ROBERT BROWNING.
In dealing with Parodies of the works of living authors, the chief difficulty to contend with is, that some of the parodies may read rather flat and uninteresting to those who are unacquainted with the original poem.
Such familiar poems as Lord Tennyson’s “May Queen,” or “Lady Clara Vere-de-Vere,” it would of course be quite unnecessary to reprint, but now that more modern poems are under consideration it is desirable to give such of the originals as can be inserted, with the authors’ express permission. Hitherto the necessary authority has been gracefully accorded, and, in several instances, supplemented by valuable bibliographical information. Thus showing that some of the leading poets of the day recognise the value of this Collection as a literary record, and fully appreciate the strict line that is drawn to exclude vulgar, personal, or malicious lampoons.
In accordance therefore with the usual custom, a courteously worded letter was sent to Mr. Robert Browning, asking his permission to quote a few extracts from his shorter poems, with the assurance that no offensive parody of his works should be inserted.
Mr. Browning’s reply was to the effect that as he disapproved of every kind of Parody he refused permission to quote any of his poems, adding in somewhat ungracious language, that his publishers would be instructed to see that his wishes were complied with.
Perhaps the world does not greatly care whether Mr. Browning approves of Parody, or does not; neither can he very well expect that the completeness of this Collection should be sacrificed in deference to his distaste for a harmless branch of literature which has amused many of our greatest authors, and best of men. Byron and Scott could laugh at the Rejected Addresses, and enjoy a merry jest, even at their own expense, but let no dog bark when the great Sir Oracle opens his lips, and no daring humourist venture to travesty the poems of Mr. Robert Browning!
This injunction comes rather late, for numerous parodies of his works have already been written, of which some of the best must be included here. It is to be hoped that the perusal of them may induce some readers to seek in the originals those beauties which herein are only dimly shadowed forth.
Mr. Robert Browning was born at Camberwell in 1812, and educated at the London University. In September 1846, he married Miss Elizabeth Barrett, the poetess (who died in 1861), by whom he had one son, Mr. Robert Browning, the well-known artist.
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.
This is probably the best known of Mr. Browning’s earlier poems, it is given in Bell’s Standard Elocutionist, and various other collections.
On January 23, 1882, Mr. Browning wrote to the Oracle—“There is no sort of historical foundation for the poem about ‘Good News from Ghent.’ I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel, off the African coast, after I had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse, ‘York,’ then in my stable at home.
“It was written in pencil on the fly-leaf of Bartolio’s ‘Simboli,’ I remember.”
This Poem was chosen as the original for a Parody Competition in The World, and the two following parodies appeared in that entertaining journal on August 13, 1879.
How the Good News was brought from Ulundi to Landsman’s Drift.
First Prize.
One turn in the saddle to look at the smoke,
Then into a canter the stout pony broke.
“All right!” cried the laager’s last picket; and I,
“Right!” cheerily answered, as, cantering by,
I took in the very last hole in my belt,
And, alone with my tidings, rode into the veldt.
Not a word from a comrade to cheer me, no beat
From an answering hoof to make him more fleet,
For the nag; but I gave, with the flat of my hand,
A friendly rib-binder he’d well understand.
Each strap was in place, each buckle was right,
As is custom with me ere I ride for the night.
I started at noon, and at Panda’s old kraal
We stayed, where there tinkled a thin waterfall,
To wash out our mouths; and I ran for a spell,
With my hand on the pommel, then into the selle—
The stouter the pair of us, so for the rest—
We swished through the grass to the crimsoning west.
By the river, and up through the pass in the range;
By track of the troops and trail that was strange
Down donga and drift, past koppie and stone,
We galloped while daylight should last all alone.
And thankful enough, God wot, too was I,
To be free from the Zulu and his company.
Babinango to northward, and south by the map
Must be Umblabankosi through yon azure gap.
“Half-way, my tough garron, half-way! We shall do
If the next merry moiety you’ll travel so!”
I groomed his hot legs with the African herb
And he snuffled responsive and rattled his curb.
Then a thick fog crawled to us and shut up the moon,
And the stars too; nor did I a minute too soon,
With compass and chart, once more strike the trail,
And shake the staunch pony together to sail—
Like a stout ship, keen watch at the bows, and steered small
Mid berg and mid mist—to a guessed-at landfall.
Well, we fetched it at last; nor did I refuse
A draught of good wine in return for my news.
The battle was fought, and the tidings were brought
By a man and a horse, thirty leagues at a bout.
I’ve no story to tell; it’s a matter of course
When a Briton on duty bestrides a good horse.
Plunx (Mr. George Heaton).
Second Prize.
I sprang to the stirrup; my friend the D.T.
Should gallop right fast if he meant to beat me.
“Good luck!” cried the rearguard, as past them I sped.
“There are Zulus about; keep a bright look ahead!”
’Twas noontide, and near the full heat of the day,
As through the fierce sunlight I galloped away.
Not a being to speak to; I kept the great pace
Alone o’er the desolate grass-covered space;
Turned round in my saddle, and saw through the glare
The smoke of the burning kraals rise in the air;
Then again facing forward each tuft well I scanned,
And strapped my revolver more ready to hand.
Good news—over hill, over dale, speeding fast—
Ere sundown Fort Evelyn had heard as I past;
Then gratefully over us flew the cool spray,
As through Umlatoosi we splashed on our way:
With twilight there came a fresh breeze sweeping by,
And the bright stars peeped forth from the darkening sky.
