Ofall the good attorneys whoHave placed their names upon the roll,But few could equalBaines CarewFor tender-heartedness and soul.
Whene’er he heard a tale of woeFrom client A or client B,His grief would overcome him soHe’d scarce have strength to take his fee.
It laid him up for many days,When duty led him to distrain,And serving writs, although it pays,Gave him excruciating pain.
He made out costs, distrained for rent,Foreclosed and sued, with moistened eye—No bill of costs could representThe value of such sympathy.
No charges can approximateThe worth of sympathy with woe;—Although I think I ought to stateHe did his best to make them so.
Of all the many clients whoHad mustered round his legal flag,No single client of the crewWas half so dear asCaptain Bagg.
Now,Captain Bagghad bowed him toA heavy matrimonial yoke—His wifey had of faults a few—She never could resist a joke.
Her chaff at first he meekly bore,Till unendurable it grew.“To stop this persecution soreI will consult my friendCarew.
“And whenCarew’sadvice I’ve got,Divorcea mensâI shall try.”(A legal separation—notA vinculo conjugii.)
“Oh,Baines Carew, my woe I’ve keptA secret hitherto, you know;”—(AndBaines Carew,Esquire, he weptTo hear thatBagghadany woe.)
“My case, indeed, is passing sad.My wife—whom I considered true—With brutal conduct drives me mad.”“I am appalled,” saidBaines Carew.
“What! sound the matrimonial knellOf worthy people such as these!Why was I an attorney? Well—Go on to thesævitia, please.”
“Domestic bliss has proved my bane,—A harder case you never heard,My wife (in other matters sane)Pretends that I’m a Dicky bird!
“She makes me sing, ‘Too-whit, too-wee!’And stand upon a rounded stick,And always introduces meTo every one as ‘Pretty Dick’!”
“Oh, dear,” said weepingBaines Carew,“This is the direst case I know.”“I’m grieved,” saidBagg, “at paining you—ToCobbandPoltherthwaiteI’ll go—
“ToCobb’scold, calculating ear,My gruesome sorrows I’ll impart”—“No; stop,” saidBaines, “I’ll dry my tear,And steel my sympathetic heart.”
“She makes me perch upon a tree,Rewarding me with ‘Sweety—nice!’And threatens to exhibit meWith four or five performing mice.”
“Restrain my tears I wish I could”(SaidBaines), “I don’t know what to do.”SaidCaptain Bagg, “You’re very good.”“Oh, not at all,” saidBaines Carew.
“She makes me fire a gun,” saidBagg;“And, at a preconcerted word,Climb up a ladder with a flag,Like any street performing bird.
“She places sugar in my way—In public places calls me ‘Sweet!’She gives me groundsel every day,And hard canary-seed to eat.”
“Oh, woe! oh, sad! oh, dire to tell!”(SaidBaines). “Be good enough to stop.”And senseless on the floor he fell,With unpremeditated flop!
SaidCaptain Bagg, “Well, really IAm grieved to think it pains you so.I thank you for your sympathy;But, hang it!—come—I say, you know!”
ButBaineslay flat upon the floor,Convulsed with sympathetic sob;—The Captain toddled off next door,And gave the case toMr. Cobb.
Inall the towns and cities fairOn Merry England’s broad expanse,No swordsman ever could compareWithThomas Winterbottom Hance.
The dauntless lad could fairly hewA silken handkerchief in twain,Divide a leg of mutton too—And this without unwholesome strain.
On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,His sabre sometimes he’d employ—No bar of lead, however thick,Had terrors for the stalwart boy.
At Dover daily he’d prepareTo hew and slash, behind, before—Which aggravatedMonsieur Pierre,Who watched him from the Calais shore.
It caused goodPierreto swear and dance,The sight annoyed and vexed him so;He was the bravest man in France—He said so, and he ought to know.
“Regardez donc, ce cochon gros—Ce polisson! Oh, sacré bleu!Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigotsComme cela m’ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!
“Il sait que les foulards de soieGive no retaliating whack—Les gigots morts n’ont pas de quoi—Le plomb don’t ever hit you back.”
