Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. V

by Unknown

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

Born October 21, 1772. Died July 25, 1834.

The poetical fame of Coleridge rests principally upon The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and Christabel, both of which are so well known that it is quite unnecessary to reprint them, especially as Messrs. Ward, Lock & Co. have recently published a very cheap and handy edition of the miscellaneous poems of Coleridge, containing the above, as well as some other poems which, being less known, have not given rise to so many parodies.

——:o:——

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

This weird poem was founded on a strange dream which a friend of Coleridge had, who fancied he saw a skeleton ship, with figures in it. Wordsworth wrote a few lines of it, and the idea of shooting an albatross appears to have been his. As Coleridge himself informs us, it was planned and partly composed during a walk with Wordsworth and his sister, in the autumn of 1797. It was first published in 1798, in a volume entitled “Lyrical Ballads, with a few other Poems,” Bristol, 1798. It is the opening poem of the volume, and is quaintly styled “The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere,” in seven parts. Most of the other poems in the volume were written by Wordsworth. The first version contained a stanza (the eleventh in Part III.) which has been omitted from all subsequent reprints:

“His bones were black with many a crack,

All black and bare I ween;

Jet black and bare, save where with rust,

Of mouldy damps and charnel crust

They were patch’d with purple and green.”

The First Part, which is that most frequently parodied, is given below:—

Part I

It is an ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three.

“By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,

And I am next of kin;

The guests are met, the feast is set:

May’st hear the merry din.”

He holds him with his skinny hand,

“There was a ship,” quoth he.

“Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!”

Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye—

The Wedding-Guest stood still,

And listens like a three years’ child:

The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:

He cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,

The bright-eyed Mariner.

“The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,

Merrily did we drop

Below the kirk, below the hill,

Below the light-house top.

The sun came up upon the left,

Out of the sea came he!

And he shone bright, and on the right

Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day,

Till over the mast at noon—”

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,

For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,

Red as a rose is she;

Nodding their heads before her goes

The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,

Yet he cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man

The bright-eyed Mariner.

“And now the storm-blast came, and he

Was tyrannous and strong:

He struck with his o’ertaking wings,

And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,

As who pursued with yell and blow

Still treads the shadow of his foe,

And forward bends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,

And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow,

And it grew wondrous cold:

And ice, mast-high, came floating by,

As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts

Did send a dismal sheen;

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—

The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around:

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,

Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an albatross,

Through the fog it came;

As if it had been a Christian soul,

We hailed it in God’s name.

It ate the food it ne’er had eat,

And round and round it flew,

The ice did split with a thunder-fit;

The helmsman steered us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind;

The albatross did follow,

And every day, for food or play,

Came to the mariners’ hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,

It perched for vespers nine;

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white

Glimmered the white moon-shine.”

“God save thee, ancient Mariner,

From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—

Why look’st thou so?”—“With my cross-bow

I shot the Albatross.”

S. T. Coleridge.

---

The Sheriff’s Officer.

(By the Great Unmentionable.)

It is a Sheriff’s Officer

And he stoppeth one of three.

“By thy shocking bad hat, and quaint surtout,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”

He collars him with his dirty hand,

“There is a writ,” quoth he.

“Hold off! unhand me, scoundrel, loon!

Thou liest! it cannot be!”

He holds him with his sparkling eye—

The arrestee stood still,

And trembles like a rocking horse,

The officer hath his will.

The arrestee is dragged along;

He cannot choose but stir;

While thus spake on that awful man,

The Sheriff’s Officer.

The oath was drawn, the oath was sworn,

The parchment pounced, and all that,

The signer signed, and the sealer sealed,

And lo, here is the Latitat.

“I am the bailiff employed to nab,

Out of the City I come,

Where, the lawyers’ will tell you, there’s not a more

Indefatigable Bum!”

The arrestee then ’gan to see

How the Bum he could give leg bail,

And now he bethinks him of a plan,

Which may, or may not fail.

“Santa Maria, you’ve made a mistake,

My honour,” quoth he, “upon’t,

My name, gentle Bum, is White, not Wright,

I’m not the person you want.”

“Oh, yes, you’re the gentleman that I want,”

Was the wary Bum’s reply;

Said the arrestee, “it cannot be,

No gentleman am I.”

But it wouldn’t do, the writ was true,

And so was the bailiff eke,

In the lock-up house he hath got his man,

A prisoner safe and meek.

*  *  *  *  *

The arrestee is at Calais now,

Out of the Bench came he,

Genteelly dres’t, like a buck of the west,

Who the deuce could he be?

At first they saw him every day,

And then a week him missed;

He went and came, and came and went,

He was a Do, I wist.

A do, a hum, a cheat I wist,

Gramercy, observe his grin;

He’s taking himself of the city out,

After taking the citizens in.

“Oh, tic, it is a useful thing,

Beloved from pole to pole;

The Insolvent’s Court cuts the matter short,

And calms the troubled soul.”

Thus thought the arrestee, as on

The deck of a steamer he stood,

Oblivious quite of his Calais debts,

Having made his retreat thence good.

He went to the Fleet, and one night came out,

Of his debts and his character shorn,

A free and unencumbered man

He rose the morrow morn.

The Comic Magazine. Fourth Series. 1834.

---

Le Lecturé Malgré Lui.

(A lay for Cantabs.)

It is a Trinity Lecturer,

And he stoppeth one of eight;

By thy lantern jaws and spindle shanks.

Why dost thou make me wait?

The breakfast’s set, the men are met,

And I am peckish—very.

It’s late already—hark! that roar!

May’st hear them getting merry.

He pointeth to the lecture-room,

“’Tis nine o’clock,” quoth he.

“Upon my word I cannot come,

For Jones expecteth me.”

He pointeth to the Master’s lodge,

The unbreakfasted turned blue;

He had been hauled up twice before,

So he saw it was a do.

He followed to the lecture-room,

And often sighed “Oh dear!”

While thus spake on that lantern-jaw’d,

And long-legged lecturer.

He talked of siphons, pumps, and valves,

And engines piping hot;

But what he said I cannot tell,

For I understand it not.

Now when the clock struck half-past nine,

There was a shouting noise;

The unbreakfasted here beat his breast,

For he knew ’twas Jones’s voice.

The cyder-cup he knows hath come,

And he too well can feel,

That the gyp is walking off with all

The remnants of the meal.

The unbreakfasted he scratched his head—

How wretched ’twas to hear;

And still spake on that lantern-jaw’d,

And long-legged lecturer.

*  *  *  *  *

The lecturer whose legs are long,

Whose cheeks are very lean,

Is gone; and now the unbreakfasted

At Jones’s door is seen.

But he turned away like one who’s starved,

For it was “on the sport;”

A sadder and a hungrier man,

He rushed across the court.

The Man in the Moon. Volume II. 1847.

---

The Rhime of the Seedy Barristere,

Part I.

It is a seedy Barristere,

And he barreth the way so free—

“By thy long limp band and rusty wig,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

“The Commons’ doors are open’d wide,

And I’m to be sworn in;

The Speaker is set, the Members met,

And business will soon begin.”

He showeth me his empty bag—

“It once was full,” quoth he:

He showeth me his faggot brief,

Marked with a monstrous fee.

I sat me down beside the door—

I could not choose but hear,

As thus spake on that mouldy man,

That briefless Barristere:—

“The kites were flown, the bubbles blown,

Merrily went the scrip;

Directors schemed, nor ever dreamed

Of chances ’twixt cup and lip.

“The Stag comes out—over the left;

The market riggeth he:

The men with cash, by dealings rash,

Are fleeced right horribly.

“Higher and higher every day

Went up the bubble shares—”

No step I stirred, altho’ I heard

The Speaker was at prayers.

He’d made me wait—I was too late;

Yet I could not choose but hear,

As thus spake on that shabby man,

That briefless Barristere—

And now November came, the Law

Was tyrannous and strong;

The thirtieth day all Plans must stay,

And Sections, right or wrong.

“Thro’ day and dark the sleepy clerk

Must toil and moil with care and cark;

Lithographers, with fingers stark,

Must never go to bed.

The time flies fast, the Plans at last

Are all delivered.

“And now, to sift the monstrous drift,

Committees are enrolled,

And they must hear each councillere

His brief at length unfold.

“With weary head, from A to Z—

I trow it was no play—

The members sat, to be argued at,

From eleven till four each day.

“Committees here, Committees there,

Committees all around;

While counsel roared, and joked, and bored,

And fought, and fumed, and frowned.

“Ten guas. per day, and ten briefs alway,

Unto my share there came;

One half, I knew, I could not do,

But I took them all the same.

“And I grew rich, and behaved as sich,

And never the tide did drop,

And the duns had flown that I once had known

On my staircase for hours to stop.

“And my lanky bag did swell and swag

With the freight of briefs it bore;

I new curled my wig, and in letters big

Wrote ‘Committee’ on my door.

“Twelve briefs one day on my table lay,

With heavy retainers on each,

When a knock at the door ushered in one more,

My attention to beseech.”

“Now save thee, seedy Barristere,

And send thee quick relief!

Why look’st thou so?” “Ah, shame and woe!

I did refuse that brief!”

Part II.

“The Market now grew rather stiff,

And shares not quite so free;

Many Directors went abroad,

And many an Allottee.

“And briefs fell slack, and no more at our back

The agents in crowds did follow,

Nor ten times a day, with papers or pay,

Came to the Barrister’s hollo!

“I had done what was quite irregular,

And it would work them grief,

For all averred that the worst had occurred

Since I refused the brief,

‘Ah, wretch!’ said they, ‘to turn away

The fee upon a brief!’

“The Panic grew, the bills came due,

Directors crossed the sea;

Who knows which first of the bubbles burst?

They went, and so did we.

“Down dropt our work, our fees dropt down:

’Twas bad as bad could be;

Not once a week had we to speak

Upon a Committee.

“All in the hot Committee-rooms

The Barristeres, at noon

Must yawn, and linger round the doors,

Or thro’ the lobbies moon.

“Day after day we pined away,

So idle you’ve no notion;

As idle as a long debate

Upon an Irish motion.

“Business, business, everywhere—

The Courts it seemed to fill;

Business, business, everywhere,

But not one Railway Bill!

“Yea, even young men just called—oh dear,

That such things e’er should be!—

By mere half-guinea motions made

A better thing than we!

“About, about, in busy rout,

Attorneys and Q.C.’s,

Within our sight were paying down

And pocketing of fees!

“Ah! well a-day! what evil looks

Had I from old and young!

And, for starched kerchief, the rejected brief

About my neck was hung.

“Farewell, farewell; but this I tell—

As sure as there thou’rt set,

He best shall thrive who most shall strive

To keep all he can get.

“He fareth best, who loveth best

All fees, both great and small;

For the Bench declares that the etiquette

Of the Bar is ‘Pocket all.’”

The Barristere whose bag is light,

Whose wig with age is hoar,

Passed from my sight—a thoughtful wight

I crossed St. Stephen’s door,

And heard debates my brain that stunned,

’Bout currency and corn.

A sadder and not wiser man.

I woke the morrow morn.

Punch. November 20, 1847.

---

The Prolix Orator.

It is a prolix orator

And he stoppeth one J. B.

“By thy strange long beard and vacant eye

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

“My business calls I’ve work to do

Which I would fain begin;

My House is met, a question set

That I’ve an interest in.”

He holds him with his eager hand:

“I rise to move,” quoth he—

“Move off! unhand me, long beard loon!”

Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his vacant eye,

Spell-bound John Bull stands still:

And listens like a gaping child:

The orator hath his will.

(Six verses omitted.)

Punch (1849) on Thomas C. Anstey, M.P. for Youghal, the “Prolix orator.”

---

The Rime of the Ancient Alderman.

Part I.

It is an Ancient Alderman,

And he stopped one of three;

“By thy gouty hand and ruby nose,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

“The Adelphi doors have open’d long,

And I would save my tin;

My order’s lost at seven o’clock,

Permit me to go in.”

He holds him with his gouty hand,

“There is the Thames,” quoth he;

“Bother the Thames,” the other cried;

“Jump in, and let me be.”

He holds him by the glittering guard,

The Stunning Swell stood still,

And listens in most sulky style;

The Alderman hath his will.

The Stunning Swell against a lamp

Leant, as if bored to death.

And thus gasp’d on that Alderman,

With brevity of breath.

“The Mayor appear’d, the barge was steer’d,

Merrily we did drop,—

The Alderman, in City barge,—

Along on our Swan-Hop.

“At the Blackfriars we did embark,

Where gapes the mighty sewer.”

The Stunning Swell he stamp’t his foot,

For he heard the overture.

Mellon hath mounted on his stool,

The desk he tappeth thrice—

Four Roberts now the Swell must pay,

Or wait for the half-price.

“We pulled—at least the rowers did—

Bang through the Bridges three,

And Lambeth Reach, and Chelsea Reach,

We pass’d full merrily.

“And then the hour of lunch was come,

Our appetites wax’d strong,

We eat and drank, and drank and eat;

The Chaplain sang a song.

“We drank and eat, we eat and drank,

Till full was every sinner;

And then we thought we’d go on deck,

While Staples laid the dinner.

“We lean’d along the barge’s seats,

Or o’er the bulwarks bent;

We said it was a jolly world,

And folks should be content.

“We said it was a jolly world,

And everybody stated

That what we read of want and wrong

Was much exaggerated,

“That on the whole we really thought

Things went uncommon well—

When the Remembrancer bawled out,

‘Gog! what a hawful smell.’

“The Mayor he started to his feet,

Out of his lordly doze,

And ramm’d his scented handkerchief

Close up unto his nose.

“And as the smell came foully round,

We gasp’d and spit, and swore;

Such an abominable stench

We’d never smelt before.

“And after comments fierce and fast

On that unsavoury theme,

For reasons which I need not name,

Each turn’d him to the stream.

“When fouler, fouler rose the smell,

And then we did diskiver

The source of all that awful stench,

Dear Gog, it was the River!

“The river it was yellow mud,

With putrid colours varied,

And every kind of filthy thing

Upon the tide was carried.

“Dead dogs rotund, and garbage vile,

And slime, and scum, and muck;

Clung round as in a fœtid lake,

And oozed, and stank, and stuck.

“And in the mess a drowning cat

Mid seven drown’d kittens sprawl’d,

And her great eyes stared wildly out.

And piteously she squall’d.

“There was a blunderbuss on board—”

“Old Cock, what are you at—

Are you not well?” “O gentle Swell,

I took and shot the cat.”

Part II.

We pull’d—at least the rowers did,—

How long I cannot say,

But up to Richmond’s pleasant banks

At length we made our way.

“There ran the river pure and bright,

Without a speck or stain;

So once it ran at Westminster,

And so might run again.

“We all revived—began to laugh—

And then went down to dine,

And all bad odours were forgot

In my Lord Mayor’s good wine.