At moonrise Fort Marshall lay close on the right,
And still my stout galloper sped through the night,
With nostrils dilated, stretched neck, and clenched teeth,
While his hoofs dashed the dew from the grass underneath
In ceaseless, monotonous, regular beat,
Till Sandwhlana lay steeped in white mist at my feet.
Rorke’s Drift and the Buffalo River were nigh,
When a bank of black clouds rose and darkened the sky;
The bright moon was hidden, and hidden each mark,
And I came near to missing the ford in the dark:
As we left the cold river I patted my steed,
And urged him again to his uttermost speed.
On, on still I rode, as the wild huntsman rides:
In the dawn I could just see the foam-covered sides,
See the head sinking low, see the staggering knees,
Feel the shudder that shook him as wind shakes the trees;
Yet onward he struggled with fast-failing strength,
And safe into Landsman’s Drift galloped at length.
And all I remembered was, “Now it is done;
I was first with the news of the victory won;
And no voice but will praise this long gallop of mine,
When ’tis talked of at breakfast or over the wine.”
Odd Fish (Mr. Charles McIntyre).
How I won the Challenge Shield.
I sprang to the saddle and Wheeler and Lea;
I treadled, Lea treadled, we treadled all three:
“Five mile!” cried the judge, decked in rosette of blue;
Whiz! went our front wheels as past him we flew:
And loud were the public with cheer and with jest,
As round the first lap we sped on abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Yard by yard, wheel by wheel, never changing our place:
And firm in my saddle—prepared for each swerve—
I steadied each muscle and braced up my nerve,
Reserving my whole strength, kept pace with the two,
And neither was favourite, at least to the view.
We were scratch all at starting; but when we drew near
The first mile I led, amid deafening cheer;
At two the “crack” wheeler was the first of the three;
The third mile was led by the resolute Lea;
And from ropes and pavilion was heard the loud roar
As the judge’s gruff voice gave the mileage at “Four!”
At five miles I spurted and kept up the run,
And gained the lost lead that the others had won,
And bent o’er my wheel and went inch by inch past
My sturdy opponents and left them at last,
With sure-footed pedals each spinning away,
And still on the watch like a cat for its prey.
I now kept the inside and heard them at my back—
Saw their shadows athwart on the smooth cinder track,
And each eye’s sharp look-out lest they neared on the right,
Kept my bi. well in hand as each wheel came in sight;
And the roar of the people which aye and anon
Would quicken each pedal and hasten it on.
Next moment Lea fell; cried the judge, looking grim,
“Poor fellow, fought bravely, the fault’s not in him,
’Tis cursed ill-luck!” For he saw by his face,
Scarred and cut, and white lips, he was out of the race,
And carried him off to the shade of the tent
And came back to criticise us as we went.
So we were left treadling, Wheeler and I,
To spin for the prizes—no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above shed its pitiless shine,
Down my face rolled the sweat and stung me like brine;
Then loudly the judge, coming near as we passed,
Said, “Go it, my hearties, this lap is the last!”
How they shouted! and all in a moment a spurt
Gave him an inch lead—but he found me alert,
And then was my stamina put to its test:
He and I fought the battle, and onlooked the rest,
With his head near the wheel, and his teeth firmly set,
He still kept my side and no farther could get.
Then I called up my energies; loud was the cry
That came from the thousands of spectators nigh;
Gripped firmly the handles, the grasp of grim death,
And steadied the pedals, then took a deep breath,
Clenched my teeth, gained a yard, as we flew down the track,
Till the shouts told me plainly I’d beaten the “crack.”
And all I remember, is friends flocking round,
Who bore us both shoulder high then off the ground,
And the club all en masse cheered this record of mine,
And my health was the pretext for bumpers of wine.
And the fellows all voted three cheers from the field,
For the victor and vanquished, who fought for the shield.
W. H. Smith.
The Wheeling Annual. 1885
——:o:——
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.
This poem is given in full in The Comic Poets of the Nineteenth Century, published by Routledge & Sons, London. It has been the subject of several political parodies, one of the best being that which appeared in Punch, May 1, 1880, entitled “The Bagpiper of Midlothian.” This described how the Liberals in Midlothian despaired of their cause, and the Tories were jubilant, when suddenly Wandering Willie the Piper appeared.
And “Please your Worships,” said he, “I’m able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures—with ears—beneath the sun;
After me they are bound to run
In such a style as you never saw.
I’m willing,” said he, “to try my charm
On the Tories—they’re doing the country harm.
I’m also possessed of a spell, you’ll see,
To strengthen limp Libs, who’ve gone weak at the knee;
The time-serving Rat and the envious Viper;
And they call me Wandering Willie the Piper.”
And here they observed that he carried his pipes,
This man of the breeze-blown Galashiels stripes,
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying,
As if impatient to be playing.
But the Big-Whigs looked just a little bit cool,
Inclined to believe that the man was a fool;
Whilst the Tories yelled “You may do your worst,
And blow away till your Bagpipes burst.”
Into the street the Piper stept,
Smiling a little sardonic smile,
Gs if he knew what music slept,
In his quiet pipes the while.