But every day the headstrong ladCut lead and mutton more and more;And every day poorPierre, half mad,Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.
Hancehad a mother, poor and old,A simple, harmless village dame,Who crowed and clapped as people toldOfWinterbottom’srising fame.
She said, “I’ll be upon the spotTo see myTommy’ssabre-play;”And so she left her leafy cot,And walked to Dover in a day.
Pierrehad a doating mother, whoHad heard of his defiant rage;HisMa was nearly ninety-two,And rather dressy for her age.
AtHance’sdoings every morn,With sheer delighthismother cried;AndMonsieur Pierre’scontemptuous scornFilledhismamma with proper pride.
ButHance’spowers began to fail—His constitution was not strong—AndPierre, who once was stout and hale,Grew thin from shouting all day long.
Their mothers saw them pale and wan,Maternal anguish tore each breast,And so they met to find a planTo set their offsprings’ minds at rest.
SaidMrs. Hance, “Of course I shrinksFrom bloodshed, ma’am, as you’re aware,But still they’d better meet, I thinks.”“Assurément!” saidMadame Pierre.
A sunny spot in sunny FranceWas hit upon for this affair;The ground was picked byMrs. Hance,The stakes were pitched byMadame Pierre.
SaidMrs. H., “Your work you see—Go in, my noble boy, and win.”“En garde, mon fils!” saidMadameP.“Allons!” “Go on!” “En garde!” “Begin!”
(The mothers were of decent size,Though not particularly tall;But in the sketch that meets your eyesI’ve been obliged to draw them small.)
Loud sneered the doughty man of France,“Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!The French for ‘Pish’” saidThomas Hance.SaidPierre, “L’Anglais, Monsieur, pour ‘Bah.’”
SaidMrs. H., “Come, one! two! three!—We’re sittin’ here to see all fair.”“C’est magnifique!” saidMadameP.,“Mais, parbleu! ce n’est pas la guerre!”
“Je scorn un foe si lache que vous,”SaidPierre, the doughty son of France.“I fight not coward foe like you!”Said our undauntedTommy Hance.
“The French for ‘Pooh!’” ourTommycried.“L’Anglais pour ‘Va!’” the Frenchman crowed.And so, with undiminished pride,Each went on his respective road.
Agentlemanof City fameNow claims your kind attention;East India broking was his game,His name I shall not mention:No one of finely-pointed senseWould violate a confidence,And shallIgoAnd do it? No!His name I shall not mention.
He had a trusty wife and true,And very cosy quarters,A manager, a boy or two,Six clerks, and seven porters.A broker must be doing well(As any lunatic can tell)Who can employAn active boy,Six clerks, and seven porters.
His knocker advertised no dun,No losses made him sulky,He had one sorrow—only one—He was extremely bulky.A man must be, I beg to state,Exceptionally fortunateWho owns his chiefAnd only griefIs—being very bulky.
“This load,” he’d say, “I cannot bear;I’m nineteen stone or twenty!Henceforward I’ll go in for airAnd exercise in plenty.”Most people think that, should it come,They can reduce a bulging tumTo measures fairBy taking airAnd exercise in plenty.
In every weather, every day,Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty,He took to dancing all the wayFrom Brompton to the City.You do not often get the chanceOf seeing sugar brokers danceFrom their abodeIn Fulham RoadThrough Brompton to the City.
He braved the gay and guileless laughOf children with their nusses,The loud uneducated chaffOf clerks on omnibuses.Against all minor things that rackA nicely-balanced mind, I’ll backThe noisy chaffAnd ill-bred laughOf clerks on omnibuses.
His friends, who heard his money chink,And saw the house he rented,And knew his wife, could never thinkWhat made him discontented.It never entered their pure mindsThat fads are of eccentric kinds,Nor would they ownThat fat aloneCould make one discontented.
“Your riches know no kind of pause,Your trade is fast advancing;You dance—but not for joy, becauseYou weep as you are dancing.To dance implies that man is glad,To weep implies that man is sad;But here are youWho do the two—You weep as you are dancing!”