“We eat and drank, and drank and eat

Back in our chairs we leant;

We said it was a jolly world,

And folks should be content.

“We own’d the Thames’s scent was strong,

And said the labouring classes

Who lived beside and drank the tide

Were very stupid asses.

“For why not move, as we had done,

Out of the stench’s way,

And why not drink the sort of lush

That we had drunk that day?

“We eat and drank, we drank and eat,

With toasts and speeches hearty—

When Gog! that Cat’s infernal eyes,

Glared in upon the party.

“In at the cabin window glared,

Like the red fires of—well,

But what was worse, along with her

The creature brought the Smell.

“Into the cabin pour’d the stench,

Suffusing all the air,

And instant every Alderman

Fell down beside his chair.

“And there we sat upon the floor,

Unable for to rise.

While, gazing in malicious sort,

Glared down that Cat’s green eyes.

“And greener grew those fiendly orbs,

(Ay, greener than green fat),—

As, twixt a mew and screech we heard—

‘Who was it Shot the Cat?’”

Part III.

“Floating, floating, down the Thames,

Upon our backward way,

All sorts of foul and nasty things

Did seek our course to stay.

“At every window in they look’d

Upon the deck they leapt,

They crawl’d upon our visages,

And on our plates they crept.

“To tell you of their hideous forms

I have nor power nor hope—

Look on a water drop shown in

The gaseous microscope.

“They were the Vermin of the stream

That now is London’s sink;

The filthy stream that is at once

Her sewer, her bath, her drink.

“And as they crawl’d, and crept, and writhed,

We heard this awful ditty—

‘The Vermin of the Thames salute

The Fathers of the City!’”

Part IV.

“A dream, a dream, a pleasant dream.

I stood at Westminster,

And saw a bran-new, span-new bridge

Bestride a river clear.

“The wave it was as crystal bright,

You saw white sand below,

And flounders, gudgeon, tench, and dace,

Shot, flitting, to and fro.

“The jolly salmon heaved his jowl,

The whitebait glanced like gems;

In short, all kinds of finny fowl

Were swimming in the Thames.

“On either bank a mighty sewer

Received what London gave,

And bore it to the Kentish farm,

Or to the ocean wave.

“And terraced gardens there displayed

Green leaves and arbours fair,

And rosy children laughed and sniff’d

The river’s fragrant air.

“And artisans (their labour done)

With pots, and pipes, and wives,

Sat by the stream, and call’d the sight

The pleasure of their lives.

“And thus outspoke a gentle voice—

A voice of cheer and beauty:

‘See, London’s Mayor and Aldermen

At length have done their duty.’”

Part V.

“It’s deuced interesting,” quoth

The now exhausted Swell;

“But I must be allow’d to hope

You’ve nothing more to tell.

“And if you’ll take a fellah’s hint,

You, and your Mayor, and crew;

The work you say your dream described,

You’d better go and do.

“And when the sewers are quite complete,

Jump in, and you shall be

With all the other nuisances,

Wash’d nicely down to sea.

“Now au revoir—the boxkeeper,

With the half-price board comes;

And I must hear that Blondelet,

Upon his twenty drums”

Vanish’d the Swell: the Alderman

Went off and drown’d his sorrow—

And with a thundering headache he

Awoke upon the morrow.

Shirley Brooks. 1855.

---

The Ancient Mariner;
or,
The Deceived Husband.

It was an ancient mariner

Who a party stopp’d of three

(A father and his children twain):

“Wilt sail to-day?” quoth he.

“My yacht she lieth off the shore:

A shilling each you’ll pay.”

The father slowly shook his head—

“I thank you—not to day.

“I see your yacht upon the shore,

Dancing right merrily;

But then my wife, ere we came out,

Said, ‘Mind, be home to tea.’

“My dame she hath an angry tongue,

And if that we should not

Be back at five, I fear that we

Should catch it rather hot.

“Besides, when out upon the waves,

The mal du mer I fear.”

“Lord bless you,” quoth the mariner,

“We ain’t caught one this year!

“And you’ll be back by half-past four,

In lots of time for tea.”

“You promised, Pa, we’d have a sail,”

Said the children, plaintively.

Appeal’d to thus, in sore perplex,

The father gave consent;

And, oh! he thought how sick he’d be,

As to the boat he went.

The sun was high, the wind was low,

And as the party sail,

These words rang in the father’s ears,

“At five, mind, without fail!”

And now they’re launch’d upon the deep,

The yacht, like any witch,

Skimm’d o’er the foam at first, and then

She up and down did pitch.

She pitchèd up, she pitchèd down,

All comfort ’gan to leave

That father, and though afternoon,

For him ’twas time of heave!

With cheery voice the mariner

Kept pointing out the view;

The father heeded not his words,

For Ocean claimed his due.

He heard his children playing round,

Devoid of qualms and fear;

He heard his boy, in mocking tones,

Say, “Ain’t Pa jolly queer!”

He had not strength to punch his head,

Nor eke to box his ear;

The words were true, and he did feel

Particularly queer.

And worst of all, the while he paid

His tribute to the sea,

A voice kept ringing in his ear:

“You won’t be home to tea!”

“Turn, mariner, I pray you, turn!”

He cried in accents weak;

The sailor heard, but only turn’d

The quid within his cheek.

His cruel offsprings then began

To laugh at their papa;

Quoth they, “It’s five and after—won’t

You catch it, Pa, from Ma!”

“Turn, mariner, I pray you, turn!

Our course let homeward be;

Your guerdon shall be doubled if

We are in time for tea!”

The mariner he smiled a smile—

Nay, more, he grinned a grin—

He said (he was a vulgar man),

“Fork over, then, the tin!”

The wretched father heaved a sigh,

The cash he handed o’er;

Again he turned him o’er the side,—

The boatman turned to shore.

They reach the land, the clocks struck six—

What vision does he see?

It was the wife awaiting him

Who came too late for tea.

What happened when they reached their home

No one was there to see;

Certain it is that from that hour

He ne’er was late for tea!

Anonymous.

---

Classical versus Modern.

It was an ancient pedagogue[80]

And he stopped me (one of three)—

‘To Classic or to Modern side

Go’st thou?’ said he to me.

By thy long Problems and Theorems

Now wherefore plagu’st thou me?

Hold off! unhand me, ancient one!

I’ve seen enough of thee!

He held me with his skinny hand:

Quoth he “I’ll prove to thee

The fault in leaving thus the M[81]

And going to the C.”

I sat me just outside, the Gymn,

I could not choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient one,

That able Moderner!

“Arithmetic, and my good book

Are all you’ll want in life;

An accurate mind will bless your age—

Reward your early strife.”

I slowly raised my head, eftsoons

I asked with much civility

My aged friend, does your book boast

Degrees of probability?

Is it not plain without your aid

To every child of fortune,

That two long lines are always good

In length, as against one short ’un?

“Is it not clear that in working a ‘sum,’

With figures enough to frighten,

That of all the ansers who solve the thing

One answer alone is the right ’un.

‘Figures, figures, everywhere—

And all the boys do shrink—

Figures, figures, everywhere—

Nothing whereon to think.’

I paused—the Moderner strode away

And answered never a word;

And away to Leck’ton Hill he hied[82]

To work a favourite surd.

From The Cheltonian. March 1869.

---

The Ancient Mariner.

A New Version.

Prologue.

It is an ancient mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three—

He held him with his glittering eye,

The wedding guests stood still.

---

The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,

Merrily did we drop,—

I’d reported myself to the skipper bold,

Of the tight little Humming Top.

Higher and higher every day,

In the main top-mast at noon—

(The wedding guest here beat his breast),

Sat the skipper’s pet baboon.

“Heaven help thee ancient mariner!

How got you into the scrape?”

“How did it occur? With my pea-shooter,

I slaughtered the skipper’s ape.”

Shiver my spars, what looks had I

From the skipper of whom I’ve sung;

Oh, wasn’t he cross about his loss—

And had’nt he got a tongue!

Alone, alone: all, all alone,

Alone on a wide, wide sea,

For they set me afloat in a little boat,

With no one for company.

The ghost of the ape appeared in the stern,

And uttered a ghostly chitter,

It fixed on me its stony eyes

That in the moon did glitter.

Oh, save me, save me, holy man,

And the hermit opened his “brolly,”

Which frightened the ape, and I did escape

With the loss of a leg for my folly.

The mariner whose eye is bright,

Whose pig-tail with age is hoar,

Stole off, and now the wedding guest

Gave a most portentious snore.

W. J. Wiegand.

Tom Hood’s Comic Annual, 1870.

---

The Rime of the Modern Shipowner.

It is a drownèd mariner,

And he stoppeth an M.P.

“By thy dank grey beard like wet seal fur,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”

“The great Club’s doors are opened wide,

And I would fare within:—

The members met, the House is set

To spend the nation’s tin.”

*  *  *  *  *

Confound the modern shipowners—

The fiends that I came across!

For a goodly bit she was underwrit—

And they wished the vessel’s loss.

*  *  *  *  *

The western wave was all a-blaze,

The day was well-nigh done;

Almost departed from our gaze,

Faded the blood-red sun—

When a strange shape from out the haze

Was seen by every one!

And lo! the sun was flecked with bars,

Through which appeared he pale,

As, through the dungeon-grate, the tars

Who declined with us to sail.

Alas! cried I, and my teeth I ground,

I see how their craft employed’s—

To send out a ship ill-found, unsound,

Because she’s insured at Lloyd’s.

I saw her ribs, where redly through

The sun shone like a fire.

Is that shipowner all a do?

And is that death, and can the two

Against poor tars conspire?

His ships are sped—they’re booked at sea,

He looks, that fellow, for gold.

He’s on them a good insurance fee,

And deuce a bit for the crew cares he

And their dangers manifold.

The phantom bark made never a sound,

And the twain were casting dice;

“Let the crew be drowned—for the sum is round,”

Said he, “and it’s worth the price.”

The night was calm, though no stars were out,

The leak sprung in the dark—

’Mid unheard horror, and hopeless shout,

Down went the fated bark!

*  *  *  *  *

How many lives were that time lost

I truly do not know;—

But the underwriters paid the cost,—

And the owner won that throw!

*  *  *  *  *

Farewell, farewell, but this I tell

To thee, M.P. distressed,

That you ought to hang one gambling swell

To encourage all the rest!

He preyeth best, whose interest

’Tis to have his vessels founder;

It doesn’t compass his ends to invest

In making those vessels sounder!

*  *  *  *  *

The mariner, who had been drowned,

Quitted that Senator;—

And our M.P. in thought profound

He trod the House’s floor.

He backed-up Mr. Plimsoll’s plan

To aid our tars forlorn:—

A better and a wiser man,

He did the House adorn.

Fun. March, 1873.

---

The Fight of the Fifth November.

A Tale of the “Town and Gown.”

It is a Proctor’s awful form,

’Tis Undergraduates three;

He marshalleth and doggeth them,

He stops them suddenlie:

He holds them with a ready hand,

“Your names? your names?” quoth he,

“Hold off! unhand us, saucy loon!”

Eftsoons they turn to flee.

He holds them with his bull-dogs twain,

The Undergrads stand still;

Wild words are halting on their lips,

The Proctor hath his will.

“The Corn Market is all astir,

We gownsmen won’t stop in;

The town is met, the fight is set;

Hear’st thou the merry din?”

The Proctor steps a pace aside,

Red as a turkey he;

Wagging their heads they back him up,

His mongrel companie.

Those Undergrads they turn to fly,

But never flight is there;

The Proctor tries to tear his locks,

The few he hath to tear.

“Back to your College, gentlemen!

’Tis sad as sad can be,

These heads to break, this row to make,

In the nineteenth centurie!”

Alack! alack! the fight begins,

Ah! whom may Proctor trust,

With mighty whack his haughty back

Is levelled with the dust;

Though slightly blown, in solemn tone

Those Undergrads he cussed.

With aching head, next morn from bed

Those wretched wights uprist;

At nine o’clock that evil flock

To Proctor’s verdict list.

“’Twas wrong,” said he, “to laugh at me,

And wrong to strike with fist!

Your pleasant homes, your parents all,

To-morrow you must see;

And never a don take pity on

Your awful agonie!”

The Rustic.

The Shotover Papers. November, 1874. J. Vincent, High Street, Oxford.

---

The Rime of the Ancient Premier.

Fragment found in a copy of the New Government Unseaworthy Ships Bill, left in the House of Commons.

It is an Ancient Premier,

And he stoppeth One of Three.

By thy grey curls and sleepy eyes,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

“The Session hurries to its close,

The innocents they slay;

The House is met, and fast they get

Through orders of the day.”

He holds him with his skinny hand,

“There was a Bill,” quoth he;

“If that is it suppose we sit,”

Responded One of Three.

“The end we neared, the Bill we feared

Merrily did we drop,

To get away at an early day—

We had no minds to stop.

“A Bill was here, a Bill was there,

Measures were all around!

The House it growled, and roared and howled,

But time for none we found,

Except the Holdings Bill, and that

To carry we were bound.

“At length to cross and bring us loss

The Merchant Shipping came;

As if it had had a Christian soul,

Men hailed it in God’s name.

“It did what never Bill had done

With villains to contend,

Who for their gain our bravest men

To sure destruction send.”

“Heav’n shield thee, Ancient Premier,

From the fiends that wreak thee ill;

Why look’st thou so?” With my soft “No,”

I slew the Shipping Bill.

II.

“And I had done a hellish thing,

To work the seamen woe;

Thousands of living men through me

To certain death would go,

“So one averred, so all who heard—

The thought my bosom rives—

‘Ah! wretch,’ said they, ‘the Bill to slay

That saves the sailors’ lives—

The Bill that spares a nation’s shame—

Orphans and widowed wives.’”

*  *  *  *  *

That night I dreamed when every voice

Was still, and closed each eye—

The western wave was all aflame,

And as I stood thereby,

A coffin-ship drave suddenly

Betwixt me and the sky.

And strait the sun was flecked with bars,

Where the timbers shrank apace;

As if through a dungeon grate it peered,

It looked through that disgrace.

And soon the rotten ship began

To founder on the wave;

“She will go down with every hand,

And none have power to save!”

One after one I saw them go,

Too quick for groan or sigh;

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,

And cursed me with his eye.

I looked beneath the eddying sea,

And drew my eyes away—

I looked upon the rotting deck,

And there the dead men lay;

“The many men so beautiful!

And they all dead did lie;

And a thousand thousand slimy things

Lived on—and so did I.”

*  *  *  *  *

Funny Folks. August 14, 1875.

---

Ye Rime of ye Ancient Dowager.

It is an ancient dowager,

And she stoppeth one of three—

By thy kid-gloved hand, and gold rimmed glass,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

“The Albion’s doors are opened wide,

Its board I would not miss,

Taylor’s forewarn’d, my chop is on,

Dost hear its merry hiss?”

