9061
ICKNESS and Health have been playing
a game with me,
Tossing me up, like a ball, to and fro.
Pleasure and Pain did exactly the same
with me,
Treating me merely like something to
throw.
Joy took me up to the clouds for a holiday
In a balloon that she happens to keep;
Then, as a damp upon rather a jolly day,
Grief in a diving-bell bore me down deep.
Poverty courted me early—worse luck to her!—
(Wealth would have made me a much better wife;)
Fool that I am, I was faithful and stuck to her;
She 'll cling to me for the rest of my life.
As for our children, we 'd better have drown'd them all;
They, I believe, are the worst of our ills.
Is it a wonder I often confound them all,
Seeing that most of them chance to beBills?
Hope, who was once an occasional visitor,
Never drops in on us now for a chat.
Memory calls, though,—relentless inquisitor—
(Not that I feel very grateful for that.)
Hope was a liar—it's no use denying it—
Memory's talk is undoubtedly true:
Still, I confess that I like, after trying it,
Hope's conversation the best of the two.
Can any one confidently say to himself that he has conversed with the
identical, individual, stupidest man now extant in London?"—T. Carlyle.
I STARTED up and slammed the book;
I seized my hat and cane;
I sought the bell and summoned cook
With all my might and main.
My cook, she is a sober lass—
Respectable, but slow:
She wonder'd what had come to pass
To set me ringing so.
Said I, My skiff is on the shore,
My bark is on the sea;
And many suns may set before
I can return to thee.
Expect me back on Friday week;
I'm not at home till then.
Adieu, adieu; I go to seek
The Stupidest of Men!"
I travers'd London in my search,
Careering to and fro,
From Barnsbury to Brixton Church.
From Notting Hill to Bow.
"There's no such word as fail," said I:
"I 'll seek my treasure still
From Brixton Church to Barnsbury,
From Bow to Notting Hill!"
He went not by the penny-boat,
The omnibus, or train;
One hour on shore—the next afloat—
I hunted him in vain.
And ever, as the days wore on
In travels east and west,
I marvell'd where he could have gone,
My own, my Stupidest.
I met, of course, with many men
Whose brains were very small;
I found a party, now and then,
With nearly none at all.
I spoke to some who talk'd about
The weather and the crops;
To others, much the worse, no doubt,
For alcohol or hops.
Alas! in ev'ry deep, you know,
There is a deeper yet;
Methought that I had sunk as low
As I was like to get.
Say, wherefore should I deign to dive
An atom deeper down?
"My Man," said I, "if still alive,
Is hiding out of town."
The fret, the fever, and the fuss,
Were wearing out my brain;
And so at last I hail'd a 'bus
To take me back again.
At home, securely re-install'd,
I rang for Mary Ann;
She said a visitor had call'd—
A "stupid-looking man."
I question'd her, and cook's replies
Completely prov'd the case.
She said, "I never did set eyes
On such a silly face."
"Thrice welcome, Destiny!" I cried
"The moral that you teach:
'Tis thus Man travels far and wide
For things within his reach!'
9067
EFLECTIVE reader, you may go
From Chelsea unto outer Bow,
And back again to Chelsea,
Nor grudge the labour if you meet—
In lane or alley, square or street—
The child whom all the children greet
As Elsie—little Elsie.
A pretty name, a pretty face,
And pretty ways that give a grace
To all she does or utters,
Did Fortune at her birth bestow',
When little Elsie's lot below—
About a dozen years ago—
Got cast among the gutters.
The Fates, you see, have will'd it so
That even folks in Rotten Row
Are not without their trials;
Whilst only those that know the ways
Of stony London's waifs and strays
Can fancy how the seven days
Pass o'er the Seven Dials.
Suppose an able artizan,
(A model of the "working man"
So written at and lectur'd,)
Amongst the fevers that infest
His temporary fever-nest
Should catch a deadly one—the rest
Is easily conjectur'd.
'Twas hard, on father's death, I think,
That Elsie's mother took to drink;
('Twas harder yet on baby.)
The reason, reader, you may guess,
(I cannot find it, I confess)—
Perhaps it was her loneliness;
Or love of gin, it may be.
So there was Elsie, all astray,
And growing bigger day by day,
But growing none the better.
No other girl (in all the set
That looks on Elsie as a pet)
But knows at least the alphabet,
And Elsie—not a letter.
Well, reader, I had best be dumb
About the future that may come
To this forlorn she-urchin.