His mania soon got noised aboutAnd into all the papers;His size increased beyond a doubtFor all his reckless capers:It may seem singular to you,But all his friends admit it true—The more he foundHis figure round,The more he cut his capers.
His bulk increased—no matter that—He tried the more to toss it—He never spoke of it as “fat,”But “adipose deposit.”Upon my word, it seems to meUnpardonable vanity(And worse than that)To call your fatAn “adipose deposit.”
At length his brawny knees gave way,And on the carpet sinking,Upon his shapeless back he layAnd kicked away like winking.Instead of seeing in his stateThe finger of unswerving Fate,He laboured stillTo work his will,And kicked away like winking.
His friends, disgusted with him now,Away in silence wended—I hardly like to tell you howThis dreadful story ended.The shocking sequel to impart,I must employ the limner’s art—If you would know,This sketch will showHow his exertions ended.
MORAL.
I hate to preach—I hate to prate——I’m no fanatic croaker,But learn contentment from the fateOf this East India broker.He’d everything a man of tasteCould ever want, except a waist;And discontentHis size anent,And bootless perseverance blind,Completely wrecked the peace of mindOf this East India broker.
Vastempty shell!Impertinent, preposterous abortion!With vacant stare,And ragged hair,And every feature out of all proportion!Embodiment of echoing inanity!Excellent type of simpering insanity!Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!I ring thy knell!
To-night thou diest,Beast that destroy’st my heaven-born identity!Nine weeks of nights,Before the lights,Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity,I’ve been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally,Credited for the smile you wear externally—I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally,As there thou liest!
I’ve been thy brain:I’vebeen the brain that lit thy dull concavity!The human raceInvestmyfaceWith thine expression of unchecked depravity,Invested with a ghastly reciprocity,I’vebeen responsible for thy monstrosity,I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity—But not again!
’T is time to tollThy knell, and that of follies pantomimical:A nine weeks’ run,And thou hast doneAll thou canst do to make thyself inimical.Adieu, embodiment of all inanity!Excellent type of simpering insanity!Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!Freed is thy soul!
(The Mask respondeth.)
Oh! master mine,Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me.Art thou awareOf nothing thereWhich might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me?A brain that mournsthineunredeemed rascality?A soul that weeps atthythreadbare morality?Both grieving thattheirindividualityIs merged in thine?
O’er unreclaimed suburban claysSome years ago were hobblin’An elderly ghost of easy ways,And an influential goblin.The ghost was a sombre spectral shape,A fine old five-act fogy,The goblin imp, a lithe young ape,A fine low-comedy bogy.
And as they exercised their joints,Promoting quick digestion,They talked on several curious points,And raised this delicate question:“Which of us two is Number One—The ghostie, or the goblin?”And o’er the point they raised in funThey fairly fell a-squabblin’.
They’d barely speak, and each, in fine,Grew more and more reflective:Each thought his own particular lineBy chalks the more effective.At length they settled some one shouldBy each of them be haunted,And so arrange that either couldExert his prowess vaunted.
“The Quaint against the Statuesque”—By competition lawful—The goblin backed the Quaint Grotesque,The ghost the Grandly Awful.“Now,” said the goblin, “here’s my plan—In attitude commanding,I see a stalwart EnglishmanBy yonder tailor’s standing.
“The very fittest man on earthMy influence to try on—Of gentle, p’r’aps of noble birth,And dauntless as a lion!Now wrap yourself within your shroud—Remain in easy hearing—Observe—you’ll hear him scream aloudWhen I begin appearing!”
The imp with yell unearthly—wild—Threw off his dark enclosure:His dauntless victim looked and smiledWith singular composure.For hours he tried to daunt the youth,For days, indeed, but vainly—The stripling smiled!—to tell the truth,The stripling smiled inanely.
For weeks the goblin weird and wild,That noble stripling haunted;For weeks the stripling stood and smiled,Unmoved and all undaunted.The sombre ghost exclaimed, “Your planHas failed you, goblin, plainly:Now watch yon hardy Hieland man,So stalwart and ungainly.