She holds him with her kid-gloved hand:

“There was a man,” quoth she—

“Oh, don’t detain me, dowager!”

Eftsoons her hand dropt she.

She held him with her glittering eye,

Seen through her pince-nez glass;

He listens, like a three-years’ child,

Although he feels an ass.

He leans upon her brougham door,

He cannot choose but hear,

And this she said, with bended head—

That ancient dowager!—

“The house was packed, it is a fact,

No space there could I see,

’Twas full in boxes and in stalls,

In pit and gallerie.

“The music done, two scenes did run,

Then from the wings came he;

His face was brown, his hair hung down—

’Twas beautiful to see.

“His robes were red-dy, very red;

The scenery was grand;

But, when he spoke, it was no joke

His words to understand.

“Scene after scene, speech after speech,

He spoke; and I’ve a notion

He wished to show the House that he’d

Found out Perpetual Motion.

“Motion, motion, all the time,

Till I began to blink—

Motion, motion, all the time,

And much too much, I think.

“His very eyebrows moved; O fie!

But, ’tis no empty gag,—

Nay, ’tis a fact, in the last act,

I thought his ears would wag

“Above, below, and to and fro,

Down, up, and round about,

His body and his limbs did go

As he did mouth and spout.

“Higher and higher rose his voice,

Till it was like to stun—”

The one of three, loud groanèd he—

He knew his chop was done.

The one of three, loud groanèd he,

Yet could not choose but hear,

For he had dined, and eke had wined,

With the ancient dowager.

“It seemed at last (three acts were past)

As though his tongue was dry;

I never heard a single word,

Though his voice was pitched so high.

“But higher yet his voice did get,

His movements quicker still—

Now Heaven send, said I to a friend,

He be not taken ill!

“O sleep, it is a gentle thing,

Beloved from pole to pole,

His monotone no longer mocks,

For slumber flies down to my box,

And slides into my soul.

“I dream’t that, wearied with his task,

The actor, feeling bad,

Had ceased to act, it was a fact,

For, when I woke he had!

“The curtain dropt, but few had stopt,

And I was one of these;

A girl did come, who lookèd glum,

And said, ‘it’s over please.’

“‘Thanks girl,’ said I, and checked a sigh,

The news thou bring’st is sweet;

‘’Tis o’er you said’? She wagged her head,

And showed me to the street.

“Farewell, farewell, but this I tell

To thee, thou one of three,

He doeth well who reads ‘Othell-

O’[83] in his librarie.”

The dowager drew up the glass,

The interview was o’er,

And hungrilie, the one of three,

Doth slam the brougham-door

He went like one that had been done,

For his chop was cold, he knew;

And, a sadder and a wiser man,

He ordered Irish stew.

The Figaro. February 23, 1876.

---

The Ancient Mariner.

The Wedding Guest’s Version of the Affair
from his Point of View.

It is an Ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three—

In fact he coolly took my arm—

“There was a ship,” quoth he.

“Bother your ships!” said I. “Is this

The time a yarn to spin?

This is a wedding, don’t you see,

And I am next of kin.

“The wedding-breakfast has begun,

We’re hungry as can be—

Hold off! Unhand me, longshore man!”

With that his hand dropt he.

But there was something in his eye

That made me sick and ill,

Yet forced to listen to his yarn—

The Mariner’d had his swill.

While Tom and Harry went their way

I sat upon a stone—

So queer on Fanny’s wedding-day

Me sitting there alone!

Then he began, that Mariner,

To rove from pole to pole,

In one long-winded, lengthened-out,

Eternal rigmarole,

About a ship in which he’d sailed,

Though whither, goodness knows,

Where “ice will split with a thunder-fit,”

And every day it snows.

And then about a precious bird

Of some sort or another,

That—was such nonsence ever heard?—

Used to control the weather!

Now, at this bird the Mariner

Resolved to have a shy,

And laid it low with his cross-bow—

And then the larks! My eye!

For loss of that uncommon fowl

They couldn’t get a breeze;

And there they stuck, all out of luck,

And rotted on the seas.

The crew all died, or seemed to die,

And he was left alone

With that queer bird. You never heard

What games were carried on!

At last one day he stood and watched

The fishes in the sea,

And said, “I’m blest!” and so the ship

Was from the spell set free!

And it began to rain and blow,

And as it rained and blew,

The dead got up and worked the ship—

That was a likely crew!

However, somehow he escaped,

And got again to land;

But mad as any hatter, say,

From Cornhill to the Strand.

For he believes that certain folks

Are singled out by fate,

To whom this cock-and-bull affair

Of his he must relate.

Describing all the incidents,

And painting all the scenes,

As sailors will do in the tales

They tell to the Marines.

Confound the Ancient Mariner!

I knew I should be late;

And so it was: the wedding guests

Had all declined to wait.

Another had my place, and gave

My toast; and sister Fan

Said, “’Twas a shame. What could you want

With that seafaring man?”

I felt like one that had been stunned

Through all this wrong and scorn;

A sadder and a later man

I rose the morrow morn.

Funny Folks. 1878.

---

The Rhyme of the Ancient Blue.

It is an ancient Blue-coat boy,

And he stoppeth one of three.

“By thine old Blue-coat and tawdry hose,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

“The Hall, its doors are opened wide,

And I am going up,

Step up the stairs, and walk inside,

And see the Public sup!”

He holds him with his horny hand,

“There was a time,” quoth he;

“Leave go, unhand me, Shabby Blue,”

Eftsoons his hand dropped he.

He holds him with his glittering eye,

The Supper Guest stood still,

He listened like a three-years child,

The Blue-coat hath his will.

The Supper Guest sat on a stone,

He cannot choose but hear,

And thus, forsooth, that seedy youth

Spake, whispering in his ear:—

“The Hall was packed, it is a fact,

Merrily did we eat,

The Mayor was there, and ladies fair,

The Blue-coat Boys were neat.

“The music played, it was arranged,

And shining was my head,

And I was bound for taking round

The basket with the bread.

“The band had stopt their noisy din,

Painful it was to hear,

And rising up, we left our seats

Ere bowing to the Chair.

“My robes were blue, ay, very blue,

My legs like golden sands,

To make a bob it was a job

So starchèd were my bands.

“Pair after pair, pair after pair

We bowed, all tramp, all motion,

Just like a string of tiny scrubs

Receiving chilblain lotion.

“Bowing, bowing, all the time

Till I began to blink;

Bowing, bowing all the time,

And more to bow—I shrink.

“About, about each pair stepped out,

And still they bowed that night

The crowd went on, and on, and on,

All yellow, blue, and white.

“Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on a wide, wide space,

And never a thing to think upon,

Save nodding to that face.

“I looked it o’er, I tried to bow,

But or ever my head had bent

The basket filled with bread tipped up

Right off my head it went.

“The bread it hit the Chairman’s head,

And left a mark, they say,

The look with which he looked at me

Has never passed away.”

The Blue-coat Boy, whose eye was bright,

Whose coat was torn and poor,

Is gone, and now the Supper Guest

Turns from that ancient door.

He went like one who has been stunned,

And is of sense unsound,

They haunt his dreams, those crowds of Blues

All bowing, bowing round.

Gleanings from “The Blue.” 1881.

The Blue was a small journal published by, and for, the Blue-coat School Boys, at Christ’s Hospital, London.

---

The Rime of the Potent Minister.

It is a potent Minister,

And he stoppeth an M.P.

“By the ancient rules of Parliament,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

The Speaker rises in his chair;

Eftsoons debate will close.

Ere it be late, I fain would state

Why I this Bill oppose.”

“Let Speaker rise; let bell ring out;

Division lobbies fill.

Vote mayst thou quick; thou shalt not speak.”

The Minister hath his will,

The Member mutely gave his vote;

Still as a stone was he;

And thus spake on that potent man,

Head of the Ministry:

“My followers press, the Tories talk;

And thus our course is slow.

But with my Clôture, I have made sure

It shall no more be so.

“So then attend, my Tory friend,

Or Irish if thou be,

Or Independent Liberal,

Or Radical M.P.

“He speaketh well who loveth well

My measures great and small;

But he who favoureth them not,

He should not speak at all.

“He speaketh best who speaketh least,

Whate’er his views may be.

A silent vote be yours, my friend;

The speaking leave to me.”

That Member paired him with a friend,

Of different views be sure;

And as no more his voice was heard,

So never more himself appeared

In the dumb-show of Clôture.

Punch. March 18, 1882.

---

Our Regimental Mess.

The baccy blew; the cocktails flew,

The whisky followed free.

I was the first whose buttons burst

From too much S and B.

Down dropt the cap’n; the colonel dropt down,

’Twas as droll as droll could be;

And they did fall only to bawl

An oath with a big big D.

All in a hot and smoky room

A noisy “sub” at nine,

Right on the dinner board did stand,

And upset half the wine.

Man after man, man after man,

We fell, not one was able;

As idle as a painted corpse

Beneath a painted table.

Sherry, sherry everywhere

And all my throat did shrink;

Sherry, sherry everywhere

But not a soul could drink!

My very hair did steam. The deuce!

That ever this should be;

Yea, drunken subs did crawl on knees,

Fit subjects for D. T.

About, about, in reel and rout,

The mess room danced at sight;

The bottles, like a witch’s oils,

Burnt green, and red, and white.

And both my eyes from too much “fizz,”

Were red as in some trouble;

And everything I looked at seemed

To me reflected double.

Then past a hazy time—each one

Left at the hour of four;

When nearing homewards I beheld

A something at my door.

At first it seemed a battered post,

And then it seemed a blot;

It turned and turned and took at last

A certain shape I wot.

With looks aghast, with eyes set fast

I could not speak for life;

Through utter fright quite mad I looked;

I bit my lips, my fate was booked—

I saw my wife! My wife!!

From Squibs, by Edwin Oliver.

---

Ye Ancient Mariner.

By a Modern Sharp.

It was an ancient mariner,

Who rang the front-door bell;

With gold-laced cap and rolling gait,

His part he acted well.

It was the lady of the house

Who opened wide the door;

“My lady, I am steward of

The gallant Singapore.

“She’s lying at East Boston now,

Where all the gallant Cu-

Narders land their passengers;

I’m steward of her crew.

“And I have here a case of knives—

Real plate and nary sham;

They’ve come ashore without the form

Of seeing Uncle Sam.[84]

“They cost me just five dollars, mum;

They’re marked real triple plate;

I bought ’em for a party which

Have skipped from out the State.”

Then up the subtle lady spoke;

“I know the Singapore;

And on her voyage to Liverpool

She’s six days out or more.

“An’ if ye be the steward bold,

She’s given you the slip;

I pray thee, gentle steward, go

And join another ship.

“These triple-plated knives have ne’er

Paid Uncle Sam the dues;

They make ’em in Connecticut—

They’re just the sort I use.

“So, gentle mariner, sheer off!”

He beat a quick retreat,

But sold his “smuggled” knives and spoons

A few doors down the street.

Detroit Free Press. January 31, 1885.

---

The Admiralty Goose; or,
the Modern Mariner.

It is a Modern Mariner,

Who hath never been to sea.

“Come Northbrook, with that winking eye,

What wouldst thou have of me?

The Commons’ doors are opened wide,

They’re waiting to begin;

The Opposition fume and fret:

Mayst hear the nasty din.”

He holds him with official grip.

“We’ve built a ship,” quoth he.

“Hold off! Unhand me, naval loon!

A ship! It cannot be.”

He holds him with his winking eye—

The Premier he stood still,

And listens like some new M.P.

In charge of his first Bill.

The Premier sat him on a chair;

He cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that curious man,

The Whitehall Mariner:

“The ship, once built, was found to float

Without a single prop!

And then she tried her measured mile

Midst many a cheery stop.

“Her armament, ten ‘sixty-fours,’

Marked ‘Eighteen-fifty-three,’

Of not the very slightest use:

Still, thus we went to sea!

“It wasn’t quite the sort of thing

We felt we should provide——”

The Premier here looked t’ward the House:

There seemed some row inside.

The Speaker sits within his chair;

Red as a rose is he,

With effort to restrain in bounds

The Merry Irishry.

The Premier, when he noteth this,

Prefers the tale to hear;

So thus spake on that curious man,

The Whitehall Mariner.

“And now the Press-blast came, and it

Was critical and strong;

It noted all the various things

That somehow would go wrong.

“The shaft would halt, and bend, and break;

The guns seemed all accurst;

For, loaded slowly, one by one,

They, one by one, did burst.

“And then there came of gibes and sneers

An overwhelming swarm:

And such a row got up, we found

The situation warm!

“For Reed wrote letters columns long,

And panic filled the air;

We didn’t know which way to turn

The row was everywhere!

The row was there, the row was here,

The row was all around.

Eftsoons up went the Income-tax

To ninepence in the pound!

“At length an Admiralty Goose,—

The brute you’ll know at sight,—

Wheeled on the scene, and vowed that soon

’Twould set all matters right.

“’Tis ever thus that brute doth boast,

And will,—till some commotion

Make plain we’ve but a paper fleet

Wherewith to rule the Ocean.

“It eateth up the Estimates,

By threats ’tis ne’er deterred;

It blundereth and plundereth,—

A most ill-omened bird!

“And as it swalloweth each sum

Without remorse or shame,

And question shuns,—that shaft and guns

Keep up the same old game.

“Not one, but scores on scores, while I,

Poor minion of the Board,

From its foul wake, my flight to take,

At present can’t afford.

“And so the Admiralty Goose

Soars on; and men may hollo,

And call me any names they like,—

Alas! I’m bound to follow!

“But from red-tape and jobbery,

I feel at times nigh stirred

Away to break!—Perdition take

That most ill-omened bird!”

*  *  *  *  *

“Good gracious, Whitehall Mariner,

Why not from bonds break loose?

Strike branch and root, by Jove! and shoot

That Admiralty Goose!”

Punch. May 23, 1885.

---

The Rime of the Antient Missionere.

It was an antient missionere,

And he stoppeth one of three,

The other two had trains to catch;

So the missionere caught me.

“Now, the saints thee save, thou missionere,

Gramercy; Zooks. Gadso!

Thy haviour sure is somewhat queer.

What would’st thou with me moe?”

He fixed me with his glittering eye—

Of course, I knew he would—

And with his tale began to try

To freeze my youthful blood.

He said, “When I meet such as thou,

To such my tale I teach;

And watch the symptoms of a row

While on myself I peach.

“I have a gruesome tale to tell—

Saint Anne my guardian be!

I’ve had a bare escape from—well,

I’ve reached mine own countree.”

I took him to a neighbouring inn,

And gave him cups of wine,

He drank them loth, as ’twere a sin—

And took sly swigs at mine.

