Bret Harte.
Dickens in Camp.
Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
To hear the tale anew;
And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of “Little Nell.”
Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—for the reader
Was youngest of them all,—
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall;
The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows,
Wandered and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes—o’ertaken
As by some spell divine—
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire:
And he who wrought that spell?—
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths intwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,—
This spray of Western pine!
Bret Harte.
July, 1870.
Parodies in Print.
Among the books the gloom was darkly drifting,
The writer’s spirits low;
The duller serials, and the weeklies, lifting
But melodies of woe.
The older authors, with rude humour, painted
The glowing fun of health
Now lost in dreary prose, jokes died or fainted
In sterner race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from the past’s great treasure
Of hundred volumes drew,
A scheme to tap the hoard untold of pleasure
And bid it flow anew;
And so the parodies unearthed grew vaster,
Than ever one could tell,
All mimicking some mighty poet Master,
In many a sprightly “Sell.”
Perhaps ’tis too fond fancy,—that the reader
Should leave the weeklies all,
Let Punch go prosing, scorn the D. T. leader,
And let Police News pall;
While ’mid these gambols of poetic shadows,
Listening to bygone play,
As each mad parody evokes the glad “Ohs!”
(As Browning p’raps would say).
See Tennyson, in mighty verse—o’ertaken,
Mimicked in tripping line—
When jokes from Longfellow, so grave, are shaken
Like gush in penny-a-line.
To find in rush of their poetic fire,
A comic theme told well,
While stately verse, and song, and culture higher,
Are used some joke to tell.
Lost be that scamp, who would no funny story
Tell in the rhyme that thrills
Like farthing rushlight posing as the glory
Of sun o’er ancient hills.
If, in the crowd of puppets, some poor dolly
Should ape a bard sublime,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly—
To jest is not a crime.
J. W. G. W.
November, 1884.
That Hebrew Ben D——
House of Lords, January, 1878.
Which I wish to remark—
And my language is plain—
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The Hebrew Ben D—— is peculiar,
Which the same I would like to explain.
I have mentioned his name,
And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same
He is wary and sly;
And his smile it is mocking and ice-like
And there isn’t no green in his eye.
Now, some rumours had spread,
Which Ben D—— could not burke,
And every one said
He’d been at his old work.
(It was strange, you must know, how he doated
Upon the “Unspeakable Turk.”)
It was Gran-Vil who rose,
And quite soft was his style;
But you must not suppose
That he hasn’t no guile;
Yet D—— played it that day upon Gran Vil
In a way that made most of them smile.
Which some questions he’d brought,
And Ben rose—as ’twas planned—
To reply. What was sought
But he smiled, as he stood at the table,
With a smile that was artfully bland.
How he trifled with sense,
You would scarcely believe;
And with cunning intense,
Fancy statements did weave:
Whilst he kept back his facts by the dozen,
And the same, with intent to deceive.
Yes, the tricks that were play’d
By that Hebrew, Ben D——,
And the points that he made
Were quite shocking to me;
Till at last he sat down amid laughter,
And chuckling himself, I could see.
Then up sprang Ar-Gyle,
With his hair flowing free,
And he gave a wild snort,
And said, “Shall this be?
We are humbugged by Asian myst’ries,
And he went for that Hebrew, Ben D——.
Which the war-dance he had
Was exciting to watch,
Though I feared, lest too mad,
His job he might botch,
For he whooped, and he raved, and he ranted;—
You see he’s so pepp’ry and Scotch.
Still, the scene that ensued
Was uncommonly grand,
For the floor it was strewed,
Like the leaves on the strand,
With the facts that Ben D—— had been hiding,
The facts “He did well understand.”
For his head, which is long,
Contained facts by the score;
Which, with effort so strong,
Ar-Gyle out of it tore;
Till Ben D——, if he has any feelings,
Must have, morally, felt very sore.
Which expressions is strong,
Yet but feebly imply
What I think of the wrong—
Not to call it a lie—
As was worked off by Benjy on Gran-Vil,
Which he can’t go for it to deny.
Which is why I remark—
And my language is plain—
That for ways that are dark,
And tricks that are vain,
The Hebrew Ben D—— is peculiar,
Which the same I am bold to maintain.
Truth, January 31, 1878.
The Aged Stranger.
(An Incident of the War).
“I was with Grant—” the stranger said,
Said the farmer, “Say no more,
But rest thee here at my cottage porch,
For thy feet are weary and sore.”
“I was with Grant—” the stranger said;
Said the farmer, “Nay, no more,—
I prithee sit at my frugal board.
And eat of my humble store.
“How fares my boy,—my soldier boy,
Of the Old Ninth Army Corps?
I warrant he bore him gallantly
In the smoke and the battle’s roar!”
“I know him not,” said the aged man,
“And, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant—” “Nay, nay, I know,”
Said the farmer, “Say no more;
“He fell in battle,—I see alas!
Thou’dst smooth these tidings o’er,—
Nay: speak the truth, whatever it be,
Though it rend my bosom’s core.
“How fell he,—with his face to the foe,
Upholding the flag he bore?
O, say not that my boy disgraced
The uniform that he wore!”
“I cannot tell,” said the aged man,
“And should have remarked, before,
That I was with Grant,—in Illinois,—
Some three years before the war.”
Then the farmer spake him never a word,
But beat with his fist full sore
That aged man, who had worked for Grant
Some three years before the war.
Bret Harte.