“These are the men who chase the roe,Whose footsteps never falter,Who bring with them, where’er they go,A smack of oldSir Walter.Of such as he, the men sublimeWho lead their troops victorious,Whose deeds go down to after-time,Enshrined in annals glorious!
“Of such as he the bard has said‘Hech thrawfu’ raltie rorkie!Wi’ thecht ta’ croonie clapperheadAnd fash’ wi’ unco pawkie!’He’ll faint away when I appear,Upon his native heather;Or p’r’aps he’ll only scream with fear,Or p’r’aps the two together.”
The spectre showed himself, alone,To do his ghostly battling,With curdling groan and dismal moan,And lots of chains a-rattling!But no—the chiel’s stout Gaelic stuffWithstood all ghostly harrying;His fingers closed upon the snuffWhich upwards he was carrying.
For days that ghost declined to stir,A foggy shapeless giant—For weeks that splendid officerStared back again defiant.Just as the Englishman returnedThe goblin’s vulgar staring,Just so the Scotchman boldly spurnedThe ghost’s unmannered scaring.
For several years the ghostly twainThese Britons bold have haunted,But all their efforts are in vain—Their victims stand undaunted.This very day the imp, and ghost,Whose powers the imp derided,Stand each at his allotted post—The bet is undecided.
ABishoponce—I will not name his see—Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional;From pulpit shackles never set them free,And found a sin where sin was unintentional.All pleasures ended in abuse auricular—The Bishop was so terribly particular.
Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man,He sought to make of human pleasures clearances;And form his priests on that much-lauded planWhich pays undue attention to appearances.He couldn’t do good deeds without a psalm in ’em,Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in ’em.
Enraged to find a deacon at a dance,Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity,He sought by open censure to enhanceTheir dread of joining harmless social jollity.Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety)The ordinary pleasures of society.
One evening, sitting at a pantomime(Forbidden treat to those who stood in fear of him),Roaring at jokes,sansmetre, sense, or rhyme,He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him,His peace of mind upsetting, and annoying it,A curate, also heartily enjoying it.
Again, ’t was Christmas Eve, and to enhanceHis children’s pleasure in their harmless rollicking,He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance;When something checked the current of his frolicking:That curate, with a maid he treated lover-ly,Stood up and figured with him in the “Coverley!”
Once, yielding to an universal choice(The company’s demand was an emphatic one,For the old Bishop had a glorious voice),In a quartet he joined—an operatic one.Harmless enough, though ne’er a word of grace in it,When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it!
One day, when passing through a quiet street,He stopped awhile and joined a Punch’s gathering;And chuckled more than solemn folk think meet,To see that gentleman his Judy lathering;And heard, as Punch was being treated penalty,That phantom curate laughing all hyænally.
Now at a picnic, ’mid fair golden curls,Bright eyes, straw hats,bottinesthat fit amazingly,A croquêt-bout is planned by all the girls;And he, consenting, speaks of croquêt praisingly;But suddenly declines to play at all in it—The curate fiend has come to take a ball in it!
Next, when at quiet sea-side village, freedFrom cares episcopal and ties monarchical,He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed,In manner anything but hierarchical—He sees—and fixes an unearthly stare on it—That curate’s face, with half a yard of hair on it!
At length he gave a charge, and spake this word:“Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye may;To check their harmless pleasuring’s absurd;What laymen do without reproach, my clergy may.”He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him,The curate vanished—no one since has heard of him.
King Borria Bungalee BooWas a man-eating African swell;His sigh was a hullaballoo,His whisper a horrible yell—A horrible, horrible yell!
Four subjects, and all of them male,ToBorriadoubled the knee,They were once on a far larger scale,But he’d eaten the balance, you see(“Scale” and “balance” is punning, you see).
There was haughtyPish-Tush-Pooh-Bah,There was lumberingDoodle-Dum-Dey,DespairingAlack-A-Dey-Ah,And good littleTootle-Tum-Teh—ExemplaryTootle-Tum-Teh.