Her days are brighter onespro tem.,
So let her make the most of them,
Amidst the labyrinths that hem
Saint Giles's ugly Church in.
9070
THE Lady Clara V. de V.
Presents her very best regards
To that misguided Alfred T.
(With one of her enamell'd cards).
Though uninclin'd to give offence,
The Lady Clara begs to hint
That Master Alfred's common sense
Deserts him utterly in print.
The Lady Clara can but say,
That always from the very first
She snubb'd in her decisive way
The hopes that silly Alfred nurs'd.
The fondest words that ever fell
From Lady Clara, when they met,
Were "How d 'ye do? I hope you 're well!
Or else "The weather's very wet."
To show a disregard for truth
By penning scurrilous attacks,
Appears to Lady C. in sooth
Like stabbing folks behind their backs.
The age of chivalry, she fears,
Is gone for good, since noble dames
Who irritate low sonneteers
Get pelted with improper names.
The Lady Clara cannot think
What kind of pleasure can accrue
From wasting paper, pens, and ink,
On statements the reverse of true.
If Master Launcelot, one fine day,
(Urged on by madness or by malt.)
Destroy'd himself—can Alfred say
The Lady Clara was in fault?
Her Ladyship needs no advice
How time and money should be spent,
And can't pursue at any price
The plan that Alfred T. has sent.
She does not in the least object
To let the "foolish yeoman" go,
But wishes—let him recollect—
That he should move to Jericho.
Nay, I cannot come into the garden just new,
Tho' it vexes me much to refuse:
But I must have the next set of waltzes, I vow,
With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues.
I am sure you 'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear
That our ball has been quite a success.
As for me—I've been looking a monster, my dear,
In that old-fashion'd guy of a dress.
You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed;
It is getting so dreadfully late,
You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head
If you linger so long at our gate.
Don't be obstinate, Alfy; come, take my advice—
For I know you're in want of repose.
Take a basin of gruel (you 'll find it so nice)
And remember to tallow your nose.
No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away,
For De Boots has implor'd me to sing.
As to you—if you like it, of course you can stay;
You were always an obstinate thing.
If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs
About'"babble and revel and wine,"
When you might have been snoring for two or three hours.
Why, it's not the least business of mine.
0074m
Y dear Tomorrow,
I can think
Of little else to do,
And so I take my pen and ink
To drop a line to you.
I own that I am ill at ease
Respecting you to-day:
Do let me have an answer, please:
Répondez, s 'il vous plait.
I long to like you very much,
But that will all depend
On whether you behave "as such,"
(I mean, dear, as a friend).
I 'll set you quite an easy task
At which you are au fait;
You 'll come and bring me what I ask?
Répondez, s 'il vous plait.
Be sure to recollect your purse,
For be it understood
Though money-matters might be worse.
They 're very far from good.
So, if you have a little gold
You care to give away—
But am I growing over-bold?
Répondez, s'il vous plait.
A little—just a little—fame
You must contrive to bring,
Because I think a poet's name,
Would be a pleasant thing
Perhaps, though, as I've scarcely got
A single claim to lay
To such a gift, you'd rather not?
Répondez, s'il vous plait.
Well, well, Tomorrow, you may strike
A line through what 's above:
And bring me folks that I can like
And folks that I can love.
A warmer heart—a quicker brain—
I 'll ask for, if I may:
Tomorrow, shall I ask in vain?
Répondez, s'il vous plait
FADES into twilight the last golden gleam
Thrown by the sunset on upland and stream
Glints o'er the Serpentine—tips Notting Hill—
Dies on the summit of proud Pentonville.
Day brought us trouble, but Night brings us peace
Morning brought sorrow, but Eve bids it cease.
Gaslight and Gaiety, beam for a while;
Pleasure and Paraffin, lend us a smile.
Temples of Mammon are voiceless again—
Lonely policemen inherit Mark Lane
Silent is Lothbury—quiet Cornhill—
Babel of Commerce, thine echoes are still.
Far to the South,—where the wanderer strays
Lost among graveyards and riverward ways,
Hardly a footfall and hardly a breath
Comes to dispute Laurence—Pountney with Death.
Westward the stream of Humanity glides;—
'Busses are proud of their dozen insides.
Put up thy shutters, grim Care, for to-day—
Mirth and the lamplighter hurry this way.
Out on the glimmer weak Hesperus yields!
Gas for the cities and stars for the fields.
