A RICHARDSONIAN MELODRAMA
The sun was setting in its wonted west,
When Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Met Mahry Daubigny, the Village Rose,
Under the Wizard's Oak—old trysting-place
Of those who loved in rosy Aquitaine.
They thought themselves unwatched, but they were not
For Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Found in Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles Dubosc
A rival, envious and unscrupulous,
Who thought it not foul scorn to dog his steps,
And listen, unperceived, to all that passed
Between the simple little Village Rose
And Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.
A clumsy barrack-bully was Dubosc,
Quite unfamiliar with the well-bred tact
That actuates a proper gentleman
In dealing with a girl of humble rank.
You'll understand his coarseness when I say
He would have married Mahry Daubigny,
And dragged the unsophisticated girl
Into the whirl of fashionable life,
For which her singularly rustic ways,
Her breeding (moral, but extremely rude),
Her language (chaste, but ungrammatical),
Would absolutely have unfitted her.
No such intention lurked within the breast
Of Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores!
Contemporary with the incident
Related in our opening paragraph,
Was that sad war 'twixt Gallia and ourselves
That followed on the treaty signed at Troyes;
And so Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles Dubosc
(Brave soldier, he, with all his faults of style)
And Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Were sent by Charles of France against the lines
Of our Sixth Henry (Fourteen twenty-nine),
To drive his legions out of Aquitaine.
When Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Returned (suspecting nothing) to his camp,
After his meeting with the Village Rose,
He found inside his barrack letter-box
A note from the commanding-officer,
Requiring his attendance at headquarters.
He went, and found Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles.
"Young Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
This night we shall attack the English camp:
Be the 'forlorn hope' yours—you'll lead it sir,
And lead it too with credit, I've no doubt"
(These last words with a cruelly obvious sneer).
"As every soul must certainly be killed
(For you are twenty 'gainst two thousand men),
It is not likely that you will return;
But what of that? you'll have the benefit
Of knowing that you die a soldier's death."
Obedience was young Hongree's strongest point,
But he imagined that he only owed
Allegiance to his Mahry and his King.
"If Mahry bade me lead these fated men,
I'd lead them—but I do not think she would.
If Charles, my King, said, 'Go, my son, and die,'
I'd go, of course—my duty would be clear.
But Mahry is in bed asleep (I hope),
And Charles, my King, a hundred leagues from this,
As for Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles Dubosc,
How know I that our monarch would approve
The order he has given me to-night?
My King I've sworn in all things to obey—
I'll only take my orders from my King!"
Thus Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Interpreted the terms of his commission.
And Hongree, who was wise as he was good,
Disguised himself that night in ample cloak,
Round flapping hat, and visor mask of black,
And made, unnoticed, for the English camp.
He passed the unsuspecting sentinels
(Who little thought a man in this disguise
Could be a proper object of suspicion),
And ere the curfew-bell had boomed "lights out,"
He found in audience Bedford's haughty Duke.
"Your Grace," he said, "start not—be not alarmed,
Although a Frenchman stands before your eyes.
I'm Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.
My colonel will attack your camp to-night,
And orders me to lead the hope forlorn.
Now I am sure our excellent King Charles
Would not approve of this; but he's away
A hundred leagues, and rather more than that.
So, utterly devoted to my King,
Blinded by my attachment to the throne,
And having but its interest at heart,
I feel it is my duty to disclose
All schemes that emanate from Colonel Jooles,
If I believe that they are not the kind
Of schemes that our good monarch could approve."
"But how," said Bedford's Duke, "do you propose
That we should overthrow your colonel's scheme?"
And Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Replied at once with never-failing tact:
"Oh, sir, I know this cursed country well.
Entrust yourself and all your host to me;
I'll lead you safely by a secret path
Into the heart of Colonel Jooles' array,
And you can then attack them unprepared,
And slay my fellow-countrymen unarmed."
The thing was done. The Duke of Bedford gave
The order, and two thousand fighting-men
Crept silently into the Gallic camp,
And killed the Frenchmen as they lay asleep;
And Bedford's haughty Duke slew Colonel Jooles,
And married Mahry, pride of Aquitaine,
To Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.
[THE TANGLED SKEIN]
Try we life-long, we can never
Straighten out life's tangled skein,
Why should we, in vain endeavour,
Guess and guess and guess again?
Life's a pudding full of plums,
Care's a canker that benumbs,
Wherefore waste our elocution
On impossible solution?
Life's a pleasant institution,
Let us take it as it comes!
Set aside the dull enigma,
We shall guess it all too soon;
Failure brings no kind of stigma—
Dance we to another tune!
