to ties, And has no love for school-books. Then the dandy Bored at eighteen, but hovering around The sacred lamp of burlesque. Then the guardsman, Thin-waisted, tall, and with well-waxed moustache, Driver of drags and tandems, quick at polo, Gaining a dreadful reputation, Nightly at crowded balls. Then the swell middle-aged, With fair white waistcoat of bow-window shape, With shiny boots and well trimmed close-cut beard, Full of himself, and tales of his own feats, And how he play’d his part. The sixth age shows The lean and shaky, wicked, gay old boy, With gold pin and cane, with hat worn on one side; His padded coat and tight strapped pantaloons Hide his shrunk form, and his swaggering tone Changed to a grumbling whine that everything Is worse than it once was. While the last scene Is tottered through by an old doting swell, Who herds with boys, and tries to cheat death with False teeth, false hair, false calves, false everything. Roundabout.