One day there was grief in the crew,For they hadn’t a morsel of meat,AndBorria Bungalee BooWas dying for something to eat—“Come, provide me with something to eat!
“Alack-a-Dey, famished I feel;Oh, good littleTootle-Tum-Teh,Where on earth shall I look for a meal?For I haven’t no dinner to-day!—Not a morsel of dinner to-day!
“DearTootle-Tum, what shall we do?Come, get us a meal, or, in truth,If you don’t, we shall have to eat you,Oh, adorable friend of our youth!Thou beloved little friend of our youth!”
And he answered, “Oh,Bungalee Boo,For a moment I hope you will wait,—Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-LooIs the Queen of a neighbouring state—A remarkably neighbouring state.
“Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo,She would pickle deliciously cold—And her four pretty Amazons, too,Are enticing, and not very old—Twenty-seven is not very old.
“There is neat littleTitty-Fol-Leh,There is rollickingTral-the-Ral-Lah,There is jocularWaggety-Weh,There is musicalDoh-Reh-Mi-Fah—There’s the nightingaleDoh-Reh-Mi-Fah!”
So the forces ofBungalee BooMarched forth in a terrible row,And the ladies who fought forQueen LooPrepared to encounter the foe—This dreadful, insatiate foe!
But they sharpened no weapons at all,And they poisoned no arrows—not they!They made ready to conquer or fallIn a totally different way—An entirely different way.
With a crimson and pearly-white dyeThey endeavoured to make themselves fair,With black they encircled each eye,And with yellow they painted their hair(It was wool, but they thought it was hair).
And the forces they met in the field:—And the men ofKing Borriasaid,“Amazonians, immediately yield!”And their arrows they drew to the head—Yes, drew them right up to the head.
But jocularWaggety-WehOgledDoodle-Dum-Dey(which was wrong),And neat littleTitty-Fol-LehSaid, “Tootle-Tum, you go along!You naughty old dear, go along!”
And rollickingTral-the-Ral-LahTappedAlack-a-Dey-Ahwith her fan;And musicalDoh-Reh-Mi-FahSaid, “Pish, go away, you bad man!Go away, you delightful young man!”
And the Amazons simpered and sighed,And they ogled, and giggled, and flushed,And they opened their pretty eyes wide,And they chuckled, and flirted, and blushed(At least, if they could, they’d have blushed).
But haughtyPish-Tush-Pooh-BahSaid, “Alack-a-Dey, what does this mean?”And despairingAlack-a-Dey-AhSaid, “They think us uncommonly green!Ha! ha! most uncommonly green!”
Even blunderingDoodle-Dum-DeyWas insensible quite to their leers,And said good littleTootle-Tum-Teh,“It’s your blood we desire, pretty dears—We have come for our dinners, my dears!”
And the Queen of the Amazons fellToBorria Bungalee Boo,—In a mouthful he gulped, with a yell,Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo—The prettyQueen Tol-the-Rol-Loo.
And neat littleTitty-Fol-LehWas eaten byPish-Pooh-Bah,And light-heartedWaggety-WehBy dismalAlack-a-Dey-Ah—DespairingAlack-a-Dey-Ah.
And rollickingTral-the-Ral-LahWas eaten byDoodle-Dum-Dey,And musicalDoh-Reh-Mi-FahBy good littleTootle-Dum-Teh—ExemplaryTootle-Tum-Teh!
Bob Polterwas a navvy, andHis hands were coarse, and dirty too,His homely face was rough and tanned,His time of life was thirty-two.
He lived among a working clan(A wife he hadn’t got at all),A decent, steady, sober man—No saint, however—not at all.
He smoked, but in a modest way,Because he thought he needed it;He drank a pot of beer a day,And sometimes he exceeded it.
At times he’d pass with other menA loud convivial night or two,With, very likely, now and then,On Saturdays, a fight or two.
But still he was a sober soul,A labour-never-shirking man,Who paid his way—upon the wholeA decent English working man.