String the lyre and fill the cup,
Lest on sorrow we should sup;
Hop and skip to Fancy's fiddle,
Hands across and down the middle—
Life's perhaps the only riddle
That we shrink from giving up!
[THE REVEREND MICAH SOWLS]
The, Reverend Micah Sowls,
He shouts and yells and howls,
He screams, he mouths, he bumps,
He foams, he rants, he thumps.
His armour he has buckled on, to wage
The regulation war against the Stage;
And warns his congregation all to shun
"The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One."
The subject's sad enough
To make him rant and puff,
And fortunately, too,
His Bishop's in a pew.
So Reverend Micah claps on extra steam,
His eyes are flashing with superior gleam,
He is as energetic as can be,
For there are fatter livings in that see.
The Bishop, when it's o'er,
Goes through the vestry door,
Where Micah, very red,
Is mopping of his head.
"Pardon, my Lord, your Sowls' excessive zeal,
It is a theme on which I strongly feel."
(The sermon somebody had sent him down
From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)
The Bishop bowed his head,
And, acquiescing, said,
"I've heard your well-meant rage
Against the Modern Stage.
"A modern Theatre, as I heard you say,
Sows seeds of evil broadcast—well it may;
But let me ask you, my respected son,
Pray, have you ever ventured into one?"
"My Lord," said Micah, "no!
I never, never go!
What! Go and see a play?
My goodness gracious, nay!"
The worthy Bishop said, "My friend, no doubt
The Stage may be the place you make it out;
But if, my Reverend Sowls, you never go,
I don't quite understand how you're to know."
"Well, really," Micah said,
"I've often heard and read,
But never go—do you?"
The Bishop said, "I do."
"That proves me wrong," said Micah, in a trice;
"I thought it all frivolity and vice."
The Bishop handed him a printed card;
"Go to a theatre where they play our Bard."
The Bishop took his leave,
Rejoicing in his sleeve.
The next ensuing day
Sowls went and heard a play.
He saw a dreary person on the stage,
Who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage,
Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd,
And spoke an English Sowls had never heard.
For "gaunt" was spoken "garnt,"
And "haunt" transformed to "harnt,"
And "wrath" pronounced as "rath,"
And "death" was changed to "dath."
For hours and hours that dismal actor walked,
And talked, and talked, and talked, and talked,
Till lethargy upon the parson crept,
And sleepy Micah Sowls serenely slept.
He slept away until
The farce that closed the bill
Had warned him not to stay,
And then he went away.
"I thought my gait ridiculous," said he—
"My elocution faulty as could be;
I thought I mumbled on a matchless plan—
I had not seen our great Tragedian!
"Forgive me, if you can,
O great Tragedian!
I own it with a sigh—
You're drearier than I!"
[MY LADY]
Bedecked in fashion trim,
With every curl a-quiver;
Or leaping, light of limb,
O'er rivulet and river;
Or skipping o'er the lea
On daffodil and daisy;
Or stretched beneath a tree,
All languishing and lazy;
Whatever be her mood—
Be she demurely prude
Or languishingly lazy—
My lady drives me crazy!
In vain her heart is wooed,
Whatever be her mood!
What profit should I gain
Suppose she loved me dearly?
Her coldness turns my brain
To verge of madness merely.
Her kiss—though, Heaven knows,
To dream of it were treason—
Would tend, as I suppose,
To utter loss of reason!
My state is not amiss;
I would not have a kiss
Which, in or out of season,
Might tend to loss of reason:
What profit in such bliss?
A fig for such a kiss!
[ONE AGAINST THE WORLD]
It's my opinion—though I own
In thinking so I'm quite alone—
In some respects I'm but a fright.
You like my features, I suppose?
I'm disappointed with my nose:
Some rave about it—perhaps they're right.
My figure just sets off a fit;
But when they say it's exquisite
(And they do say so), that's too strong.
I hope I'm not what people call
Opinionated! After all,
I'm but a goose, and may be wrong!
When charms enthral
There's some excuse
For measures strong;
And after all
I'm but a goose,
And may be wrong!
My teeth are very neat, no doubt;
But after all they may fall out:
I think they will—some think they won't.
My hands are small, as you may see,
But not as small as they might be,
At least, I think so—others don't.
But there, a girl may preach and prate
From morning six to evening eight,
And never stop to dine,
When all the world, although misled,
Is quite agreed on any head—
And it is quite agreed on mine!
All said and done,
It's little I
Against a throng.
I'm only one,
And possibly
I may be wrong!
[THE FORCE OF ARGUMENT]
Lord B. was a nobleman bold
Who came of illustrious stocks,
He was thirty or forty years old,
And several feet in his socks.
To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea
This elegant nobleman went,
For that was a borough that he
Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent.