Then like a regular Scotch adept,
To blow the pipes his lips he bagged,
His fingers flew, ne’er a moment they lagged,
And e’er three notes the pipes had uttered
You heard as if all Scotland muttered;
And the muttering grew to a mighty roaring,
And out of their strongholds the Tories came pouring,
With many a grunt and many a groan:
And not the Tory hosts alone,
But the Liberal rats. There were swell rats, seedy rats,
Bold rats, timid rats, plump rats, greedy rats,
Nor the rats and the Tories alone came forth,
But the long-silent Radical hosts of the North,
Willingly, gleefully, shouting and cheering,
Heedless of “fagots,” of jibe, and of jeering,
Grave old plodders, and gay young friskers,
Grandfathers, fathers, sons, uncles, and cousins;
Greybeards, boys with scarce-budding whiskers,
Valiant voters, by twos, tens, dozens.
And as still that Piper (a plague on him!) played.
Not the North alone in his train was arrayed,
But the Voters flocked from east, west, south,
And the Midlands, witched by that magical mouth;
Voters from counties, and cities, and boroughs,
From toil at the furnace, from work at the furrows;
Voters from mansion, mart, meadow, and mine,
Voters of all sorts and sizes, in fine,
Rushing and crushing, ran eagerly after
That wonderful music, with shouting and laughter.
Then the Big-Whigs stared, and the Tories stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to fashion a fetching cry
To rally those Voters hurrying by—
Could only follow with envious eye,
Hearts in the doldrums and heads on the rack,
That numberless crowd at the Piper’s back,
A mighty flood whose resistless roll
Swept that Piper’s foes from their place at the Poll.
* * * * *
Off for the Holidays.—the Pied Piper of
Westminster leading the way.
Have ye not in memory kept
How, when out into the street
Hamelin’s Pied Piper stept,
From his reed pass’d notes so sweet
That the children all came running,
Captivated by his cunning,
Follow’d at his heels, and then
Never more returned again?
A spectacle like to that kind of thing
At Westminster now is happening;
The piper there, thinking the time is ripe,
Tootles aloud on his festive pipe.
And at once there’s a bustling and scrambling and hustling
To flee in hot haste from debate and its tussling,
Peers’ shoes are pattering, Commons’ boots clattering,
All of them blithely of holidays chattering,
Eager to show they at least have a smattering
Of yachting or sport,
Or pursuits of a sort
That are currently thought to supply health and pleasure
To overworked statesmen whene’er they get leisure.
But here the case grows different;
For while these children of Parliament
Dance over the hills and far away
Directly they hear the Piper play,
Though they go to the mountain or up to the moon,
They’ll return to St. Stephen’s—and that pretty soon.
Fun. August, 1884.
——:o:——
Poets and Linnets.
After Robert Browning.
Where’er there’s a thistle to feed a linnet
And linnets are plenty, thistles rife—
Or an acorn-cup to catch dew drops in it
There’s ample promise of further life
Now, mark how we begin it.
For linnets will follow, if linnets are minded,
As blows the white-feather parachute;
And ships will reel by the tempest blinded—
Ay, ships, and shiploads of men to boot!
How deep whole fleets you’ll find hid.
And we blow the thistle-down hither and thither
Forgetful of linnets, and men, and God.
The dew! for its want an oak will wither—
By the dull hoof into the dust is trod,
And then who strikes the cithar?
But thistles were only for donkeys intended,
And that donkeys are common enough is clear.
And that drop! what a vessel it might have befriended,
Does it add any favour to Glugabib’s beer?
Well, there’s my musing ended.
Tom Hood, the younger.
Fun. September, 1865.
The Quest of Barparlo.
So, gat me to the oaken, gnarlèd man,
That sat within the sounding-gate, half-wrapt,
Encumbered by three-cornered phantasies,
Hard-lipped, and low’ring like an autumn sky
When winter jostles in before his time,
Powdering his silvern breath against the brown.
Now, thought I, if mayhap by time or tide,
Or swiftly confluent imaginings,
Or great Potentialities (which thrive
On weakness,—for the doubtful gains on doubt
As doubt grows yet more weakly in its doubt!)
I may achieve to speech with this old man,
Tho’ barrel-hooped with yellow waistcloth,—propped
By king’s-cord on the nether, nerveless knees,
He seems yet unattainable: the sky,
Th’ imponderate vast æther—every star
Have by the climbing-ladder brain of man
Been searched and labelled. Nature, once so coy,
Has yielded to her noble ravisher,
And I, Barparlo, in whose pulses run
The golden blood of fearless ancestors,
Will—must—bespeak this rustic sage, or die!
But now the old man sudden turned, and so
He spied me, and with scoop’d hand to his ear
Attentive listened, glow’ring as I spoke.
“Oh, age! Conglomerate youth! For such is age,
If age be age amid the ages! For
The ages know not age, but ever run
In youth—yet youthless, for they bring us age—
Why sit you in the sun that sinks to show
Man’s self a parable; not inchoate
Like something self-revolving on itself
To something pre-sublime, co-ordinate
With the eternal justice of the Poles!”
To whom, with bitter smile, the enraptured sage
Curling a blue spire from his hollow clay—
“Oh, ax the Parson. I don’t know no French!”
Judy. July 7, 1880.
——:o:——
Parodies of Mr. Browning’s poem “Wanting is—What?” in Jocoseria.
Browning is—what?
Browning is—what?
Talent redundant,
Verbiage abundant,
—Where is his blot?
Beaming his verses, but blank all the same.
—Framework that waits for some reason to frame:
What of his meaning?—Strive for an hour—
Posies unreal, grapes that are sour!
