A HOPELESS CASE.
Of literary pleasures, my first and chief delight,
Was to read the thrilling serials our deft romancers write,
To follow up each hero to the altar from his teens,
By reading each instalment in the monthly magazines.
The system answered splendidly while magazines were few,
But journal follows journal now, review succeeds review;
And when the monthly parcel I have carefully perused,
Alas, I find the characters are woefully confused!
They follow me about by day, at night they haunt me still,
A hero out from Longman's weds a lady from Cornhill;
A villain from Belgravia, who a burglary has planned,
Is suddenly arrested by detectives from the Strand.
I hear a stalwart warrior from one of Weyman's plots
Engaged in Dolly dialogues with Mary Queen of Scots;
And persons in the Argosy for gold in Harper's toil,
Or interview physicians brought to light by Conan Doyle.
Not only in the fiction, too, I find my fancy trip,
The Idlers' Club are gathered at the Sign that bears a Ship,
While Blackwood's sober chronicler in quite a flippant way
Discusses "Without Prejudice" the topics of the day.
And so, although my intellect is reasonably strong,
It will not bear the strain of this bewilderment for long;
Please carve upon my tombstone when I quit terrestrial scenes,
"Here lies a man who perished from too many magazines!"