The following parody appeared in Jon Duan, one of Beeton’s Christmas Annuals. The original poem refers to General Ulysses S. Grant, President of the United States; the parody is in allusion to Mr. Albert Grant, M.P., who presented Leicester Square to the public in July, 1874, and whose name was then prominently before the public in connection with numerous financial schemes:—
“I was with Grant.”
“I was with Grant——” the stranger said;
Said McDougal, “Say no more,
But come you in—I have much to ask—
And please to shut the door.”
“I was with Grant——” the stranger said;
Said McDougal, “Nay, no more,—
You have seen him sit at the Emma Board?
Come, draw on your mem’ry’s store.
“What said my Albert—my Baron brave,
Of the great financing corps?
I warrant he bore him scurvily
’Midst the interruption’s roar!”
“No doubt he did,” said the stranger then;
“But, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant——” “Nay, nay, I know,”
Said McDougal; “but tell me more.”
“He’s presented another square!—I see,
You’d smooth the tidings o’er—
Or started, perchance, more Water-works
On the Mediterranean shore?
“Or made the Credit Foncier pay,
Or floated a mine with ore?
Oh, tell me not he is pass’d away
From his home in Kensington Gore!”
“I cannot tell,” said the unknown man,
“And should have remarked before,
That I was with Grant—Ulysses, I mean—
In the great American war.”
Then McDougal spake him never a word,
But beat, with his fist, full sore
The stranger who’d been with Ulysses Grant,
In the great American war.
Jon Duan, 1874.
Plain Language from Truthful Robert.
(With Apologies to Bret Harte’s “Truthful James.”)
Do I sleep? Do I dream?
(I’m sarcastic, no doubt.)
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle
and truncheon played out?
Which expressions is strong;
Yet I beg to declare
That the constable throng
Have a grievance to air
While they’re forced to meet murderous cracksmen
upon terms which are far, far from fair.
Charley Peaces abound
In the subbubs to-day;
And they’re apt, when they’re found,
To go blazing away
At a constable all unpertected, which the same
has the worst of the fray.
Can you tap a cove’s head
If you’re progress is checked
By the neat bit o’ lead
That a Colt does eject?
And when bullets is lodged in your stummick, can you
tootle with proper effect?
That you can’t, I submit,
And the truth must be faced
That the Force will get hit,
And the town be disgraced,
Till each Bobby with Billy—that’s Sikes, sir—on a
more equal footing is placed.
Are these shootings a dream?
(I’m sarcastic, no doubt.)
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle
and truncheon played out?
Funny Folks, August 2, 1884.
Scribners’ Monthly for May, 1881, contained a humorous collection of imitations of various authors, entitled “Home, Sweet Home, with Variations.” It commences by giving a couple of verses from the original poem by John Howard Payne; next comes a variation such as might have been written by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Walt Whitman, Austin Dobson, Oliver Goldsmith, and Alexander Pope are also supposed each to contribute a new setting of the old song, the imitation of Walt Whitman is exquisitely humorous; but that which principally concerns us here is the third imitation, which is entitled:—
Home, Sweet Home
as Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into a touching tale of a western gentleman in a red shirt—
Brown, o’ San Juan,
Stranger, I’m Brown.
Come up this mornin’ from ’Frisco—
Ben a-saltin’ my specie-stacks down.
Ben a-knockin’ around,
Fer a man from San Juan,
Putty considable frequent—
Jes’ catch onter that streak o’ the dawn!
Right thar lies my home—
Right thar in the red—
I could slop over, stranger, in po’try
Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.
Stranger, you freeze to this: there aint no kinder gin-palace,
Nor no variety-show lays over a man’s own ranche.
Maybe it hain’t no style, but the Queen in the Tower o’ London
Aint got naathin’ I’d swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.
Thar is my ole gal, ’n’ the kids, ’n’ the rest o’ my live-stock;
Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there’s a griddle-cake br’ilin’
Fer the two of us, pard—and thar, I allow, the heavens
Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.
Stranger, nowhere else I don’t take no satisfaction.
Gimme my ranch, ’n’ them friendly old Shanghai chickens—
I brung the original pair f’m the States in eighteen-’n’-fifty—
Gimme them, and the feelin’ of solid domestic comfort.
Yer parding, young man—
But this landscape a kind
Er flickers—I ’low ’twuz the po’try—
I thought thet my eyes bed gone blind.
* * * * *
Take that pop from my belt!
Hi, thar—gimme yer han’—
Or I’ll kill myself—Lizzie! she’s left me—
Gone off with a purtier man!
Thar, I’ll quit—the ole gal
An’ the kids! run away!
I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard—
The griddle-cake’s thar, anyway.
To “Auld Willie.”
(After Bret Harte’s “The Return of Belisarius.”)
So again you’ve been at it, old fellow,
The old game of four years ago;
You’ve given the Tories a drubbing;
You’ve had, so it seems, quite a go.
By Jove! and you were down upon them,
Denouncing, and all that, you know;
But what about Egypt, old fellow,
And those vows of yours four years ago?
Ah! it’s far, far from jolly, old fellow,
To think it is four years ago,
And scarcely a measure effected,
Attempted, and all that, you know!
You denounce Lords and Tories with vigour;
But for all your palaver, I trow,
Matters are about much of a muchness
To-day, they were four years ago!
Avonicus.
The Weekly Dispatch, September 14, 1884.
(Parody Competition).
Bret Harte’s prose writings have been frequently parodied, and several examples will be given when the subject of prose parodies is reached. One of the best of these occurs on page 156 of The Shotover Papers for November, 1874; it is entitled “His Finger.”