No neatness, completeness, O lyrical mummer!
Panting for vagueness, unmusical strummer!
Breathe o’er thy lyre,
Apollo! and thence
Into his mire
Throw life, throw sense,
Throw sense!
H. W. Hancock.
Loving is—what?
Loving is—what?
Nothing material,
Essence ethereal.
—Say, is it not?
More than a myth, yet unreal all the same.
—Vapour electric with passion and flame;
What is love’s glory, what is love’s power?
Something devouring what nought can devour!
Love, then, content discontentment, O lover!
Feast on the phantom round which you hover!
Feed on the gleam
Revealed from above,
For youth’s fervid dream
Is life, is love,
Is love!
Charles A. Cooper.
Wanting is—what?
Lemon redundant,
Sugar abundant.
—Water made hot!
Shining the glass, yet a blank all the same.
—Framework that waits for a liquid to frame:
What of the whisky, what of its power?
Spirits devouring with nought they devour!
Come, then, O bright brain!—bewildering body,
Gleam through the goblet, and perfect the toddy!
Who drinks may remark
How all that was near
Grows distant and dark,
Grows dim, grows queer,
Arows—queer!
Mynie.
Wooing is—what?
Wooing is—what?
Sighing redundant,
Blisses abundant.
—What is it not?
“Balmy”’s the word, yet it’s rough all the same.
—Fretwork which warps both the mind and the frame:
What of her temper, what of her dower?
Posers o’erpowering which come in a shower!
Come it, O pleasing perplexity, come it
A trifle less strong, while I venture to sum it
Up in one breath:
The absence of gold
To wooing is death—
Calf-love grows cold,
Grows cold!
Exe.
Wanting is—what?
(A Billiard Mystery. From the new volume “Jomilleria.”)
Wanting is—what?
Scoring addition,
Getting position,
Here on the spot?
Seamy his clothes, yet a crack at the game.
—Marker he knows, and addresses by name:
What of the sharper, what of his power?
Gloomily glowering with nought to devour!
Come then, complete ignoramus, O comer,
Flush in thy greenness, needy the bummer!
One game he lets
You make,—that’s enough!
Trebles the bets,
Goes slow, gives snuff,
Gives snuff!
A. S. W.
From The Weekly Dispatch, April 1, 1883.
The following imitation, written by Miss Fitzpatrick, appeared in the Red Dragon Magazine, (Cardiff), September, 1884:—
Come is the Comer!
Wild Winter railing,
Snow storms prevailing,
Gone is the Summer!
Bleak looks the world,
Yet a something is here,
A Picture, but waiting the Frame to appear.
Bare are the branches,
Ne’er a flower blooms,
The Roses lie dead, unbemoaned in their tombs,
Yet come has Completion! that marvellous tinter,
That maketh a Paradise even in winter!
Happiness rife,
Though Death reigns around,
For sweeter than Life
Is Love when found,
Gove’s found!
——:o:——
THE LOST LEADER
Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat—
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allow’d:
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, follow’d him, honour’d him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
Learn’d his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
* * * * *
The Latest News.
[The young ladies of Girton have given up their Browning Society, and expended the funds thereof on the purchase of chocolate.]
They just for a handful of chocolate left us—
Just for some sweetmeats to put in their throats:
Of their sweet converse these girls have bereft us,
Scorning Bard Browning, the deepest of “potes,”
Once they professed they would worship the Master,
And help to expound him to lit’rature clubs;
But now—oh, most direful and dreadful disaster!—
Those girls have in chocolate spent all their “subs.”
Just for some mouthfuls of chocolate only,
Quit they the Browning Society’s fold;
Leaving their male fellow-worshippers lonely,
Puzzling out lines of mysterious mould.
Oh! say what is sweetstuff to sentences mystic,
That Girton girls should thus forsake the true “cult”?
Oh, when they might pore o’er B.’s lines aphoristic,
Wherein can “sweets” makes girl-graduates exult!
Oh! think what they might have taught Philistine readers,
Expounding, maybe, Browning’s foggiest line!
Instead of which now of mere worldly joys heeders,
They look upon sweetmeats as something divine.
Once as apostles our teaching they aided—
Even contributing cash with much glee;
But now to mere chocolate-worship degraded,
On Sweets, not on song, do they spend £ s. d.!
Fun. March 31, 1886.
And on April 17, 1886 Punch had also a parody founded on this topic of the Girton Ladies, containing the following verses:—
A Story of Girton.
Oh, the scholary girls, too blue,
Who lived at Girton, down by the Cam,
Just where the Cam bids the town adieu!
And who would ever have thought them a sham—
These girls, and the lots they knew?
Too blue, for the colour of health is red;
And their eyes had the dull, boiled-gooseberry look
Of maids who are meant to go to bed
When down from their laps flops the out-spread book,
But consume night’s oil instead.
Yet I noticed, like a flowering shrub
A bloom in a desert, one striking grace:
They might “screw” like mad when afloat in a “tub,”
And never get up the ghost of a pace,
But they had a “Browning Club”!
So, when one waxed ill, it did not seem strange
That the Lady Principal sighed, and said,
“A stoppage of work I must arrange;
To studies recondite she’s too much wed,
And from books she needs a change.”
“Not my books,” the patient cried;
“Take not the desk that my books contains!
For o’er the ‘Browning Club’ I preside,
And the mystic masterly fruit of his brains
Is my solace, glory, and pride!”