“Now, pitch thy tale, thou missionere,

Or no more wine thou’lt see.”

He answered, with a boozy leer,

“Old crusted might it be!

“I’ve come from far-off seas and lands,

That own a pagan rule;

And I have blood upon these hands—

’Tis of an infant school.

“And this was how it came to be;

I went out to convert

Folks in the South Pacific Sea;

And to compel a spurt

“On my part—getting every black

From heathendom to cease—

Those who had sent me out—good lack!

They paid me by the piece.

“If I could get none to encase

His lower limbs in breeches,

Or use Pears’ soap on hands and face,

My boss sent me no riches.

“But ev’ry little pagan boy,

Who clothed and washed himself,

If certified by me with joy,

Produced me certain pelf.

“So, ’twas not strange, thou wedding guest”—

His playful name for me—

“That my parishioners were pressed

Half civilised to be.

“I thought to make a handsome sum

With ev’ry new recruit;

But black men all go wrong on rum;

And women follow soot.

“My only hope was in the young;

Their tender minds and backs,

I influenced with rod and tongue—

With homilies and whacks.

“I had a school. Just half a score

Th’ establishment contained;

And ev’ry little blackamoor

Was preached to—also caned.

“I preached and caned, and caned and preached,

Those children to despair.

I thrashed them, though they all were breeched,

For t’others who went bare,

“They all committed suicide,

While drinking sherry wine

One swallowed glass and all, and died.

For him needs must I pine,

“One drowned himself while out to skate—

I pray you help my case—

I will recount each infant’s fate—”

“Now, out upon thy face.

“‘Ten little niggers!’ ’Tis too late

That well-worn tale to try,”

I cried, and on his hoary pate

Full lustily fell I.

I smote that antient missionere—

I smote him swift and sore,

I smote his glittering nose and ear

Full twenty times and more.

I slew that antient missionere,

And forth his body cast;

And happy school girls, void of fear,

Jumped o’er him as they passed.

’Twas in the busiest street of Leeds—

I’ve suffered for my act—

But he still lies there ’mongst the weeds,

Because the attention of the Sanitary Committee

has not yet been called to the fact.

James Bailey.

The Yorkshire Weekly Post. December 24, 1886.

---

In 1884 there was a parody competition in the columns of Truth on portions of The Ancient Mariner, the topic selected by the Puzzle Editor being the filthy state of the River Thames. Nine of these parodies were printed in Truth, September 11 and 18, 1884; being somewhat monotonous, it will be sufficient to quote one only:—

The River Thames.

It is an aged lighterman,

And he quick accosteth me.

“By thy thirsty mouth and bleary eye,

Why makest thou so free?

“The street front door stands open wide,

And I have bought the gin;

My guests all wait my coming, mate,

So I must hasten in.”

He takes me by the button-hole,

“There was a stream,” quoth he.

“Be off, you maudlin fool!” I cried.

“Just list a while,” said he.

“This stream so near was always clear,

And hardly ’een a drop

Of ‘Father Thames’ was foul afore

Them barges plied atop.

“Night after night, day after day,

They drift with noiseless motion,

As deadly as a tainted ship

Upon a tainted ocean.

“Water, water everywhere;

But offal foul can stink

The sweetest water anywhere,

And poison it for drink.

“For though there come both cats and dogs,

And corpses young and old,

The filth breast-high that’s floating by

Is from some barge’s hold.”

“God bless me! honest waterman,

You’ve told me quite enough.

Why look’st thou so?” “From my barge know

I shot the putrid stuff!”

The aged man, who seemed half tight,

And proved a shocking bore,

Is gone; and I, the City clerk,

Turn towards my lodging’s door.

And on the way I make this vow,

With good “Old Tom” or “Lorne”

I’ll never more Thames water mix,

As sure as I was born.

Crystal Palace.

Truth. September 11, 1884.

Another, and a very long parody dealing with the same topic, and in a very similar manner, appeared in Truth, July 30, 1885.

Ye Ancient Father Thames.

It is the ancient Father Thames,

And he stoppeth one of two.

“By thy weedy beard, and fevered eye,

What’s this thou dar’st to do?”

*  *  *  *  *

---

The Lay of the Modern Millinere.

It is a mild Man-Millinere,

And he stoppeth one of three;

“By thy tumbled tie and tearful eye,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

“St. Stephen’s doors are opened wide,

I’m a newly-fledged M.P.,

The House is met, so kindly let

Me take my seat,” saith he.

He holds him with his trembling hand.

“There was a bird—” quoth he.

“I say, hold hard! Just drop my guard!”

He droppeth it instantlee.

He holds him with his watery eye,

The new M.P. stands still,

And listens like a man much bored;

The Millinere hath his will.

*  *  *  *  *

“Trade brisk appeared, good profits we cleared,

Merrily went the shop,

For feather trimmings were all the go

With dames who dressed tip-top.

“Bonnets and hats with tiny plumes,

From songsters pluckt were dight——”

The new M.P. slipped out a D.,

Big Ben boomed through the night.

And W. G. was on his legs,

One might catch the loud “Hear, hear!”

But still prosed on that woeful man,

That moist-eyed Millinere.

“Anon the claims of the Fashion-fiend

Grew tyrannously strong;

We did not dare so much as spare

The prettiest pets of song.”

“Good gracious, man, what ails you now?

Why this hysteric sobbin’?

Compose yourself!” “For sake of pelf

I went and slew a Robin!!!

“Since then I’ve had an awful time,

Such horrid dreams o’ night!

There is a Woman doth haunt me much,

And fill me with affright.

“Her lips are red, her looks are free,

Her locks are yellow as gold,

The Nightmare Feminine Cruelty, she,

Who makes men’s blood run cold.

“Dyspepsia sure, thou Millinere—”

“Hush! hush! O rash M. P.,

I vowed that another singing fowle

Should never be slain by me!

“And then I heard two Voices speak,

As I lay like one that’s dead;

Two Voices sweet, yet sternly sad,

And this is what they said:—

First Voice.

“This is the man, the barbarous man,

Who slew my favourite bird,

And all to pander to Fashion’s freaks,

As cruel as eke absurd.”

Second Voice.

“True! But the man hath penance done,

And taken a holy vow.

Moreover, the Women who wear such spoil

Are more to blame, I trow.

*  *  *  *  *

“I woke. My ghostly tale is told;

But the heart within me yearns

For something done to stay the shame

Whereat gentle blood yet burns.

“Oh, young M.P.! canst move the House

With the Fashion fiend to fight,

That this crime no longer our women may stain

In all humanity’s sight?

“He prayeth best——” “Ah! I know the rest,”

Quoth that button-holed M.P.

“Damp Millinere, you are right, I fear.

Good bye! ’Twere a ticklish task and queer.

But, at any rate we’ll see!”

That Millinere, whose eye is damp,

Whose tie is tumbled sore,

Is gone, and the newly-fledged M.P.

Enters St. Stephen’s door.

Punch. January 30, 1885.

This cruel and senseless fashion has, at last, been declared “bad form.” No longer are birds to be worn in bonnets or hats; and the edict has gone forth, both in London and Paris, that those who wear them after this ukase are to be regarded as provincials who know no better. This resolution has been taken only just in time to save some small remnant of the race of Humming Bird, that “living flower,” and the Bird of Paradise.

---

Tom Hood’s “Comic Annual” for 1868 contained “The Spiritual Parnassus” by a Literary Medium. This consists of parodies on Lord Byron, Thomas Moore, and S. T. Coleridge, written by the late Mr. William Jeffery Prowse. The parody, or rather imitation of Coleridge’s style is admitted to be the best of its kind ever written, especially for its humorous description of the failings of the “Old man eloquent.”

“Did you ever hear me preach, Charles?” asked Coleridge of Lamb one day.

“I n-n-n-never heard you do anything else,” stammered Lamb in reply.

“Coleridge was a marvellous talker,” said Samuel Rogers. “Wordsworth and I walked to Highgate to call on him, when he was living at Gillman’s. We sat with him two hours, he talking the whole time without intermission. When we left the house, we walked for some time without speaking. ‘What a wonderful man he is!’ exclaimed Wordsworth. ‘Wonderful indeed,’ said I. ‘What a depth of thought, what richness of expression,’ continued Wordsworth. ‘There’s nothing like him that I ever heard!’ rejoined I. Another pause. ‘Pray,’ inquired Wordsworth, ‘did you precisely understand what he said about the Kantian philosophy?’ R. ‘Not precisely.’ W. ‘Or about the plurality of worlds?’ R. ‘I can’t say I did. In fact, if the truth must out, I did not understand a syllable from one end of his monologue to the other.’ W. ‘No more did I.’”—Table Talk of Samuel Rogers.

The Ancient Philosopher.

By a Literary Medium.

It is an old philosopher,

He stoppeth one of three:—

“By thy gleaming face and snowy hair,

Now, wherefore stop’st thou me?”

He held aloft a mystic scroll

With the letters “S. T. C.!”

“Subjectively, the Logos,” said,

The aged man, says he,

Explains the supra-sensual base

Of all philosophee!

“No doubt you’re right.” his friend replied,

“But what is that to me?”

“I shot the Albatross!” pursued

The chatty veteran.

“The deuce you did!” exclaimed his friend;

“It was a daring plan!

Who was this Albert Ross? and who

Are you, you rum old man?”

“Your curiosity, young friend,

It would be harsh to baulk,

So you had better sit you down,

Unless you’d rather walk,

And I will read you passages

From my own Table Talk!”

He read to him for several hours,

Concerning Church and Schism;

Explained the spiritual sense

Of the shorter Catechism;

Revealed the esoteric truths

Of Neo-Platonism;

Of Jacob Böhme largely spoke,

And German mysticism,

With hints on Madame Guyon’s life,

And Gallic Quietism;

And notions about Swedenborg,

And Swedenborgianism;

He showed that Truth, the Light, must pass

Through Error as its prism.

“Old man, you must be dry,” exclaimed

The adolescent here;

“And there’s a look about your eyes

That makes me think you’re queer;

Suppose we send a little boy

To fetch a pint of beer?”

“I drink not beer,” the sage replied,

“Gin, brandy, wine, nor rum:

The only liquor that I touch,

It is the laudanum;

So send the little boy unto

The chemist’s shop for some!”

He drew a phial from his pouch,

And drained it at a draught.

“Hold, madman, hold!” the youth exclaimed,

“I thought you only chaffed!”

The aged man, regarding him,

Satirically laughed.

Big drops of perspiration gleamed

About his fine old nose;

“The laudanum stirs my brain,” he said,

“My conversation flows;

I drink an awful quantity,

As Mr. Gillman knows!

“All thoughts, all passions, all delights”—

To wander he began;

He talked of Abyssinian maids,

And then of Kubla Khan;

The youth observed, “He is a most

Remarkable old man!

“I only wish that he would talk

To some one else,” said he

“I cannot stand him any more,

I will arise and flee!”

He was the first that ever burst

From the never silent C.!

Mr. William Jeffery Prowse was born at Torquay on May 6, 1836, and died of consumption at Nice, on Easter Sunday, 1870. He was a journalist by profession, being more particularly connected with The Daily Telegraph as a leader writer, and with Fun. He had a great fund of humour, and a singular faculty of imitation, witness his “Prize Essays,” and a series of papers he contributed to The Porcupine, in which he adopted the modes of thought and expression of eminent writers of the day, without descending to mere parody of subject or language. In this he rivalled the success achieved by the brothers Smith in Rejected Addresses. The “Nicholas Notes” in Fun were also from his pen. They cleverly burlesque the prophets of the sporting papers, whose ambiguous utterances can be always afterwards explained to be in perfect accordance with what has come to pass. Nicholas is addicted to the bottle, is always impecunious, and is always just about to bring out a history of Knurr and Spell.

The Rime of the Ancient Waggonere, in four parts. This parody first appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, February, 1819, it was republished in vol. 2 of J. S. Moore’s Pictorial Book of Ballad Poetry (London, 1849), and again in William Maginn’s Miscellanies (London, 1885.)

The Cockney Mariner, in seven parts, by Gilbert Abbott à Beckett. This appeared in The Almanack of the Month. Vol. 1, 1846.

It is a Cockney Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three;

“By thy dreadnought coat, button’d up to the throat,

Now what do you want with me?”

*  *  *  *  *

The Rime of the New-made Baccalere, in seven parts. Oxford: J. Vincent. This clever parody (31 pages 8vo.) was first published, anonymously, in 1841, it has since been reprinted, and may be obtained from Mr. Vincent, High Street, Oxford. Like the original poem, which it follows very closely, it consists of seven parts, and commences thus:

It was a new-made Baccalere,

One freshman stops of three,

“By thy long sleev’d gown, and hood of down,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

“The bursary doors are open’d wide,

And I must next go in:

The men are met, the papers set,

May’st hear the freshman-din.”

He holds him with his inky hand,

“There was Great Go,” quoth he,

“Hold off! unhand me, Baccalere!

Eftsoons his hand dropp’d he.

*  *  *  *  *

In the third volume of The Works of Thomas Love Peacock (London. Richard Bentley and Son, 1875), will be found a series of poems entitled “Paper Money Lyrics,” these consist of imitations of favourite poets, amongst them is a long parody on Coleridge, called The Wise Men of Gotham.

In a bowl to sea went wise men three,

On a brilliant night of June:

They carried a net, and their hearts were set

On fishing up the moon.

*  *  *  *  *

The Christmas number of The World for 1885 contained a burlesque report of the libel suit, Adams v. Coleridge, in which the witnesses on both sides of the quarrel are indiscriminately ridiculed, but more especially Lord Coleridge, whose treatment of his daughter was the subject of much hostile comment. The report is in prose, but it contains a parody of The Ancient Mariner, commencing thus:

It was an Ancient Marriager,

And he stoppeth one at three:

“By thy smile veneered and ironic eye,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

The “Rime of the Ancient Statesman.” A Relic of the Past, not by S. T. Coleridge. Cambridge. Henry W. Wallis, Sidney Street, 1874. This is an anonymous political parody, consisting of seventy-nine verses, all strongly condemning the measures passed by the Liberal party under Mr. Gladstone’s leadership.

The “ancient statesman” (Mr. Gladstone), meets Mr. Disraeli (then Prime Minister), at the entrance to the House of Commons:

It is an ancient statesman,

And he stoppeth one of three;

“By thy whiskers grey and frowning face

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”

The Palace doors are opened wide,

They’re waiting there within;

And as I am Prime Minister

In sooth I must go in.

*  *  *  *  *

The Birmingham Speech.

It was a statesman old and grey

Went forth to tell his deeds,

And he dined with a country Mayor

At one of his sumptuous feeds.

“Now, Heaven thee save, thou worthy Mayor,

I pray thee tell to me,

If thou art able to divine

Return of pow’r to me?”