Daisies and buttercups, do as ye list;
I and my friends are for music or whist.
9079
HEN I lay in a cradle and suck'd a coral,
I lov'd romance in my childish way;
And stories, with or without a moral,
Were welcome as ever the flow'rs in
May.
For love of the false I learnt my spelling,
And brav'd the
perils of
8080
While matters of fact
were most repelling,
Romance was plea-
sant as aught
could——[Illustration: 6079]
My reading took me to desert islands,
And buried me deep in Arabian Nights;
Sir Walter led me amongst the Highlands,
On into the thickest of Moslem fights.
I found the elder Dumas delightful—
Before the sun had eclips'd,
And Harrison Ainsworth finely frightful,
And Fenimore Cooper far from—————————
A few years later I took to reading
The morbid stories of Edgar Poe—
Not healthy viands for youthful feeding
(And all my advisers told me so).
But, healthy or not, I enjoy'd them vastly;
My feverish fancy was nightly ———-
Upon horrible crimes and murders ghastly
Which sent me terrified off to—————-
Well: what with perils upon the prairies,
And haunted ruins and ghosts in white,
And wars with giants and gifts from fairies,
At last I came to be craz'd outright.
And many a time, in my nightly slumbers,
Bearing a glove as a lady's———-
8081
I held the lists against countless numbers,
After the style of the darkest———-
I am chang'd at present; the olden fever
Has left my brain in a sounder state;
In common-place I'm a firm believer,
And hunt for figure and fact and date.
I have lost a lot of my old affection,
For books on which I was wont to————
But still I can thrill at the recollection
Of mystery, magic, and martial ————
Charley, if I call you twice,
I shall box your ears!
Grandpapa has something nice
In the shape of good advice
For his little dears:
Simple maxims for the young.
Mary,willyou hold your tongue?
9082
ISTEN, little girls and boys;
Listen, one and all!
Put away those nasty toys—
Mary, hold that horrid noise—
Willy, drop your ball!
Come and listen, if you can.
To a bald but good old man.
Folks will teach you when at school
"Never tell a lie!"
Nonsense: if you 're not a fool
You may always break the rule,
But you must be sly;
For they'll whip you, past a doubt,
If they ever find you out.
"Little boys," they say, "should be
Seen but never heard!"
Rubbish: what can people see
In an ugly brat if he
Never says a word?
Talk, then, if you feel inclin'd;
Talking shows the active mind.
Folks will tell you, "Childrenmust
Do as they are bid
But you understand, I trust,
That the rule is quite unjust
To a thoughtful kid:
For, if once brute force appears.
How about Free-will, my dears?
Folks say, "Children should not let
Angry passions rise."
Humbug! When you 're in a pet
Why on earth should you regret
Blacking some one's eyes?
Children's eyes are made, in fact,
Just on purpose to be black'd.
I, when young, was green enough
Blindly to obey
All the idiotic stuff
That an old pedantic muff
Taught me day by day;—
And, you see—at eighty-five
I'm the biggest fool alive!
WHEN I last had the pleasure—one day in the City—
Of seeing poor Brown, I was forcibly struck
By his alter'd appearance, and thought, What, a pity
To see the old fellow so down on his luck.
From the crown of a hat that was horribly seedy
To shoes that were dreadfully down at the heel
He suggested a type of the poor and the needy—
A sketch at full length of the shabby-genteel.
There were holes in his gloves—his umbrella was cotton—
His coat was a faded invisible green;
And in prominent bulbs, through the trowsers he'd got on,
The marks of his knees, orpatellae, were seen.
But it seem'd above all inexpressibly painful
To notice the efforts he made to conceal—
By a tone partly nervous and partly disdainful—
The fact of his looking so shabby-genteel.
"How is business?" I ask'd him;—"and what are you doing?"
To tell you the truth I decidedly had
A belief that the trade he had last been pursuing
(Whatever its nature) had gone to the bad..
His reply was a sigh:—it was little good urging
The questions afresh, for I could not but feel
That he saw not a prospect of ever emerging
Above the dead-level of shabby-genteel.
When we parted I sunk into gloomy reflection—
A state of the mind that I hate, by the way—
And I gave my Brown-studies a moral direction—
Though, put into poetry, morals don't pay.
Here's the truth I evolved, if I quite recollect it:
Frail Fortune one day, by a turn of the wheel,
May despatch you or me, sir, when least we expect it,
To march in the ranks of the shabby-genteel.