Her request being granted, asleep fell she;
The Lady Principal joyed at that;
But when the Doctor dropped in, said he,
“It’s only a bilious attack, that’s flat.
Brain trouble? Fiddle-de-dee!”
The desk, it chanced, was not quite closed:
“Why does she clutch it so?” asked the leech;
The Lady Principal supposed
That to have her dear Bard within reach
Consoled her as she dozed.
“Let’s look inside!” And at once—oh, dreams
Of “Female Culture,” and the rest!
They found—no masterly mystic themes,
No Pippa, no Duchess, but—who would have guessed?—
A box of Chocolate Creams!
* * * * *
——:o:——
THE PATRIOT.
It was roses, roses all the way,
With myrtles mixed in my path like mad.
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.
The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels,
But give me your sun from yonder skies!”
They had answered “And afterward what else?”
* * * * *
A Parody.
It was pouring, pouring, all the way,
As we scampered along the road like mad;
The trees were a mist of shadows grey
As past them we swept—such nags we had!—
A week ago, on the Gold Cup Day.
The air was rent with a myriad yells,
Our ears were shocked with the crowd and cries,
As they strained for the sound of the saddling bells;
The sun was a-sulk in the clouded skies,
Though he shone out afterward. What else?
What else? I know that the wrong horse won,
Though over the luncheon I fell asleep,
For I woke to find myself all undone;
I had sown the wind, and I needs must reap
The whirlwind after the race was run!
There’s nobody on the Grand Stand now,
Where a week ago such a concourse met;
The best of the sight after all, I vow,
Was the ladies lawn, with its luncheons set,
Though that looks sad enough now, I trow!
Gossamer.
The Weekly Dispatch. June 25, 1882.
Another parody also appeared in Punch, July 24, 1886, entitled:—
The Party Leader.
A very old story.
It was cheering, cheering, to the close
O’ my speech that day I launched the Bill:
From serried ranks the row uprose,
And hats are waved, and voices thrill;
And I!—I thought I’d dished my foes.
* * * * *
——:o:——
A Parleying with a Certain Person of no
Importance in His Day.
No, Joseph Chamberlain, near Premier, no.
You promise Gladstone quarter? Not for Joe.
Perpend this allegory—pauca verba.
A vagrom Viper, latitans in herba,
Seeing a grand old Mongoose passing, cried,
“Come, let’s be amicable—side by side
Excogitate alliance—great and good,
Rule the whole roast, dukes of this wandering wood.”—
“With pleasure,” put in t’other. While they went
En camarade, ostensibly content,
Serpens, observing all associates own
Obedience to his brother-beast alone,
Waxed parlous wrath, within adumbrate Vale
Bit unsuspecting Mongoose sharp on tail.
“Excuse me Sir,” rejoinder came unshaken,
“Meseems such step’s thaumaston hôs mistaken.
Quid hoc?”—one! two! a momentary flummock—
X (quadruped) sat an Y (snake) his stomach.
“Spt, spt—grr, grr—awk, awkrr,” spluttered latter,
“You mar my meaning monstrously. No matter.
Get off my epigastrium. Make amends.
Brr—give me breath (confound you, brute!)—Be friends.”
Verb. sap.—What quotha grand old Mongoose?—Oh,
Referred said reptile-thing to Jericho.—
Explain? Not I, save this much; then I’m dumb:
Snake, Mongoose, Vale, equal Joe, Gladstone, Brum.
Pall Mall Gazette. March 17, 1887.
——:o:——
Two Sides.
Browning’s.
Love-making, how simple a matter! No depths to explore,
No heights in life to ascend—no disheartening before—
No affrighting hereafter. Love will be love evermore.
Ours.
Love-making, how awful a matter! We’ve been there before;
The father determined we shouldn’t—the mother watching the door;
Till even the girl was affrighted, and wrote us to see her no more.
——:o:——
My Kate.
(On Miss Kate Vaughan’s quitting the Gaiety Company in
order to come out in a New and Serious Line.)
Her air has a meaning, her movements a grace,
You turn from the fairest to gaze at her face;
And when you have once seen her dance, ’tis a treat
That you may encore, but which she won’t repeat—
My Kate!
Renouncing burlesque, she’s about to enact
The fair Amy Robsart—I hope ’twill attract.
And when thou art gone, who will here take your part,
While you’re starring the country as Amy Robsart,
My Kate?
We praise you as charming, and ask if you mean
To give up burlesque and play Tragedy Queen?
The Mashers will cry, o’er this doleful event,
“The charm of her presence was felt when she went!”—
Our Kate!
Punch. June 16, 1883.
——:o:——
Lays of a Lover.
(A Roasting, after Browning.)
Oh, to be out of London now that no one’s here,
For who ever sleeps in London dreams each morning of a pier,
And a flowing sail, and a burnished sea,
And an azure sky that is not for me,
While my darling sings at the Seagul’s bow
In Venice now.
For after Goodwood, when Cowes follows,
And the blue-blood leaves us like the swallows,
Hark! where the blooming flower-cart in the street
Leans ’neath its weight and scatters for the drover
Petals and old clothes—’neath the bovine feet.
That’s the harsh voice: that cries each ware twice over
Lest you should miss the purport of his jargon,
And this cheap matchless bargain.
For though our streets are hot, and skies are blue,
The air is not so fresh as breathed by you;
The butterflies are thirsting for a shower;
The milk of human kindness turning sour.