And how should I thy search assist,

Thou very reverend man?

Since thou would’st serve her Majesty,

And I’m Republican!”[85]

From “They are Five” by W. E. G. London. David Bogue, 1880.

The Rime of the Ancient Rinking Man, is the title of the first parody contained in Idylls of the Rink, by A. W. Mackenzie. London. 1876.

It is an ancient beggar man,

And he stoppeth one of three.

By thy tattered clothes, and battered nose,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

*  *  *  *  *

The Meeting of the Justices, relating to the water supply in Calcutta, appears in Lyrics and Lays, by “Pips,” published in Calcutta, in 1867. It possesses little merit as a parody, and the topic was one of purely local interest:—

It was an ancient gentleman,

And he talk’d for hours three,

“By thy long lean form, and dismal drone

We fain must list to thee.”

*  *  *  *  *

Three long parodies are also to be found in Truth, February 1, 1877; May 16, 1878; and November 2, 1882.

Unfortunately, all the parodies here enumerated are very long. To give them complete would fill a volume, and it must be confessed that few of them are sufficiently clever, or amusing, to repay perusal. Most of the best parodies have been here reprinted in full; disjointed extracts from the others would convey little idea of their literary merit, or general interest.

——:o:——

LOVE.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I

Live o’er again that happy hour,

When midway on the mount I lay,

Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene

Had blended with the lights of eve;

And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve!

She lean’d against the armed man,

The statue of the armed knight;

She stood and listened to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own.

My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!

She loves me best, whene’er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving story—

An old rude song, that suited well

That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest grace;

For well she knew, I could not choose

But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore

Upon his shield a burning brand;

And that for ten long years he wooed

The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!

The deep, the low, the pleading tone

With which I sang another’s love,

Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes, and modest grace;

And she forgave me, that I gazed

Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,

And that he crossed the mountain-woods,

Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,

And sometimes from the darksome shade,

And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade,—

There came and looked him in the face

An angel beautiful and bright;

And that he knew it was a Fiend.

This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did,

He leaped amid a murderous band,

And saved from outrage worse than death

The Lady of the Land;—

And how she wept, and clasped his knees;

And how she tended him in vain—

And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain;—

And that she nursed him in a cave;

And how his madness went away,

When on the yellow forest-leaves

A dying man he lay;—

His dying words—but when I reached

That tenderest strain of all the ditty,

My faltering voice and pausing harp

Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;

The music and the doleful tale,

The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,

An undistinguishable throng,

And gentle wishes long subdued.

Subdued and cherished long!

She wept with pity and delight,

She blushed with love, and virgin shame;

And like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside,

As conscious of my look she stept—

Then suddenly, with timorous eye

She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms,

She pressed me with a meek embrace;

And bending back her head, looked up,

And gazed upon my face.

’Twas partly love, and partly fear,

And partly ’twas a bashful art,

That I might rather feel, than see,

The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm.

And told her love with virgin pride;

And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous Bride.

S. T. Coleridge.

The original poem, by Coleridge, is here printed in full, with a very clever parody, which will be better appreciated after comparison with the original. The little Volume of Miscellaneous Poems from which the parody is taken, is now very scarce, although only published as recently as 1880. The author has gone to Australia, taking with him all the unsold copies of his book.

The Power of Science.

“All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,”

Are but the legacies of apes,

With interest on the same,

How oft in studious hours do I

Recall those moments, gone too soon,

When midway in the hall I stood,

Beside the Dichobune.

Through the Museum windows played

The light on fossil, cast, and chart,

And she was there, my Gwendoline,

The mammal of my heart.

She leaned against the Glyptodon;

The monster of the sculptured tooth;

She looked a fossil specimen

Herself, to tell the truth.

She leaned against the Glyptodon;

She fixed her glasses on her nose;

One Pallas-foot drawn back displayed

The azure of her hose.

Few virtues had she of her own—

She borrowed them from time and space;

Her age was eocene, although

Post-tertiary her place.

The Irish Elk that near us stood,

(Megaceros Hibernicus),

Scarce dwarfed her; while I bowed beneath

Her stately overplus.

I prized her pre-diluvian height,

Her palaeozoic date of birth,

For these to scientific eye

Had scientific worth.

She had some crochets of her own,

My sweet viviparous Gwendoline,

She loved me best when I would sing

Her ape descent and mine.

I raised a wild pansophic lay;

(The public fled the dismal tones);

I struck a chord that suited well

That entourage of bones.

I sang the very dawn of life,

Cleared at a bound the infinite chasm

That sunders inorganic dust

From sly-born protoplasm.

I smote the stiffest chords of song,

I showed her in a glorious burst

How universal unity

Was dual from the first.

How primal germs contained in one

The beau-ideal and the belle;

And how the “mystery of life”

Is just a perfect cell.

I showed how sense itself began

In senseless gropings after sense:—

She seemed to find it so herself

(Her gaze was so intense).

And how the very need of light

Conceived, and visual organs bore;

Until an optic want evolved

The spectacles she wore.

How headless molluscs making head

Against the fashions of their line,

On pulpy maxims turned their backs,

And specialized a spine.

How landward longings seized on fish,

Fretted the type within their eggs,

And in amphibian issue dif-

Ferentiated legs.

I hopped the quaint marsupials,

And into higher mammals ran,

And through a subtle fugue I stole

From Lemurs up to Man.

How tails were lost—but when I reached

This saddest part of all my lay,

She dropped the corners of her mouth,

And turned her face away.

And proud to see my lofty love

So sweetly wince, so coyly shrink,

I woke a moving threnody—

I sang the missing link.

And when I spake of vanished kin

Of Simian races dead and gone,

The wave of sorrow from her eyes

Half-drowned the Glyptodon.

I turned to other, brighter themes,

And glancing at our different scales,

I showed how lady beetles are

Robuster than the males.

I sang the Hymenoptera;

How insect-brides are sought and got;

How stridulation of the male

First hinted what was what.

And when—perchance too fervently—

I smote upon the chord of sex,

I saw the tardy spark of love

Blaze up behind her specs.

She listened with a heightened grace,

She blushed a blush like ruby wine,

Then bent her stately head, and clinked

Her spectacles on mine.

A mighty impulse rattled through

Her well articulated frame;

And into one delighted ear

She breathed my Christian name.

And whispered that my song had given

Her secret thought substantial shape,

For she had long considered me

The offshoot of an ape.

She raised me from the enchanted floor,

And, as my lips her shoulder met,

Between two asthmas of embrace

She called me marmosette.

I strove to calm her down; she grew

Serener and serener;

And so I won my Gwendoline,

My vertebrate congener.

J. Brunton Stephens.

——:o:——

Playhouse Musings.

“Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim

Credebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquam

Decurrens alio, neque si bene.”

Hor.

My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad?

I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey

To carry to the mart her crockery-ware,

And when that donkey look’d me in the face,

His face was sad! and you are sad, my Public!

Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October

Again assembles us in Drury Lane.

Long wept my eye to see the timber planks

That hid our ruins; many a day I cried,

Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it!

Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve,

As along Charles Street I prepared to walk,

Just at the corner, by the pastrycook’s,

I heard a trowel tick against a brick.

I look’d me up, and straight a parapet

Uprose at least seven inches o’er the planks.

Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said:

[86]He of Blackfriars Road, who hymned thy downfall

In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied

That Flames, like those from prostrate Solyma,

Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee,

Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour,

As leisure offer’d, close to Mr. Spring’s

Box-office door, I’ve stood and eyed the builders.

They had a plan to render less their labours;

Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder

With hodded heads, but these stretch’d forth a pole

From the wall’s pinnacle, they placed a pulley

Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley;

To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks

Thus freighted, swung securely to the top,

And in the empty basket workmen twain

Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.

Oh! ’twas a goodly sound, to hear the people

Who watch’d the work express their various thoughts

While some believed it never would be finish’d

Some, on the contrary believed it would.

I’ve heard our front that faces Drury Lane

Much criticised; they say ’tis vulgar brick-work,

A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth.

One of the morning papers wish’d that front

Cemented like the front in Brydges Street;

As it now looks, they call it Wyatt’s Mermaid,

A handsome woman with a fish’s tail.

White is the steeple of St. Bride’s in Fleet Street:

The Albion (as its name denotes) is white;

Morgan and Saunders’ shop for chairs and tables

Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun;

White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride’s in Fleet Street,

The Spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders,

Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury’s face.

Oh, Mr. Whitbread! fie upon you, sir!

I think you should have built a colonnade;

When tender Beauty, looking for her coach,

Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower

And draws the tippet closer round her throat,

Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off,

And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud

Soaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow,

She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa

Cries, “There you go! this comes of playhouses!”

To build no portico is penny wise:

Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish!

Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theatres!

What is the Regency in Tottenham Street,

The Royal Amphitheatre of Arts,

Astley’s, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil,

Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee push’d

Back from the narrow street that christened thee,

I know not why they call thee Drury Lane.

Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions,

It grieves me much to see live animals

Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit,

Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig;

Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist

Of former Drury, imitated life

Quite to the life. The Elephant in Blue Beard,

Stuff’d by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis,

As spruce as he who roar’d in Padmanaba.[87]

Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands

I reverence the coachman who cries “Gee,”

And spares the lash. When I behold a spider

Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm,

Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife

Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton,

Indeed, indeed, I’m very, very sick!

[Exit hastily.

James Smith.

The Rejected Addresses. 1812.

This imitation of Coleridge cannot be considered one of the best of the Rejected Addresses. Lord Jeffrey remarked that, although it was unquestionably “Lakish,” he was unable to recognise in it any of the peculiar traits of the powerful genius whose name it bore. Smith probably had in his mind the following lines written by Coleridge in 1794:—

To a Young Ass.

Its mother being tethered near it.

Poor little Foal of an oppressed Race!

I love the languid Patience of thy face:

And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,

And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head.

But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismayed,

That never thou dost sport along the glade?

And (most unlike the nature of things young)

That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?

Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate,

Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?

The starving meal, and all the thousand aches

“Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes?”

Innocent Foal! thou poor despised Forlorn!

I hail thee Brother—spite of the fool’s scorn!

And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell

Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,

Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,

And Laughter tickle Plenty’s ribless side!

How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,

And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!

Yea! and more musically sweet to me

Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,

Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest

The aching of pale Fashion’s vacant breast!

——:o:——

KUBLA KHAN.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills

Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves,

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

*  *  *  *  *

S. T. Coleridge.

---

A Fragment—Composed in a Dream.

In Hungerford did some wise man[88]

A stately bridge of wire decree,

Where Thames, the muddy river, ran,

Down to a muddier sea.

Above the people rose its piers,

Their shadows on the waters fell;

Year after year, for many years,

All unapproachable!

And filmy wires through æther spread,

From such proud piers’ unfinished head,

Kept up a mild communication,

Worthy of their exalted station;

And many gazers far below,

Wafted by the waveless tide,

Which ’neath those slender wires did flow,

Upturned their eyes and sighed—

“If that air bridge,” they whispered low,

“Vos broad enough to let us pass,

Ve’d not av so much round to go,

As now ve av—alas!”

In vain their sighs, in vain their tears,

May blow and flow for many years!

No mortal man may cross the cord

That crosses Thames at Hungerford.

Its wondrous span to me doth seem

The bridge described in Mirza’s dream,

On which the good alone might tread,

Whilst others fell and perished.

Alas, in modern Babylon,

There’s not a soul that can pass over;

No, not a single holy one,

Endowed with virtue to discover

The step by which to tread the ridge

Of Hungerford’s aërial Bridge!

Punch. July 6, 1844.

——:o:——

CHRISTABEL.

This most exquisite fragment of a poem, Coleridge’s masterpiece, was commenced in 1797, the second part was written in 1800, leaving the mystery of the plot still unsolved.

For this Coleridge blamed his indolence, but possibly he gave up the task in despair, he must have felt how inferior the second part was in interest, in diablerie, and in poetical fancy to the first, and that no ending was preferable to a tame ending of a work which had aroused such intense admiration and curiosity. Others have attempted to complete the poem, in sober earnest, but their efforts have been unsuccessful, and not one sequel has achieved even a temporary popularity.

In the first edition of the poem Coleridge, after describing Geraldine added:

“A sight to dream of, not to tell:—

And she is to sleep with Christabel!”

He afterwards omitted these lines possibly because he heard it reported that Geraldine was to prove to be a man, and not as Christabel supposes, a forlorn maiden in distress. Be this as it may some of the parodies dwell particularly upon the equivocal situation of Christabel with her stranger guest. Principal amongst these parodies is one written by Dr. Maginn which appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine as far back as June 1819. In order to appreciate this, a few extracts from the narrative portion of Part I. of the original must be given. Want of space alone is the reason for mutilating the poem, enough is left to trace the story to where Dr. Maginn takes up the thread.

Part I.

’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,

And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;

Tu—whit!—Tu—whoo!

And hark, again! the crowing cock,

How drowsily it crew.

Is the night chilly and dark?

The night is chilly, but not dark.

The thin gray cloud is spread on high,

It covers but not hides the sky.

The moon is behind, and at the full;

And yet she looks both small and dull.

The night is chill, the cloud is gray:

’Tis a month before the month of May,

And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel,

Whom her father loves so well,

What makes her in the wood so late,

A furlong from the castle gate?

She had dreams all yesternight

Of her own betrothed knight;

And she in the midnight wood will pray

For the weal of her lover that’s far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke,

The sighs she heaved were soft and low.

And naught was green upon the oak,

But moss and rarest [mistletoe];

She kneels beneath the huge oak tree.

And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly,

The lovely lady, Christabel!

It moaned as near, as near can be,

But what it is, she cannot tell.—

On the other side it seems to be,

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.

The night is chill; the forest bare;

Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?

There is not wind enough in the air

To move away the ringlet curl

From the lovely lady’s cheek—

There is not wind enough to twirl

The one red leaf, the last of its clan,

That dances as often as dance it can.

Hanging so light, and hanging so high,

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel!

Jesu, Maria, shield her well!

She folded her arms beneath her cloak,

And stole to the other side of the oak

What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright,

Drest in a silken robe of white,

That shadowy in the moonlight shone:

The neck that made that white robe wan,

Her stately neck, and arms were bare;

Her blue-veined feet unsandal’d were,

And wildly glittered here and there

The gems entangled in her hair,

I guess, ’twas frightful there to see

A lady so richly clad as she—

Beautiful exceedingly!

Mary mother, save me now!

(Said Christabel,) And who art thou?

The lady strange made answer meet,

And her voice was faint and sweet:—

Have pity on my sore distress,

I scarce can speak for weariness:

Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear:

Said Christabel, How camest thou here?

And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,

Did thus pursue her answer meet:—

My sire is of a noble line,

And my name is Geraldine:

Five warriors seized me yestermorn,

Me, even me, a maid forlorn:

They choked my cries with force and fright,

And tied me on a palfrey white.