One day, when at the Nelson’s Head(For which he may be blamed of you),A holy man appeared, and said,“Oh,Robert, I’m ashamed of you.”
He laid his hand onRobert’sbeerBefore he could drink up any,And on the floor, with sigh and tear,He poured the pot of “thruppenny.”
“Oh,Robert, at this very barA truth you’ll be discovering,A good and evil genius areAround your noddle hovering.
“They both are here to bid you shunThe other one’s society,For Total Abstinence is one,The other, Inebriety.”
He waved his hand—a vapour came—A wizardPolterreckoned him;A bogy rose and called his name,And with his finger beckoned him.
The monster’s salient points to sum,—His heavy breath was portery:His glowing nose suggested rum:His eyes were gin-and-wortery.
His dress was torn—for dregs of aleAnd slops of gin had rusted it;His pimpled face was wan and pale,Where filth had not encrusted it.
“Come,Polter,” said the fiend, “begin,And keep the bowl a-flowing on—A working man needs pints of ginTo keep his clockwork going on.”
Bobshuddered: “Ah, you’ve made a missIf you take me for one of you:You filthy beast, get out of this—Bob Polterdon’t wan’t none of you.”
The demon gave a drunken shriek,And crept away in stealthiness,And lo! instead, a person sleek,Who seemed to burst with healthiness.
“In me, as your adviser hints,Of Abstinence you’ve got a type—OfMr. Tweedie’spretty printsI am the happy prototype.
“If you abjure the social toast,And pipes, and such frivolities,You possibly some day may boastMy prepossessing qualities!”
Bobrubbed his eyes, and made ’em blink:“You almost make me tremble, you!If I abjure fermented drink,Shall I, indeed, resemble you?
“And will my whiskers curl so tight?My cheeks grow smug and muttony?My face become so red and white?My coat so blue and buttony?
“Will trousers, such as yours, arrayExtremities inferior?Will chubbiness assert its swayAll over my exterior?
“In this, my unenlightened state,To work in heavy boots I comes;Will pumps henceforward decorateMy tiddle toddle tootsicums?
“And shall I get so plump and fresh,And look no longer seedily?My skin will henceforth fit my fleshSo tightly and soTweedie-ly?”
The phantom said, “You’ll have all this,You’ll know no kind of huffiness,Your life will be one chubby bliss,One long unruffled puffiness!”
“Be off!” said irritatedBob.“Why come you here to bother one?You pharisaical old snob,You’re wuss almost than t’other one!
“I takes my pipe—I takes my pot,And drunk I’m never seen to be:I’m no teetotaller or sot,And as I am I mean to be!”
Strikethe concertina’s melancholy string!Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!Let the piano’s martial blastRouse the Echoes of the Past,For ofAgib,Prince of Tartary, I sing!
OfAgib, who, amid Tartaric scenes,Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens:His gentle spirit rollsIn the melody of souls—Which is pretty, but I don’t know what it means.
OfAgib, who could readily, at sight,Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.He would diligently playOn the Zoetrope all day,And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.
One winter—I am shaky in my dates—Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;Oh,Allahbe obeyed,How infernally they played!I remember that they called themselves the “Oüaits.”
Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page!
Alas!Prince Agibwent and asked them in;Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin.And when (as snobs would say)They had “put it all away,”He requested them to tune up and begin.
Though its icy horror chill you to the core,I will tell you what I never told before,—The consequences trueOf that awful interview,For I listened at the keyhole in the door!
They played him a sonata—let me see!“Medulla oblongata”—key of G.Then they began to singThat extremely lovely thing,“Scherzando!ma non troppo,ppp.”
He gave them money, more than they could count,Scent from a most ingenious little fount,More beer, in little kegs,Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,And goodies to a fabulous amount.
Now follows the dim horror of my tale,And I feel I’m growing gradually pale,For, even at this day,Though its sting has passed away,When I venture to remember it, I quail!
The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,All-overish it made me for to feel;“Oh,Prince,” he says, says he,“If a Prince indeed you be,I’ve a mystery I’m going to reveal!