At local assemblies he danced
Until he felt thoroughly ill;
He waltzed, and he galoped, and lanced,
And threaded the mazy quadrille.
The maidens of Turniptopville
Were simple—ingenuous—pure—
And they all worked away with a will
The nobleman's heart to secure.
Two maidens all others beyond
Endeavoured his cares to dispel—
The one was the lively Ann Pond,
The other sad Mary Morell.
Ann Pond had determined to try
And carry the Earl with a rush;
Her principal feature was eye,
Her greatest accomplishment—gush.
And Mary chose this for her play:
Whenever he looked in her eye
She'd blush and turn quickly away,
And flitter, and flutter, and sigh.
It was noticed he constantly sighed
As she worked out the scheme she had planned,
A fact he endeavoured to hide
With his aristocratical hand.
Old Pond was a farmer, they say,
And so was old Tommy Morell.
In a humble and pottering way
They were doing exceedingly well.
They both of them carried by vote
The Earl was a dangerous man;
So nervously clearing his throat,
One morning old Tommy began:
"My darter's no pratty young doll—
I'm a plain-spoken Zommerzet man—
Now what do 'ee mean by my Poll,
And what do 'ee mean by his Ann?"
Said B., "I will give you my bond
I mean them uncommonly well,
Believe me, my excellent Pond,
And credit me, worthy Morell.
"It's quite indisputable, for
I'll prove it with singular ease,—
You shall have it in 'Barbara' or
'Celarent'—whichever you please.
'You see, when an anchorite bows
To the yoke of intentional sin,
If the state of the country allows,
Homogeny always steps in—
"It's a highly æsthetical bond,
As any mere ploughboy can tell——"
"Of course," replied puzzled old Pond.
"I see," said old Tommy Morell.
"Very good, then," continued the lord;
"When it's fooled to the top of its bent,
With a sweep of a Damocles sword
The web of intention is rent.
"That's patent to all of us here,
As any mere schoolboy can tell."
Pond answered, "Of course it's quite clear";
And so did that humbug Morell.
"Its tone's esoteric in force—
I trust that I make myself clear?"
Morell only answered, "Of course,"
While Pond slowly muttered, "Hear, hear."
"Volition—celestial prize,
Pellucid as porphyry cell—
Is based on a principle wise."
"Quite so," exclaimed Pond and Morell.
"From what I have said you will see
That I couldn't wed either—in fine,
By Nature's unchanging decree
Your daughters could never be mine.
"Go home to your pigs and your ricks,
My hands of the matter I've rinsed."
So they take up their hats and their sticks,
And exeunt ambo, convinced.
[PUT A PENNY IN THE SLOT]
If my action's stiff and crude,
Do not laugh, because it's rude.
If my gestures promise larks,
Do not make unkind remarks.
Clockwork figures may be found
Everywhere and all around.
Ten to one, if I but knew,
You are clockwork figures too.
And the motto of the lot,
"Put a penny in the slot!"
Usurer, for money lent,
Making out his cent per cent—
Widow plump or maiden rare,
Deaf and dumb to suitor's prayer—
Tax collectors, whom in vain
You implore to "call again"—
Cautious voter, whom you find
Slow in making up his mind—
If you'd move them on the spot,
Put a penny in the slot!
Bland reporters in the courts,
Who suppress police reports—
Sheriff's yeoman, pen in fist,
Making out a jury list—
Stern policemen, tall and spare,
Acting all "upon the square"—
(Which in words that plainer fall,
Means that you can square them all)—
If you want to move the lot,
Put a penny in the slot!
[GOOD LITTLE GIRLS]
Although of native maids the cream,
We're brought up on the English scheme—
The best of all
For great and small
Who modesty adore.
For English girls are good as gold,
Extremely modest (so we're told),
Demurely coy—divinely cold—
And we are that—and more.
To please papa, who argues thus—
All girls should mould themselves on us,
Because we are,
By furlongs far,
The best of all the bunch;
We show ourselves to loud applause
From ten to four without a pause—
Which is an awkward time because
It cuts into our lunch.
Oh, maids of high and low degree,
Whose social code is rather free,
Please look at us and you will see
What good young ladies ought to be!
And as we stand, like clockwork toys,
A lecturer papa employs
To puff and praise
Our modest ways
And guileless character—
Our well-known blush—our downcast eyes—
Our famous look of mild surprise
(Which competition still defies)—
Our celebrated "Sir!!!"
Then all the crowd take down our looks
In pocket memorandum books.
To diagnose
Our modest pose
The kodaks do their best:
If evidence you would possess
Of what is maiden bashfulness,
You only need a button press—
And we do all the rest.