The palfrey was as fleet as wind,

And they rode furiously behind.

They spurred amain, their steeds were white!

And once we crossed the shade of night.

As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,

I have no thought what men they be;

Nor do I know how long it is

(For I have lain entranced I wis)

Since one, the tallest of the five,

Took me from the palfrey’s back,

A weary woman, scarce alive.

Some muttered words his comrades spoke:

He placed me underneath this oak;

He swore they would return with haste;

Whither they went I cannot tell—

I thought I heard, some minutes past,

Sounds as of a castle bell.

Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she),

And help a wretched maid to flee.

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand

And comforted fair Geraldine:

“O well, bright dame! may you command

The service of Sir Leoline;

And gladly our stout chivalry

Will he send forth and friends withal

To guide and guard you safe and free

Home to your noble father’s hall.”

She rose: and forth with steps they passed

That strove to be, and were not, fast.

Her gracious stars the lady blest,

And thus spake on sweet Christabel:

“All our household are at rest,

The hall as silent as the cell;

Sir Leoline is weak in health,

And may not well awakened be,

But we will move as if in stealth,

And I beseech your courtesy,

This night, to share your couch with me.”

They crossed the moat, and Christabel

Took the key that fitted well;

A little door she opened straight,

All in the middle of the gate;

So free from danger, free from fear

They crossed the court: right glad they were.

They passed the hall, that echoes still,

Pass as lightly as you will!

O softly tread, said Christabel,

My father seldom sleepeth well.

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,

And, jealous of the listening air,

They steal their way from stair to stair,

Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,

And now they pass the Baron’s room,

As still as death with stifled breath!

And now have reached her chamber door;

And now doth Geraldine press down

The rushes of the chamber floor.

The silver lamp burns dead and dim;

But Christabel the lamp will trim.

She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,

And left it swinging to und fro,

While Geraldine, in wretched plight,

Sank down upon the floor below.

O weary lady, Geraldine,

I pray you, drink this cordial wine!

It is a wine of virtuous powers;

My mother made it of wild flowers.

*  *  *  *  *

Again the wild-flower wine she drank:

Her fair large eyes ’gan glitter bright,

And from the floor whereon she sank,

The lofty lady stood upright;

She was most beautiful to see,

Like a lady of a far countrée.

And thus the lofty lady spake—

All they, who live in the upper sky,

Do love you, holy Christabel!

And you love them, and for their sake

And for the good which me befell,

Even I in my degree will try,

Fair maiden, to requite you well.

But now unrobe yourself; for I

Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.

Quoth Christabel, so let it be

And as the lady bade, did she.

Her gentle limbs did she undress,

And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain of weal and woe

So many thoughts moved to and fro,

That vain it were her lids to close;

So half-way from the bed she rose:

And on her elbow did recline

To look at the lady Geraldine.

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,

And slowly rolled her eyes around;

Then drawing in her breath aloud

Like one that shuddered, she unbound

The cincture from beneath her breast:

Her silken robe, and inner vest,

Dropt to her feet, and full in view,

Behold! her bosom and half her side

A sight to dream of, not to tell!

O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;

Ah! what a stricken look was hers!

Deep from within she seems half-way

To lift some weight with sick assay,

And eyes the maid and seeks delay;

Then suddenly as one defied

Collects herself in scorn and pride,

And lay down by the maiden’s side

And in her arms the maid she took,

Ah well-a-day!

And with low voice and doleful look

These words did say:

In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,

Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!

Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow

This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;

But vainly thou warrest,

For this is alone in

Thy power to declare,

That in the dim forest

Thou heard’st a low moaning,

And found’st a bright lady, surpassingly fair:

And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,

To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.

---

The Conclusion to Part I.

With open eyes (ah woe is me!)

Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,

Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis,

Dreaming that alone, which is—

O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,

The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?

And lo! the worker of these harms,

That holds the maiden in her arms,

Seems to slumber still and mild,

As a mother with her child.

A star hath set, a star hath risen,

O Geraldine! since arms of thine—

Have been the lovely lady’s prison.

O Geraldine! one hour was thine—

Thou’st had thy will!

S. T. Coleridge.

——:o:——

Dr. Maginn’s Introduction to Part III.

Listen! ye know that I am mad,

And ye will listen!—wizard dreams

Were with me!—all is true that seems!—

From dreams alone can truth be had—

In dreams divinest lore is taught,

For the eye, no more distraught,

Rests most calmly, and the ear,

Of sound unconscious, may apply

Its attributes unknown, to hear

The music of philosophy!

Thus am I wisest in my sleep,

For thoughts and things, which day-light brings,

Come to the spirit sad and single,

But verse and prose, and, joys and woes

Inextricably mingle,

When the hushed frame is silent in repose!

Twilight and moonlight, mist and storm,

Black night, and fire-eyed hurricane,

And crested lightning, and the snows

That mock the sunbeams, and the rain

Which bounds on earth with big drops warm,

All are round me while I spell

The legend of sweet Christabel!

Christabel. Part III.

Nine moons have waxed, and the tenth, in its wane,

Sees Christabel struggle in unknown pain!

—For many moons was her eye less bright,

For many moons was her vest more tight,

And her cheek was pale, save when, with a start,

The life blood came from the panting heart,

And fluttering, o’er that thin fair face

Past with a rapid nameless pace,

And at moments a big tear filled the eye,

And at moments a short and smothered sigh

Swelled her breast with sudden strain,

Breathed half in grief, and half in pain,

For her’s are pangs, on the rack that wind

The outward frame and the inward mind.

—And when at night she did visit the oak,

She wore the Baron’s scarlet cloak,

(That cloak which happy to hear and to tell

Was lined with the fur of the leopard well,)

And as she wandered down the dell

None said ’twas the Lady Christabel.—

Some thought ’twas a weird and ugsome elf,

Some deemed ’twas the old sick Baron himself,

Who wandered beneath the snowy lift

To count his beads in solemn shrift—

(For his shape below was wide to see

All bloated with the hydropsie.)

Oh! had her old father the secret known,

He had stood as stark as the statue of stone

That stands so silent, and white, and tall,

At the upper end of his banquet hall!

Am I asleep or am I awake?

In very truth I oft mistake,

As the stories of old come over my brain,

And I build in spirit the mystic strain;—

Ah! would to the virgin that I were asleep!

But I must wake, and I must weep!

Sweet Christabel, it is not well

That a lady, pure as the sunless snow

That lies so soft on the mountain’s brow,

That a maiden of sinless chastity

In childbirth pangs should be doomed to die,

Or live with a name of sorrow and shame,

And hear the words of blemish and blame!

—For the world that smiles at the guilt of man,

Places woman beneath its ban;

Alas, that scandal thus should wreak

Its vengeance on the warm and weak,

That the arrows of the cold and dull

Should wound the breast of the beautiful!

Of the things that be did we know but half,

Many, and many would weep, who laugh!

Tears would darken many an eye,

Or that deeper grief, (when its orb is dry,

When it cannot dare the eye of day),

O’er the clouded heart would sway,

’Till it crumbled like desert dust away!

But here we meet with grief and grudge,

And they who cannot know us, judge!

Thus, souls on whom good angels smile,

Are scoffed at in our world of guile—

Let this, Ladiè, thy comfort be;

Man knows not us, good angels know

The things that pass in the world below;

And scarce, methinks, it seems unjust,

That the world should view thee with mistrust,

For who that saw that child of thine

Pale Christabel, who could divine

That its sire was the Ladie Geraldine.

But in I rush, with too swift a gale,

Into the ocean of my tale!

Not yet young Christabel, I ween,

Of her babe hath lighter been.

—’Tis the month of the snow and the blast,

And the days of Christmas mirth are past,

When the oak-roots heaped on the hearth blazed bright,

Casting a broad and dusky light

On the shadowy forms of the warriors old,

Who stared from the wall, most grim to behold—

On shields where the spider his tapestry weaves,

On the holly boughs and the ivy leaves,

The few green glories that still remain

To mock the storm and welcome the rain,

Brighter and livelier mid tempest and shower,

Like a hero in the battle hour!—

Brave emblems o’er the winter hearth,

They cheered our fathers’ hours of mirth!—

Twelve solar months complete and clear

The magic circle of the year!

Each (the ancient riddle saith)

Children, two times thirty, hath!

Three times ten are fair and white,

Three times ten are black as night,

Three times ten hath Hecatè,

Three times ten the God of day;

Thus spoke the old hierophant

(I saw her big breast swelling pant)

What time, I dreamed, in ghostly wise

Of Eleusinian mysteries,

For I am the hierarch

Of the mystical and dark—

And now, if rightly I do spell

Of the Lady Christabel,

She hates the three times ten so white,

And sickens in their searching light,

And woe is hers—alas! alack!

She hates the three times ten so black—

As a mastiff bitch doth bark,

I hear her moaning in the dark!—

’Tis the month of January.

Why lovely maiden, light and airy,

While the moon can scarcely glow,

Thro the plumes of falling snow,

While the moss upon the bark

Is withered all, and damp, and dark,

While cold above the stars in doubt

Look dull, and scarcely will stay out,

While the snow is heavy on beechen bower

And hides its name-sake, the snow-drop flower,

Why walk forth thus mysteriously!

Dear girl, I ask thee seriously.

Thy cheek is pale, thy locks are wild—

Ah, think, how big thou art with child!—

Tho’ the baron’s red cloak thro’ the land hath no fellow,

Thou should’st not thus venture without an umbrella!

Dost thou wander to the field of graves

Where the elder its spectral branches waves?

And will thy hurried footsteps halt

Where thy mother sleeps in the silent vault?

Where the stranger pauses long to explore

The emblems quaint of heraldic lore,

Where tho’ the lines are tarnished and dim,

Thy mother’s features stare gaunt and grim,

And grinning skull, and transverse bone,

And the names of warriors dead and gone

Mark Sir Leoline’s burial stone;

Thither go not, or I deem almost

That thou wilt frighten thy mother’s ghost!

Or wilt thou wend to the huge oak-tree,

And, kneeling down upon thy knee,

Number the beads of thy rosary?

Nine beads of gold and a tenth of pearl,

And a prayer with each, my lovely girl,

Nine and one, shalt thou record,

Nine to the virgin and one to the Lord!

The pearls are ten times one to behold,

And ten times nine are the beads of gold,

Methinks ’tis hard of the friar to ask

On a night like this so weary a task!

’Tis pleasant—’tis pleasant, in summer time,

In the green wood to spell the storied rhyme,

When the light winds above ’mong the light leaves are singing,

And the song of the birds thro’ your heart is ringing,

’Tis pleasant—’tis pleasant, when happily humming

To the flowers below the blythe bee is coming!—

When the rivulet coy, and ashamed to be seen,

Is heard where it hides ’mong the grass-blades green,

When the light of the moon and each sweet starry islet

Gives a charm more divine to the long summer twilight,

When the breeze o’er the blossomy hawthorn comes cheerful,

’Tis pleasant—with heart—ah, how happy!—tho’ fearful,

With heaven-beaming eyes, where tears come, while smiles glisten

To the lover’s low vows in the silence to listen!

’Tis pleasant too, on a fine spring day

(A month before the month of May)

To pray for a lover that’s far away!

But, Christabel, I cannot see

The powerful cause that sways with thee

Thus, with a face all waxen white,

To wander forth on a winter night.

The snow hath ceased, dear lady meek,

But the night is chill and bleak!—

And clouds are passing swift away

Before the moon so cold and gray—

The crescent moon, like a bark of pearl,

That lies so calm on the billowy whirl;—

Rapidly—rapidly

With the blast,

Clouds of ebony

Wander fast,

And one the maiden hath fixed her eyes on,

Hath pass’d o’er the moon, and is near the horizon!

Ah Christabel, I dread it, I dread it,

That the clouds of shame

Will darken and gather

O’er the maiden’s name,

Who chances unwedded

To give birth to a child, and knows not its father!

One—Two—Three—Four—Five—Six—Seven—
Eight—Nine—Ten—Eleven!—

Tempest or calm—moonshine or shower,

The castle clock still tolls the hour,

And the cock awakens, and echoes the sound,

And is answered by the owls around—

And at every measured tone

You may hear the old baron grunt and groan;

’Tis a thing of wonder, and fright, and fear,

The mastiff-bitch’s moans to hear—

And the aged cow in her stall that stands

And is milked each morning by female hands

(That the baron’s breakfast of milk and bread

May be brought betimes to the old man’s bed

Who often gives, while he is dressing,

His Christabel a father’s blessing)

That aged cow, as each stroke sounds slow,

Answers it with a plaintive low!

And the baron old, who is ill at rest,

Curses the favourite cat for a pest—

For let him pray, or let him weep,

She mews thro’ all the hours of sleep—

Till morning comes with its pleasant beams,

And the cat is at rest, and the baron dreams!

Let it rain, however fast,

Rest from rain will come at last,

And the blaze that strongest flashes

Sinks at last, and ends in ashes!

But sorrow from the human heart

And mists of care will they depart?

I know not, and cannot tell,

Saith the Lady Christabel—

But I feel my bosom swell

In my spirit I behold

A lady—call her firm, not bold—

Standing lonely by the burn

—Strange feelings thro’ her breast and brain

Shoot with a sense of madness and pain.

Ah, Christabel return, return,

Let me not call on thee in vain!

Think, lady dear, if thou art drowned

That thy body will be found,

What anguish will thy spirit feel,

When it must to all reveal

What the spell binds thee to conceal!

How the baron’s heart will knock ’gainst his chest

When the stake is driven into thy breast,

When thy body to dust shall be carelessly flung,

And over the dead no dirge be sung,

No friend in mourning vesture dight,

No lykewake sad—no tapered rite!—

Return, return thy home to bless,

Daughter of good Sir Leoline;

In that chamber a recess

Known to no other eye than thine,

Contains the powerful wild-flower wine

That often cheer’d thy mother’s heart,

Lady, lovely as thou art

Return, and ere thou dost undress

And lie down in thy nakedness

Repair to thy secret and favourite haunt

And drink the wine as thou art wont!

Hard to uncork and bright to decant.

My merry girl—she drinks—she drinks

Faster she drinks and faster,

My brain reels round as I see her whirl,

She hath turned on her heel with a sudden twirl;—

Wine, wine is a cure for every disaster,

For when sorrow wets the eye

Yet the heart within is dry,

Sweet maid upon the bed she sinks—

May her dreams be light, and her rest be deep!

Good angels guard her in her sleep!

William Maginn.

The Dream,

A Psychological Curiosity.

By S. T. C.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER.

