VAUXHALL.
Cabman, stop thy jaded knacker; cabman, draw thy slackened rein;
Take this sixpence—do not grumble, swear not at Sir Richard Mayne!
'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old the cadger's bawl—
Sparkling rockets, squibs and crackers, whizzing over gay Vauxhall.
Gay Vauxhall! that in the summer all the youth of town attracts,
Glittering with its lamps and fireworks, and its flashing cataracts.
Many a night in yonder gilded temple, ere I went to rest,
Did I look on great Von Joel, mimicking the feathered nest;
Many a night I saw Hernandez in a tinsel garb arrayed,
With his odorif'rous ringlets tangled in a silver braid;
Here about the paths I wandered, chaffing, laughing all the time,
Laughing at the piebald clown, or listening to the minstrel's rhyme;
When beneath the business-counter linendraper's men reposed,
When in calm and peaceful slumber, sharp maternal eyes are closed;
When I dipt into the pewter pot that held the foaming stout,
When I quaffed the burning punch, or wildly sipped the "cold without."
In the spring a finer cambric's wrapped around the lordling's breast;
In the spring the gent at Redmayne's gets himself a Moses' "vest;"
In the spring we make investment in a white or lilac glove;
In the spring my youthful fancy prompted me to fall in love.
Then she danced through all the ballet, as a fairy blithe and young,
Stood a tiptoe on a flow'ret, or from clouds of pasteboard swung—
And I said, "Miss Julia Belmont, speak, and speak the truth to me,
Wilt thou from this fairy region with a heart congenial flee?"
On her lovely cheek and forehead came a blushing through her paint,
And she sank upon my bosom in the semblance of a faint;
Then she turned, her voice was broken (so, if I must tell the truth,
Was her English—all I pardoned in the generous warmth of youth),
Saying, "Pray excuse my feelings, nothing wrong, indeed, is meant,"
Saying, "Will you be my loveyer?" weeping, "you are quite the gent."
Love took up the glass before me, filled it foaming to the brim,
Love changed every comic ballad to a sweet euphonious hymn!
Many a morning in the railway did we run to Richmond, Kew,
And her hunger cleared my pockets oft of shillings not a few!
Many an evening down at Greenwich did we eat the pleasant "bait,"
Till I found my earnings going at a rather rapid rate.
Oh! Miss Belmont, fickle-hearted! Oh, Miss Belmont known too late,
Oh, that horrid, horrid Richmond, oh, the cursed, cursed "bait."
Falser far than Lola Montes, falser e'en than Alice Gray,
Scorner of a faithful press-man, sharer of a tumbler's pay!—
Is it well to wish thee happy? having once loved me—to wed
With a fool who gains his living by his heels, and not his head!
As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,
And pursuing his profession, he will strive to drag thee down.
He will hold thee in the winter, when his fooleries begin,
Something better than his wig, a little dearer than his gin.
What is this? his legs are bending! think'st thou he is weary, faint?
Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, how he tastes of paint!
Am I mad, that I should cherish memories of the bygone time?
Think of loving one whose husband fools it in a pantomime!
Never, though my mortal summers should be lengthened to the sum
Granted to the aged Parr, or more illustrious Widdicomb—
Comfort!—talk to me of comfort! What is comfort here below?
Lies it in iced drinks in summer, aquascutum coats in snow?
Think not thou wilt know its meaning, wail of all his vows the proof,
Till the manager is sulky, and the rain pours through the roof.
See, his life he acts in dreams, while thou art staring in his face,
Listen to his hollow laughter, mark his effort at grimace!
Thou shalt hear "Hot Codlins" muttered in his vision-haunted sleep,
Thou shalt hear his feigned ecstatics, thou shalt hear his curses deep.
Let them fall on gay Vauxhall, that scene to me of deepest woe,
But—the waiters are departing, and perhaps I'd better go!—
By EDMUND H. YATES,
From Mirth and Metre, 1855.
Extract from Sir Rupert the Red, in imitation of Tennyson's Locksley Hall.
Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of bed,
Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it till it bled;
Then he'd curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him curses deep,
Curse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in his sleep—
Saying, "Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no more,
Whither's fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore,
Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall Street, quittedst it with many a qualm—
Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its model farm?
Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o'er my beard,
And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared;
Many an evening have I drawn thee 'cross the throats of wretched Jews,
When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in their shoes.
But, like mine, thy day is over—thou art blunt and I'm disgraced!
Curses on thy maker's projects, curses on his 'magic paste.'"
From Mirth and Metre.
The following imitation of "Break, Break, Break," is from Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton, 1880, which volume also contains (page 127) a long, but not very amusing, parody of The Grandmother, entitled Hard Times.
BREAK, break, break,
In thy pantry, costly maid!
And I bitterly rue the hour
When I took you from Mrs. Slade.
'Tis well for the lady fair
Whose glass is unshattered yet!
'Tis well for the thrifty dame
Who has "an unbroken set!"
And the clatter and crash goes on,
And Mary picks up the slain;
But oh! for that teacup of rarest Sèvres,
And that vase of porcelain!
Break, break, break,
In thy pantry, Mary G——!
But that costly vase and that teacup rare
Will never come back to me!
Here is another in a similar vein, from Punch's Almanack for 1884:—
BREAK, break, break,
O slavey, my crock-e-ry!
And I would that my tongue dared utter
The wrath that's astir in me.
O well for the labourer's wife,
Who can wash her own tea-things each day!
O well for the labourer's self,
Who has no servant's wages to pay!
But the breakages here go on,
And I have to settle the bill;
And it's oh! for the shards of my vanished cups,
And my saucers dwindling still!
Break! break! break!
A week from this you shall see,
But the dishes and plates you have smashed since you came,
Will never come back to me!
OUR MISCELLANY (which ought to have come out, but didn't), edited by Edmund H. Yates and R. B. Brough, published by G. Routledge & Co., in 1857, contains a number of parodies, amongst them of Lord Macaulay, E. A. Poe, Longfellow, and Charles Dickens.
Of Tennyson there are two imitations of Maud; one, nine verses in length, of In Memoriam, and one entitled A Character, which is a rather close parody of a poem having the same title, published in Tennyson's 1830 volume.
It will be remembered that at the time Our Miscellany appeared, M. Jullien's Promenade Concerts were in the full tide of their prosperity, and that the little fopperies and vanities of the clever Chef d'orchestre, and his importation of French military bands were then the talk of the town.