Fun. August 13, 1884.
Two parodies of the same poem appeared in Punch, one on April 14, 1883, the other on June 7, 1888.
These can be readily obtained at Punch office, as also the following: “The Losing Leader” Punch, July 26, 1884. “Stanley,” after Waring, Punch, June 2, 1888.
“Gladstone Unmasked” which appeared in Punch as long ago as 1866, was written by the late Shirley Brooks, as a parody on Browning. The poem, which is long and quite out of date now, may be found in “Wit and Humour” by Shirley Brooks, London, 1883.
——:o:——
Post Chronology.
A chronologic skull sir! ’twas a poet’s;
But ’tother’s wasn’t my friend’s friend’s, I say.
Our first, a Lombard, were the wind to blow its
Loudest, could not daunt him, loved to pray
Too, in all the English language is no rhyme
Describes him thoroughly. You should have watched him knit
Those brows of his, black brows, sir, scarred by time
And scowling like a pent-house. But your sonnet
Should have a moral, let’s to it, tooth and nail.
You’d never catch it, were you to fall on it
Without premeditation. Work like a snail
Gnawing a lotus leaf, you’re on the brink of it—
How now Sir Numbskull turn and think of it.
The above burlesque sonnet is given in Mr. John H. Ingram’s biography of “Oliver Madox Brown,” although it is doubtful whether that talented young poet was the author of it or what it means.
——:o:——
Mr. Browning wrote the following elegant and luminous lines for the window in honour of Her Majesty’s Jubilee, presented by the parishioners to St. Margaret’s, Westminster:—
Fifty years’ flight! wherein should he rejoice
Who hailed their birth, who as they die decays?
This—England echoes his attesting voice;
Wondrous and well—thanks Ancient Thou of days.
A correspondent, who is not a member of the Browning Society, thinks that the following quatrain might be substituted,—
Seventy-five years! Wherein do they rejoice
Who read his work, who, as he writes, decays?
This—plain folk echo their protesting voice—
“Wondrous! but no more, thanks! old thou of days.”
——:o:——
On page 103, Volume 5 of this Collection some extracts were given from “The Poets at Tea” a series of short parodies which appeared in The Cambridge Fortnightly, for February 7, 1888. The three following verses, which were then omitted, may be given here:—
The Poets at Tea.
Tennyson, who took it hot.
I think that I am drawing to an end,
For on a sudden came a gasp for breath,
And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,
And a great darkness falling on my soul.
O Hallelujah!... Kindly pass the milk.
Swinburne, who let it get cold.
As the sin that was sweet in the sinning
Is foul in the ending thereof,
As the heat of the summer’s beginning
Is past in the winter of love:
O purity, painful and pleading!
O coldness, ineffably gray!
O hear us, our hand-maid unheeding,
And take it away!
Browning, who treated it allegorically.
Tut! bah! We take as another case—
Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule.
(A sick man’s fancy, no doubt, but I place
Reliance on trade-marks, sir)—so perhaps you’ll
Excuse the digression—this cup which I hold
Light-poised—bah! its spilt in the bed—well, let’s on go—
Held Bohea and sugar, sir; if you were told
The sugar was salt would the Bohea be Congo?
* * * * *
——:o:——
Of Mr. Browning’s later poetry, or, what may be termed his involved and complicated style, some excellent parodies exist. They are rather long, and would be somewhat tedious reading to those who are unfamiliar with the originals; as the books in which most of these parodies occur are easily obtainable a few extracts will suffice.
First, may be mentioned Diversions of the Echo Club, an American work written by the late Mr. Bayard Taylor, published, in London, by Chatto and Windus.
This contains no less than four imitations of Robert Browning’s poetry, they are all good, but perhaps the following is the most characteristic in style:—
Angelo orders his Dinner.
I, Angelo, obese, black garmented,
Respectable, much in demand, well fed
With mine own larder’s dainties, where, indeed,
Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed,
Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o’ the top,
Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop
Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests
Which my recondite recipe invests
With cold conglomerate tidbits—ah, the bill!
(You say,) but given it were mine to fill
My chests, the case so put were yours, we’ll say,
(This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day,)
And you’ve an eye to luxuries, what harm
In smoothing down your palate with the charm
Yourself concocted? There we issue take;
And see! as thus across the rim I break
This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake,
So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chaps
And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps;
But that’s my secret. Find me such a man
As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan
Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat
From his own giblets’ oils, an Ararat
Uplift o’er water, sucking rosy draughts
From Noah’s vineyard,—... crisp, enticing wafts
Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense
Somewhat abate the fear of old events,
Qualms to the stomach,—I, you see, am slow
Unnecessary duties to forego,—
You understand? A venison haunch, haut gout,
Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew,
And sprigs of anise, might one’s teeth provoke
To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke
Just as it suits,—my liking, I confess,
More to receive, and to partake no less,
Still more obese, while through thick adipose
Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes
Far-off, dim-conscious, at the body’s verge,
Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge
On the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seat
Is bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.
Leading Cases done into English, by an Apprentice of Lincoln’s Inn. London, Macmillan & Co. 1876. This amusing little volume (said to be the work of Mr. Pollock) contains a case, entitled Scott v. Shepherd, which is reported in true Browningese diction:—
Any Pleader to any Student.
Now, you’re my pupil!