The following “wild and singularly original and beautiful poem” was written at the instigation of Mr. Robert Warren, who was desirous of enrolling me among the number of his panegyrists. The circumstances that lead to its original composition are as follows: I had been considering in what way I might best introduce the subject, when suddenly falling asleep over a provincial newspaper which detailed the battle between Cribb and Molineux, the thoughts of my waking hours assumed the aspect of the present poetical reverie. This to an unidead “reading public” may appear incredible, but minds of imaginative temperament are ever most active during the intervals of repose, as my late poem, entitled “The Pains of Sleep,” will sufficiently attest.

Dreams in fact are to be estimated solely in proportion to their wildness; and hence a friend of mine, who is a most magnificent dreamer, imagined but the other night that he invited a flock of sheep to a musical party. Such a flocci, nauci, nihili absurdity will, I am afraid, puzzle even our transcendental philosophers to explain, although Kant, in his treatise on the Phænomena of Dreams, is of opinion that the lens or focus of intestinal light ascending the æsophagus at right angles, a juxtaposition of properties takes place, so that the nucleus of the diaphragm reflecting on the cerebellum the prismatic visions of the pilorus, is made to produce that marvellous operation of mind upon matter better known by the name of dreaming.—To such simple and satisfactory reasoning what answer can be made?

Ten minutes to ten by Saint Dunstan’s clock,

And the owl has awakened the crowing cock:

Cock-a-doodle-doo,

Cock-a-doodle-doo.

If he crows at this rate in so thrilling a note,

Jesu Maria! he’ll catch a sore throat.

Warren the manufacturer rich

Hath a spectral mastiff bitch;

To Saint Dunstan’s clock, tho’ silent enow,

She barketh her chorus of bow wow, wow:

Bow for the quarters, and wow for the hour;

Nought cares she for the sun or the shower;

But when, like a ghost all-arrayed in its shroud,

The wheels of the thunder are muffled in cloud,

When the moon, sole chandelier of night,

Bathes the blessed earth in light,

As wizard to wizard, or witch to witch,

Howleth to heaven this mastiff bitch.

Buried in thought O’Warren lay,

Like a village queen on the birth of May;

He listed the tones of Saint Dunstan’s clock,

Of the mastiff bitch and the crowing cock;

But louder, far louder, he listed a roar,

Loud as the billow that booms on the shore;

Bang, bang, with a pause between,

Rung the weird sound at his door, I ween.

Up from his couch he leaped in affright,

Oped his grey lattice and looked on the night,

Then put on his coat, and with harlequin hop

Stood like a phantom in midst of the shop;

In midst of his shop he stood like a sprite,

Till peering to left and peering to right,

Beside his counter, with tail in hand,

He saw a spirit of darkness stand;

I guess ’twas frightful there to see

A lady so scantily clad as she

Ugly and old exceedingly.

In height her figure was six feet two,

In breadth exactly two feet six,

One eye as summer skies was blue,

The other black as the waves of Styx.

Her bloodless lips did aught but pair,

For one was brown and one was fair,

And clattered like maid in hysteric fit,

Or jack that turneth a kitchen spit;

Jesu Maria! with awe, I trow,

O’Warren beheld this worricow,

For dreary and dun the death-hue came

O’er her cheek, as she traced the words of flame;

The words of flame that with mystic fuss

Are hatched from a still-born incubus,

And doom each wight who reads, to dwell

Till the birth of day in the caves of hell.

Oh! read thee not, read thee not, lord of the Strand,

The spell that subjects thee to elfin command;

Vain hope! the bogle hath marked her hour,

And Warren hath read the words of power;

Letter by letter he traced the spell,

Till the sullen toll of Saint Dunstan’s bell,

And the midnight howl of the mastiff bitch,

Announced his doom to the Hallowmass witch.

Still in her grandeur she stood by,

Like an oak that uplooketh to sun and sky;

Then shouted to Warren with fitful breath;

“I’m old mother Nightmare-life-in-death;

Halloo! halloo! we may not stay,

Satan is waiting; away, away;

Halloo! halloo! we’ve far to go,

Then hey for the devil; jee-up! jee-hoe——”

O’Warren requested a little delay,

But the evil one muttered “too late, by my fay;”

So he put on his breeches and scampered away.

And here mote I tell how they rode on the wind,

The witch before and the Warren behind;

How they passed in a twinkling the haunts of man,

And the proud pagodas of Kubla Khan;

How they peeped at the planets like Allan-a-roon,

And supped on green cheese with the man in the moon;

Or listed the dulcimer’s tremulous notes,

Or the voice of the wind through the azure that floats,

Till pillar and palace and arching sky

Rung to the mingled melody.

*  *  *  *  *

Away, away, through the thunder-cloud,

Where tempest and ruin sit laughing aloud;

Away, away, through the fields of air,

Where the night-wind howls to the falling star;

This amiable couple have past, and now

They gain the swart regions of darkness and woe.

O’Warren beheld them, and shrunk with awe,

Like a client held fast in the grasp of law,

Then hymned to the Virgin for aid and for pity,

A highly correct and devotional ditty:

“Miserere Maria,” he cried in despair,

While the bullet-nosed bogle drew back at the prayer,

For Mary, sweet Mary, hath power to fright,

And palsy the souls of the dæmons of night;

“Miserere Maria,” he bellowed again,

And the worricow dropt her eye-tooth at the strain,

But spite of her teeth, she eschewed complaint,

Till troubled in spirit, and cowed and faint,

She collared the tradesman with horrible yell,

Then plunged with him head over heels into hell.

Oh, how its wild waves bellowed and boomed!!

Oh, how its vapors the air perfumed!!

As Warren with timid and stifled breath,

And followed by old Mrs. Life-in-death,

Moved to where Satan Reclined alone,

In the silence of thought on his ebon throne.

*  *  *  *  *

Proudly he strode to his palace gate,

Which the witch and the Warren approached in state,

But paused at the threshold as onward they came,

And thus, with words of fever and flame,

The tradesman addressed, “Your name, Sir, is known

As a vendor of sables wide over the town;

But in hell with proviso this praise we must mix,

For though brilliant your blacking, the water of Styx

Is blacker by far, and can throw, as it suits,

A handsomer gloss o’er our shoes and our boots.”—

Answered the Warren, with choleric eye,

“Oh, king of the cock-tailed incubi!

The sneer of a fiend to your puffs you may fix,

But if, what is worse, you assert that your Styx

Surpasses my blacking, (’twas clear he was vexed),

By Jove! you will ne’er stick at any thing next.

I have dandies who laud me at Paine’s and Almack’s,

Despite Day and Martin, those emulous quacks,

And they all in one spirit of concord agree,

That my blacking is better than any black sea

Which flows thro’ your paltry Avernus, I wis,”—

“Pshaw,” Satan replied, “I’ll be damned if it is.”

The tradesman he laughed at this pitiful sneer,

And drew from his pocket, unmoved by the jeer

Of the gathering dæmons, blue, yellow, and pink,

A bottle of blacking more sable than ink;—

With the waves of the Styx in a jiffey they tried it,

But the waves of the [Styx] looked foolish beside it;

“You mote as well liken the summer sky,”

Quoth Warren the bold, “with an Irish stye;

The nightingale’s note with the cockatoo’s whine,

As your lily-white river with me or mine.”

Round the brow of Abaddon fierce anger played

At the Strand manufacturer’s gasconade;

And lifting a fist that mote slaughter an ox,

He wrathfully challenged his foeman to box;

Then summoned each dæmon to form a ring,

And witness his truculent triumphing.—

The ring was formed and the twain set to,

Like little Puss with Belasco the Jew.

Satan was seconded in a crack,

By Molineux, the American black,

(Who sported an oath as a civil Salam),

While Warren was backed by the ghost of Dutch Sam.—

Gentles, who fondly peruse these lays,

Wild as a colt o’er the moorland that strays,

Who thrill at each wondrous rede I tell,

As fancy roams o’er the floor of hell,

Now list ye with kindness, the whiles I rehearse

In shapely pugilistic verse,

(Albeit my fancy preferreth still

The quiet of nature,) this desperate Mill.

THE FIGHT.

Both men on peeling showed nerve and bone.

And weighed on an average fourteen stone;

Doffed their silk fogle, for battle agog,

Yellowman, castor and white upper tog;

Then sparred for a second their ardor to cool,

And rushed at each other like bull to bull.

ROUNDS.

1. Was a smasher, for Brummagem Bob[89]

Let fly a topper on Beelzebub’s nob;

Then followed him over the ring with ease,

And doubled him up by a blow in the squeeze.

2. Satan was cautious in making play,

But stuck to his sparring and pummelled away;

Till the ogles of Warren looked queer in their hue,

(Here, bets upon Beelzebub; three to two.)

3. Fibbings, and facers, and toppers abound,

But Satan, it seems, hath the worst of the round.

4. Satan was floored by a lunge in the hip,

And the blood from his peepers, went drip, drip, drip,

Like fat from a goose in the dripping pan,

Or ale from the brim of a flowing can;

His box of dominos chattered aloud,

(Here, “Go it, Nick!” from an imp in the crowd,)

And he dropped with a Lancashire purr on his back,

While Bob with a clincher fell over him, whack.

5. Both men piping came up to the scratch,

But Bob for Abaddon was more than a match;

He tapped his claret, his mug he rent,

And made him so groggy with punishment,

That he gladly gave in at the close of the round,

And Warren in triumph was led from the ground.

Then trumpet, and timbrel, and deafening shout,

Like wind through a ruin rang lustily out,

High o’er the rocks that jut over the deep,

Where the souls of the damned to eternity weep;

Echo threw forward her answer of fear,

Dull as the dust that clanks over a bier,

Or death-watch that beats in a sick man’s ear.

From the gulph where they howl to the lead colored night,

The shadowless spectres leaped up with delight,

And “Buy Warren’s Blacking” they shouted aloud,

As the night-wind sighs through a coffinless shroud.

The evil one frowned while they bellowed amain,

But “Buy Warren’s Blacking” he chorussed again;

For tho’ worsted in fight, yet, by order of fate,

The vanquished must temper the pulse of his hate,

And yield to the victor (his will’s despite)

Unbridled sway o’er the fiends of night.

’Tis done, and sore with his recent thwacking,

Abaddon hath purchased O’Warren’s Blacking;

Fate stood by while the bargain was made,

Signed a receipt when the money was paid,

Then summoned her sprites, an exemplary band,

To kneel in respect to the Lord of the Strand.

But hark, ’tis the voice of the crowing cock!

And hark, ’tis the toll of Saint Dunstan’s clock!

The morn rides high in the Eastern sky,

And the little birds carol it merrily:

Already have waned at the gladsome sight,

Each scene of darkness, each goblin sprite;

Abaddon to whit, and the whole of his crew,

Pink, yellow, or rosy, green, purple, or blue,

For cheered by the rays thro’ his lattice that peep,

The bard hath awoke from the “Pains of Sleep.”

This is probably the most amusing parody of Christabel that has ever been written. It appeared originally in “Warreniana,” a small anonymous volume of imitations published by Longmans & Co., in 1824. It is now known that the author was Mr. W. F. Deacon, who died about 1845.

Between 60 and 70 years ago Robert Warren’s Blacking was the best advertised article of the day, and even Lord Byron was accused of writing puffs for it. Hence this collection of squibs, in which all the leading poets of the day were represented as singing its praises.

Some few redundant passages have been cut out, but nothing which is necessary to the plot of the poem has been omitted. Warreniana may still be met with occasionally as a second-hand book, and is well worth the few shillings it will cost.

---

A Parody of Christabelle.

The Baron Rich.

’Tis a quarter to ten by the castle clock,

And the ‘mastiff bitch’ has awakened the cock,

And the cock has awakened the ‘Baron Rich,’

And he in return will thump the bitch;

Say what can ail her, in her sleep,

That thus she begins to ‘moan and leap,’

I know not, I know not the reason I swear,

And e’en if I did, I’ll be hang’d if I care.

*  *  *  *  *

The Baron awoke at the usual hour,

And the bell toll’d loud in his moss-covered tow’r,

Slowly it swung to the gales of the west,

Like a voice from the dead when the winds are at rest,

And a grinning nightmare withheld his rest,

And sat like a pound of cheese on his breast,

And devils and imps danced over his head,

And Satan grinn’d at the foot of his bed;

And the crowing cock his shrill clarion blew,

To whit! to whoo!

And hark again the crowing cock,

How drowsily it crew;

As if it was loth from its pillow to creep,

But determined at least to snore in its sleep.

Again the cock crew, while the glance of his eye,

Frightened the clouds as they sail’d thro’ the sky,

And the consequence was, that they shook with wonder,

And jostling each other created the thunder;

The Baron awoke, and he holloed aloud,

As one who had seen ‘my ladie’s shroud’:

“Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey,

Come here, or I’ll lace ye,

And tell me directly, or deeply you’ll rue,

The cause of this terrible hulloboloo!”

The bard came forth in his night-cap he,

And he was as skinny as bard mote be,

And his locks hung down o’er his shoulders flat,

As my grandmother says like the tail of a rat;

And away he went with a hem and a haw!

To make the old mastiff lie still in her straw—

Without the kennel the mastiff old,

Lay snoring fast in ‘moonshine cold.’

He kick’d her once, he kick’d her twice,

But the old bitch snapp’d at his fingers thrice.

Then Bracy kick’d her again, times four,

But the old bitch snapped at his fingers the more.

Is he hurt? or doth he squall?

I think he’s hurt tho’ he doth not squall,

But he curses much, like a naughty man,

And swears as often as swear he can;

And like a ‘little limber elf,’

Singeth and danceth to himself.

He must be hurt, I’m sure he must,—

Or he scarce would dare to kick up such a dust;

And certain I am, by his look, ’ifegs,

That the mastiff has bitten the calf of his legs,

And ’tis a right wonder to raise a laugh!—

For who ever heard of a bard with a calf?

But lo! he kicks her again, and her cry,

Split the kennel and rent the sky,

And there she was, squatted upright on her tail,

And oh! she look’d—she look’d like a whale.

And spouted forthwith this dolorous strain,

Which deserves an encore, again and again.

Song of the old Bitch.

“There’s a cloud in the sky,

And it’s wandering by,

And in it I’ll lump,

With a hop, skip, and jump,

For I’m a warlock of evil, I trow.”

(Here the bitch ended with bow-wow-wow.)

The bardling was frightened, as well he mote be,

And he looked around, but nought could he see;

The lanky-legg’d bardling was frightened, odd rat it,

And to tell you the truth, I don’t much wonder at it:

For the mastiff had vanish’d, and he was alone,

With nothing at hand, but the grey square stone;

Thro’ which the wind oozed with a terrible crack,

Like a shoulder of mutton spun round on the jack.

*  *  *  *  *

The Baron has put on his night-gown and cap,

To know the reason of this mishap;

The Baron has put on his cap and night-gown,

And with club-stick in hand, has gone in a fright down;

And there he discovered, oh! think how shocking,

Bard Bracey alone without shoe or stocking;

“Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey,” the Baron exclaimed,

“To remain in this manner, pray arn’t you ashamed?”

“Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey,” the Baron he cried,

“Go back, go back, to your own bedside,

Or with this good cudgel of forest renown,

As I hope to be saved, I will knock you down.”

Bard Bracey hath girt up his loins and fled,

And the Baron eftsoons has gone to bed;

And a noise is heard, an inscrutable din,

Of the mastiff without, and the kittens within.

And the Baron has woke in a hell of a fright,

And is close to the tinder-box striking a light;

But in striking the flint with too numerous blows,

He has missed the tinder, and struck his nose.

*  *  *  *  *

The proud-hearted Baron, o’ercome by the pain,

Jump’d out of his bed, but finding it vain,

Altered his mind and jump’d in again:

And there he dreamt of the father of evil,

’Ycleft by sinners on earth, the devil;

But before he could tell what his spirits were at,

In popp’d father Satan in shape of a cat.

And he skipp’d thro’ the key-hole with terrible pother,

A match in one hand, and his tail in the other;

And said to the Baron, with funeral glee,

“Come, leap thro’ the window, and fly with me;

For I’m the mastiff that kick’d up a rout,

And my broomstick is waiting to carry you out.”

The Baron requested a little delay;

But the ill-tempered devil said “Nay, sir, nay;”

So he put on his breeches and scampered away.

And here might I tell how they rode on the wind,

The Baron before, and the devil behind;

How they rattled along, without food or pelf,

On the high road to Hell, for I saw them myself.

How they flew through the clouds like an air baloon.

And quickly arrived at the hills of the moon.

How the goddess herself was too late to meet them,

But sent a committee of moon-calves to greet them;

How, at five o’clock, just in time for dinner,

The good-looking couple arrived at the inner

Abode of hell, where their journey was o’er,

And they dined off a chop in the Devil’s boudoir;

All this I could tell, if I wasn’t afraid,

That Satan would blush for the pranks I betrayed.

*  *  *  *  *

Years have fled since the fatal day,

When the Baron’s spirit wing’d its way,

Obsequious at Apollyon’s call,

To the mansions of death, and the spectral hall;

But still on that ill-omened hour,

The death hymn peals and the tempests low’r,

And knives and forks are laid across,

And the salt is spill’d to the beldame’s loss;

And thirteen old women get into the room,

And the last who goes in—goes out to the tomb.

And an ugly thief flies into the candle,

And pops in your face if you dare it to handle;

And horrid coffins bounce out of the flame,

Enough the most desperate courage to tame;

And demon’s torment the Baron’s soul,

And sing out exultingly, “Old King Coal;”

Which proves that the imps and their souls and so forth,

Are as black as the coals that you buy in the north.

And legends assert, since this terrible stroke,

That Bracey still lives like a pig in a poke;

And my grandmother like to the village chimes,

Has rung out the subject a hundred times;

I wist not what the truth may be,

But I’ll take my oath she has told it to me.

*  *  *  *  *

And the worsted night-cap the Baron wore,

And his flannel hose were seen no more,

And instead of the pillow as soft as his head,

A coffin was placed at the foot of the bed;

And dead men’s bones go dancing about,

And skeleton’s guzzle a bottle of stout,

Drained from a toper that died of the gout.

And lights are seen in the midst of the room,

And none know why or whence they come;

But most people think that from motives of spite,

There Beelzebub places his hellish rush-light.

But ere the clock tolls a quarter to four,

The Devils post back to the Stygian shore;

And ere the clock points at a quarter to six,

The Devils are safe on the banks of the Styx;

And like the people that travel to Dover,

Only wait for the packet to carry them over.

This parody, which has more relation to the second part of Christabel than to the first, is taken from “The Dejeuné, or Companion for the Breakfast Table.” Monday, November 6, 1820. The Dejeuné was a small paper issued daily at the price of twopence, by Gold & Northhouse, London, and afterwards gathered into a volume, which is now very scarce. After long and patient searching in the British Museum Library no copy of it could be found, nor was its name, even, known to the authorities there. But the parody it contained had been mentioned by authorities on Coleridge, and this collection would have been incomplete without it, hence further searching. At last, after all hopes of obtaining it had departed, the volume was found, in the original boards, clean, and uncut, amongst waste books and pamphlets outside a second-hand bookshop.

That the parody is no better is to be regretted, its insertion here is excusable simply because of its scarcity, for although the editor of The Dejeuné admits that it had already been printed, he does not mention where, nor has any other copy of it ever come under our notice.

---

The European Magazine and London Review for April, 1815, contained a poem entitled “Christobell, a Gothic tale,” which was simply a conclusion to Coleridge’s Christabel, although that fact was somewhat artfully veiled in a foot note, which stated “Written as a sequel to a beautiful legend of a fair lady and her father, deceived by a witch in the guise of a noble knight’s daughter.”

It was somewhat ungenerous to steal Coleridge’s metre and plot upon which to found a poem, without mentioning the name of the originator. This sequel is anonymous, in it Geraldine is finally discovered to be a witch of the Lake, and Merlin thus addresses her:—

“Witch of the lake, I know thee now!

Thrice three hundred years are gone

Since beneath my cave,

In the western wave,

I doom’d thee to rue and weep alone,

And writ thy shame on thy breast and brow.”

“Thy hour is past, thy spells I sever,—

Witch of the lake descend for ever!”

---

The most important continuation of Coleridge’s poem was written by the author of Proverbial Philosophy. It was entitled “Geraldine, a sequel to Coleridge’s Christabel,” by Martin Farquhar Tupper. London. Joseph Rickerby. 1838.

In his Preface, Mr. Tupper gives a short prose sketch of Coleridge’s beautiful but incomplete poem, and remarks that his excuse for continuing the fragment is to be found in Coleridge’s own words, “I trust that I shall be able to embody in verse the three parts yet to come, in the course of the present year” (1816), a half promise which he never redeemed.

Mr. Tupper’s poem is in three parts, and is written in serious imitation of Christabel, although he fully admits the temerity of his attempt to complete Coleridge’s masterpiece.

---

Another, but very inferior continuation appeared in Smallwood’s Magazine, June 1841 (London. E. Smallwood, Old Bond Street,) entitled “Christabel, continued from Coleridge,” by Eliza Stewart. There is a total absence of plot or interest in this poem, and some of the lines descend to the lowest depths of bathos.

Singularly enough, this poem is immediately followed, in the magazine, by an Italian ode “To a foggy day in England,” written by Gabriele Rossetti, father of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and William Michael Rossetti.

This brings to mind Mr. T. Hall Caine’s interesting “Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti (London, Elliott Stock, 1882), in which a chapter is devoted to Rossetti’s opinions on the Lake poets, and particular prominence is given to his criticisms on Coleridge, and Christabel. First, the origin of the name is discussed, next the design of the poem, and whether Coleridge had intended (as some critics asserted) to show in the sequel that Geraldine was not a disconsolate maiden, but a man bent on the seduction of Christabel.

After these speculations there is an enumeration of various continuations and parodies of the poem, some mentioned by Rossetti, others by Mr. Hall Caine.

Unfortunately these references are so vague that it is impossible to trace some of the articles mentioned.

Thus, it is said the Morning Post about 1820 contained a continuation of Christabel, also that there were parodies in The Quarterly, The Examiner, and The Monthly Magazine, but no indication is given of the dates, or volumes, in which they appeared.

---

In 1816 a clever parody was printed in London entitled “Christabess, by S. T. Colebritche, Esq., a right woeful Poem, translated from the doggerel by Sir Vinegar Sponge.” 8vo. Unfortunately no copy of this scarce pamphlet is to be found in the British Museum Library; it is said to be very funny, even Coleridge himself quoted it as an admirable parody. The name of the author of Christabess was never divulged.

It is difficult to parody Christabel successfully. Even the attempt contained in The Poetic Mirror, although written by one who was himself a poet, James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, was an interesting imitation, without invention, or suitable application of style. It was entitled Isabelle, the same volume contained another imitation of Coleridge’s style The Cherub, which was somewhat more successful, but neither poem is of sufficient interest to reprint. The Poetic Mirror was published in London in 1816.

Christabel has also been parodied in German.

“Chrystabelle; or, the Rose without a Thorn” is the title of an extravaganza written by the late Edmund Falconer, and produced at the Lyceum Theatre, London, December 26, 1860, it does not, however, bear any resemblance to Coleridge’s poem.

——:o:——

A Vision.

(By the author of “Christabel.”)

“Up!” said the spirit, and ere I could pray

One hasty orison, whirl’d me away

To a limbo, lying—I wist not where—

Above or below, in earth or air;

For it glimmered o’er with a doubtful light,

One couldn’t say whether ’twas day or night;

And was crost by many a mazy track,

One didn’t know how to get on or back;

And I felt like a needle that’s going astray,

(With its one eye out) through a bundle of hay:

When the spirit he grinn’d, and whisper’d me

“Thou’rt now in the Court of Chancery!”

Around me flitted unnumbered swarms

Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms;

(Like bottled up babes, that grace the room

Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)—

All of them things half-kill’d in rearing;

Some were lame—some wanted hearing;

Some had through half a century run,

Though they hadn’t a leg to stand upon.

Others, more merry, as just beginning,

Around on a point of law were spinning;

Or balanced aloft, ’twixt Bill and Answer,

Lead at each hand, like a tight-rope dancer—

Some were so cross, that nothing could please ’em;

Some gulp’d down affidavits to ease ’em;

All were in motion, yet never a one,

Let it move as it might, could ever move on.

“These,” said the spirit, “You plainly see,

Are what they call suits in Chancery!”

I heard a loud screaming of old and young,

Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis’ sung;

Or an Irish dump (“the words by Moore”)

At an amateur concert scream’d in score;—

So harsh on my ear that wailing fell

Of the wretches who in this limbo dwell!

It seemed like the dismal symphony

Of the shapes Æneas in hell did see;

Or those frogs, whose legs a barbarous cook

Cut off and left the frogs in the brook,

To cry all night, till life’s last dregs,

“Give us our legs!—give us our legs!”

Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene,

I ask’d what all this yell might mean,

When the spirit replied with a grin of glee,

“’Tis the cry of the suitors in Chancery!”

I look’d, and I saw a wizard rise,[90]

With a wig like a cloud before men’s eyes.

In his aged hand he held a wand,

Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band,

And they mov’d and mov’d, as he waved it o’er,

But they never got on one inch the more,

And still they kept limping to and fro,

Like Ariels, ’round old Prospero—

Saying “dear master, let us go,”

But still old Prospero answered “No,”

And I heard, the while, that wizard elf,

Muttering, muttering spells to himself,

While o’er as many old papers he turn’d,

As Hume e’er moved for, or Omar burned.

He talked of his virtue—’though some, less nice,

(He owned with a sigh) preferr’d his Vice—

And he said “I think”—“I doubt”—“I hope”—

Call’d God to witness, and damn’d the Pope;

With many more sleights of tongue and hand

I couldn’t for the soul of me understand.

Amaz’d and poz’d, I was just about

To ask his name, when the screams without

The merciless clack of the imps within,

And that conjuror’s mutterings, made such a din,

That startled, I woke—leap’d up in my bed—

Found the spirit, the imps, and the conjurer fled,

And blessed my stars, right pleased to see,

That I wasn’t, as yet, in Chancery.

Thomas Moore.

(This poem originally appeared in The Times, 1826.)

---

Fragment of a Vision.

A Dandy on a velocipede

I saw in a vision sweet,

Along the highway making speed,

With his alternate feet.

Of a bright and celestial hue

Gleamed beauteously his blue surtout;

While ivory buttons, in a row,

Showed like the winter’s caverned snow,

Which the breezy north

Drives sweeping forth

To lodge in the cave below:

Ontario’s beaver, without demur,

To form his hat did lend its fur:

His frill was of the cambric fine,

And his neckcloth starched and aquiline;

And oh, the eye with pleasure dwells

On his white jean indescribables;

And he throws the locks from his forehead fair,

And he pants, and pants, and pants for air;

What is the reason I cannot tell,

There is a cause—I know it well;

Too firmly bound, too tightly braced,

The corsets grasp his spider waist,

Till his coat tails are made to fly

Even from the back they glorify.

Look again, he is not there—

Vanished into the misty air!

Look again! do you see him yet?

Ah no! the bailiff has seized him for debt,

And to and fro, like a restless ghost,

When peace within the grave is lost,

He paces as far, as far he should,

Within the bounds of Holyrood!

William Maginn. 1821.

——:o:——

The Ancient Story.

[The Lord Chief Justice seems to have “Tichborne on the brain,” and cannot permit even his convivial moments to pass without talking of him, and going in for his own justification. He has become the veritable Ancient Mariner of the judicial bench, who, whenever he gets an audience, is compelled to begin anew the ancient story.—“‘There was a case,’ quoth he.”—South London Press.]

It is an ancient Judge-in-Chief,

And he stoppeth one in three;

“By thy horsehair wig and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”

He holds him with his skinny hand,

“There was a Case” quoth he.

“Hold off!—unhand me, greybeard loon!”

But still the tale must be.

“The case was called, the usher bawled,

’Regina v. Castro;

The work began, upstood the man

Whom all as Claimant know.

“Day after day, day after day,

Into the box came he,

And answers gave, the smiling knave,

That posed the keen Q.C.

“And lies were here, and lies were there,

And lies were all about,

Whispered and growled, and roared and howled,

And still the case spun out.

“Day after day, day after day,

We stuck—no sense of motion,

Until the speeches came, and words

Flowed boundless as the ocean:

“Till every tongue, through utter drought,

Was withered at the root;

The barristers were dry as if

They had been choked with soot.

“There passed a weary time; each throat

Was parched, and glazed each eye;

A weary time, a weary time—

And then my speech had I.

“I charged the jury with a will,

The Claimant I defied,

No Tichborne he, and if not—who?

‘Orton,’ the jury cried.

“Ah, well-a-day! what evil looks,

Had I from old and young!

To the convict’s doom, to the living tomb,

The pestilent man I flung!

“And ever since a Shibboleth

The world’s opinion rules;

Fools and fanatics they who doubt—

Fanatics all and fools!

“And still this tongue of mine is moved,

With a woful tendency,

To cry this cry and tell this tale

Where’er I chance to be.

“In public and in private life,

In Needlemakers’ Hall,

Whosever guest, with my unrest

I still his ears appal;

And tell the tale, and cry the cry,

Which public ardour cools,

Fools and fanatics they who doubt—

Fanatics all and fools!”

Funny Folks.

The City Press lately reported (April 1888), that the Tichborne Claimant has returned to this country from America, travelling under the name of Sir Roger Tichborne, with Lady Tichborne. His ticket-of-leave is now out, and he boasts of a determination to re-open the Tichborne case.