On the good ancient plan I shall do what I can
For your hundred guineas to give my law’s blue pill
(Let high jurisprudence which thinks me and you dense,
Set posse of cooks to stir new Roman soup ill):
First volume of Smith shall give you the pith
Of leading decision that shows the division
Of action on case from plain action of trespass
Where to count in assault law benignantly says “Pass.”
Facts o’ case first. At Milborne Port
Was fair-day, October the twenty and eight,
And folk in the market like fowls in a crate;
Shepherd, one of your town-fool sort,
(From Solomon’s time they call it sport,
Right to help holiday, just make fun louder),
Lights me a squib up of paper and powder,
(Find if you can the law-Latin for ’t)
And chucks it, to give their trading a rouse,
Full i’ the midst o’ the market-house.
It happ’d to fall on a stall where Yates
Sold gingerbread and gilded cates
(Small damage if they should burn or fly all);
To save himself and said gingerbread loss
One Willis doth toss the thing across
To stall of one Ryall, who straight an espial
Of danger to his wares, of selfsame worth,
Casts it in market-house farther forth.
And by two mesne tossings thus it got
To burst i’ the face of plaintiff Scott.
And now ’gainst Shepherd, for loss of eye,
The question is, whether trespass shall lie.
* * * * *
Well—liquor’s out, why look more at old bottle?
Gulp down with gusto, you that are young,
These new Rules’ ferment, tastes ill in my throttle
Since Justice, in nubibus no more on high sitter
Descends to speak laymen’s vulgar tongue.
So be it! Explicit-parum feliciter.
It is usually considered that The Cock and the Bull, by the late C. S. Calverley, is the best parody extant of Robert Browning’s “The Ring and the Book,” the following are the opening lines:—
“The Cock and the Bull.”
You see this pebble stone? It’s a thing I bought
Of a bit of a chit of a boy i’ the mid o’ the day.
I like to dock the smaller parts o’ speech,
As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur
(You catch the paronomasia-play ’po’ words?)
Did, rather, i’ the pre-Landseerian days.
Well, to my muttons! I purchased the concern,
And clapt it i’ my poke, having given for same
By way o’ chop, swop, barter or exchange—
“Chop” was my snickering dandiprat’s own term—
One shilling and fourpence, current coin o’ the realm.
O-n-e one and f-o-u-r four
Pence, one and fourpence—you are with me, sir?
What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o’ the clock,
One day (and what a roaring day it was
Go shop or sightsee—bard spit o’ rain!)
In February, eighteen sixty-nine,
Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei.
Hm—hm—how runs the jargon? being on the throne.
Such, sir, are all facts, succinctly put,
The basis or substratum—what you will—
Of the impending eighty thousand lines.
“Not much in ’em either,” quoth perhaps simple Hodge.
But there’s a superstructure. Wait a bit.
* * * * *
From Fly Leaves, by C. S. Calverley. London. George Bell & Sons.
——:o:——
In The Heptalogia (Chatto and Windus, 1880) there is an imitation of Browning, entitled “John Jones,” and in Recaptured Rhymes, by H. D. Traill (W. Blackwood and Sons, 1882) there is a parody from “The Puss and the Boots.” These cannot be quoted in full, and extracts would convey little idea of the humour of the pieces. The latter (by Mr. Traill) is modelled somewhat upon Mr. Calverley’s “Cock and the Bull.”
In July 1888, The Family Herald (London) had a long article on parodies, which contained some amusing examples, but the writer of the article committed the unpardonable literary crime of not giving references to the authorities from whom he quoted. His note on Robert Browning’s poetry, and his parodies, is given below:—
“Mr. Browning is far too great a man to be mentioned lightly; but we must own that to some natures his later work is distasteful, and even repulsive. His early poetry ranks among the highest in English; and, if we were compelled to write down the names of, say, six poems which we regard as the best in the language, two of the six—“The Last Ride Together” and “The Flight of the Duchess”—would be Mr. Browning’s. Perhaps he is too great now to be content with mere brilliant work that haunts the memory for life, and inspires the innermost soul. If so, we are sorry, for we would not give the two poems which we have named, with perhaps the “Ride from Ghent to Aix,” for a library of exasperating Sordellos. We cannot cure Mr. Browning, and we must be content to endure him for the sake of old times. The great, crabbed, formless poet gives the buffoons a rare innings; for his jagged, ramshackle blank verse, with its conjunctions protruding at the ends of lines, its parentheses, its small jokes, its puns, its pedantic display of useless learning, its aimless wanderings, its half-hints, all tend to make the reader feel as if he were taking a little walk with a halting cripple who persisted in digging him in the ribs, and kicking up dust before his eyes. When we get a gleam of lucidity from Browning, he is matchless; but he refuses to write plain English and so the parodists have him on the hip. Here is a parody by a skilled craftsman who handles the poet with affection—
Not that I care for ceremonies—no;
But still there are occasions, as you see
(Observe the costumes—gallantly they show
To my poor judgment!), which, ’twixt you and me,
Not to come forth, one’s few remaining hairs
Or wig—it matters little—bravely brushed
And oiled, dress-coated, sprucely-clad, the tears
And tweaks and wrenches people overflushed
With—well, not wine—oh, no, we’ll rather say
Anticipation, the delight of seeing—
No matter what!—inflict upon you (pray
Remove your elbow, friend!), in spite of being
Not quite the man one used to be, and not
So young as once one was, would argue one
Churlish, indifferent, hipped, rheumatic, what
You please to say.
So, not to spoil the fun—
Comprenez-vous?—observe that lady there,
‘In native Worth.’ Aha, you see the jest?
Not bad, I think? My own too! Woman’s fair,
Or not—the odds, so long as she is dressed?
They’re coming! Soh! Ha, Bennett’s ‘Barcarole’—
A poor thing, but mine own! That minor third
Is not so bad, now! Mum, sirs! (Bless my soul,
I wonder what her veil cost?) Mum’s the word!
The strange thing is that the rickety stuff above is a perfectly fair burlesque. The cadence—or lack of cadence—the horrid involutions, the breaks into bald dulness, are all Browning’s to the very essence.”
——:o:——
This is not the place in which to enter upon a dissertation on the style of Mr. Robert Browning. Profundity of thought is not necessarily accompanied by obscurity of language, and yet the admirers of Mr. Browning contend that it is precisely in those poems which are the most difficult to understand, that his chief excellencies are to be found. Hence several “Browning Societies” have been started for the express purpose of explaining this obscure writer to persons of only average intelligence. Now a Homer society, or a Shakespeare society, one can understand, these poets are dead and cannot be appealed to, for the solution of doubtful readings, or confused passages. But Mr. Browning is alive and well, and should be able, if he were willing, to clear up the meaning of any obscurity in his own writings. Were he to do this, however, a few amiable hero-worshippers, and fussy founders of Societies, would lose their vocation, and perhaps the public would not greatly gain.
Many anecdotes are told of Browning’s obscurity.
When Douglas Jerrold was recovering from a severe illness, Browning’s “Sordello” was put into his hands. Line after line, page after page, he read; but no consecutive idea could he get from the mystic production. Mrs. Jerrold was out, and he had no one to whom to appeal. The thought struck him that he had lost his reason during his illness, and that he was so imbecile that he did not know it. A perspiration burst from his brow, and he sat silent and thoughtful. As soon as his wife returned he thrust the mysterious volume into her hands, crying out: “Read this, my dear.” After several attempts to make any sense out of the first page or so, she gave back the book, saying: “Bother the gibberish! I don’t understand a word of it!” “Thank heaven!” cried Jerrold, “then I am not an idiot!”
The Browning Society.
A Bitter Error.
A long haired man, with a look of unutterable yearning in his deep set eyes, stole into the well filled auditorium, and took a seat in the rear pew. He listened to the speaker with the closest attention, and seemed to derive the most intense enjoyment from words which were incomprehensible to the majority of the audience.
“Magnificent! sublime!” he was heard to murmur.
“You understand him, sir?” inquired the man next the long haired stranger.
“Perfectly, perfectly. Did you ever hear anything more”—
“But I can’t understand a word he says.”
“Indeed! You are to be pitied. Ah, this seems like home. You see, I arrived from New York only an hour ago, and happening to hear of this meeting came here at once.”
“It is not possible that you are a Chinaman?”
“A Chinaman! What do you mean, Sir? I am from Boston.”
“From Boston, eh? How is it that you understand Chinese?”
“I don’t understand Chinese, sir. What do you mean?”
“Why, the man who is speaking is a missionary who has just returned from Hong Kong, and he is exhibiting his proficiency in the Chinese language by reading a chapter in the Bible in that tongue.”
The Bostonian’s face paled.
“Why,” he gasped, “isn’t this a Browning Club?”
“Certainly not.”
“And isn’t he reading one of the great master’s”—
“Great Scott, no! The Browning club is on the next floor.”
Then the sad eyed man arose and staggered thence, a hopeless, despairing look in his fathomless orbs.
——:o:——
One Word More.
(Written in a Gift-copy of “Parodies,” by a
Contributor to its pages.)
Take them, Chum, the book and me together;
Where the heart goes, let the art go also.
Hamilton collated many verses,
Grouped and set them in sequential volumes,
Wrote them, may be, with the self-same stylus
Else he used for “The Æsthetic Movement.”
Good for most, save one who in this volume
(Who that one you ask?) did dreadful rhymings,
Take it then to treasure for a life-time,
Not to slumber, neighbour to my sonnets,
But at times brought out, to tell its story.
This is cheek, say you! Well, if it be so,
Cheek me back again in self-same fashion,
Then my cheek may turn you to a poet.
You I think, would rather have this volume,
Even though I sadly mar its pages,
Would you not? Mate, linger over Ouida,
Yea, man read, those very red Gaboriaus,
Pall Malls, Globes, or blushing racy “Pink-un,”
Dear to travellers on the Inner Circle.
What of all this scribble? All this nonsense?
This; no rhymer lives that loves and longs not,
Often, more than once, yea, frequently,
(Like the Major-General to the “Pirates”)
To make fun, of stately solemn subjects,
Turning upside down what’s art to others,
Not, mind you, deriding its true nature,
But the while its maker truly loving.
Does he paint? then straight burlesque his picture,
Does he write? then parody his poems,
Show, as proof how well you know your author,
Once, or twice, and then the last time going
(Like an auction) then knock down your hero.
Gain the fool’s laugh, dare the author’s sorrow.
I shall never in the years remaining,
Paint you pictures, lucky that for you, chum!
Nor make music, that would send your fingers
Straight to plug your ears, but my delusion
This of rhyming letters, bear in patience
Verse and worse, I have and still will send you,
Others’ rhymes and others’ poems twitting,
All their jokes and mine for you—my own chum.
J. W. G. W.