“Oh, listen, if you’d shun a horrid death,To what the gent who’s speaking to you saith:No ‘Oüaits’ in truth are we,As you fancy that we be,For (ter-remble!) I amAleck—this isBeth!”
SaidAgib, “Oh! accursed of your kind,I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!”Bethgave a dreadful shriek—But before he’d time to speakI was mercilessly collared from behind.
In number ten or twelve, or even more,They fastened me full length upon the floor.On my face extended flat,I was walloped with a catFor listening at the keyhole of a door.
Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!(I can feel the place in frosty weather still).For a week from ten to fourI was fastened to the floor,While a mercenary wopped me with a will
They branded me and broke me on a wheel,And they left me in an hospital to heal;And, upon my solemn word,I have never never heardWhat those Tartars had determined to reveal.
But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page
Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus McclanWas the son of an elderly labouring man;You’ve guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,And p’r’aps altogether, shrewd reader, you’re right.
From the bonnie blue Forth to the lovely Deeside,Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde,There wasn’t a child or a woman or manWho could pipe withClonglocketty Angus Mcclan.
No other could wake such detestable groans,With reed and with chaunter—with bag and with drones:All day and ill night he delighted the chielsWith sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.
He’d clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,And the neighbouring maidens would gather aroundTo list to the pipes and to gaze in his een,EspeciallyEllen McJones Aberdeen.
All loved theirMcClan, save a Sassenach brute,Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot;He dressed himself up in a Highlander way,Tho’ his name it wasPattison Corby Torbay.
Torbayhad incurred a good deal of expenseTo make him a Scotchman in every sense;But this is a matter, you’ll readily own,That isn’t a question of tailors alone.
A Sassenach chief may be bonily built,He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt;Stick a skeän in his hose—wear an acre of stripes—But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.
Clonglockety’spipings all night and all dayQuite frenzied poorPattison Corby Torbay;The girls were amused at his singular spleen,EspeciallyEllen McJones Aberdeen,
“Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus, my lad,With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad.If you really must play on that cursed affair,My goodness! play something resembling an air.”
Boiled over the blood ofMacphairson McClan—The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man;For all were enraged at the insult, I ween—EspeciallyEllen McJones Aberdeen.
“Let’s show,” saidMcClan, “to this Sassenach loonThat the bagpipescanplay him a regular tune.Let’s see,” saidMcClan, as he thoughtfully sat,“‘In my Cottage’ is easy—I’ll practise at that.”
He blew at his “Cottage,” and blew with a will,For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until(You’ll hardly believe it)McClan, I declare,Elicited something resembling an air.
It was wild—it was fitful—as wild as the breeze—It wandered about into several keys;It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I’m aware;But still it distinctly suggested an air.
The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced;He shrieked in his agony—bellowed and pranced;And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene—EspeciallyEllen McJones Aberdeen.
“Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around;And fill a’ ye lugs wi’ the exquisite sound.An air fra’ the bagpipes—beat that if ye can!Hurrah forClonglocketty Angus McClan!”
The fame of his piping spread over the land:Respectable widows proposed for his hand,And maidens came flocking to sit on the green—EspeciallyEllen McJones Aberdeen.
One morning the fidgety Sassenach sworeHe’d stand it no longer—he drew his claymore,And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste)DividedClonglockettyclose to the waist.
Oh! loud were the wailings forAngus McClan,Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man;The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene—EspeciallyEllen McJones Aberdeen.
It sorrowed poorPattison Corby TorbayTo find them “take on” in this serious way;He pitied the poor little fluttering birds,And solaced their souls with the following words:
“Oh, maidens,” saidPattison, touching his hat,“Don’t blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that;Observe, I’m a very superior man,A much better fellow thanAngus McClan.”
They smiled when he winked and addressed them as “dears,”And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears,A pleasanter gentleman never was seen—EspeciallyEllen McJones Aberdeen.
Policeman Peter ForthI dragFrom his obscure retreat:He was a merry genial wag,Who loved a mad conceit.If he were asked the time of day,By country bumpkins green,He not unfrequently would say,“A quarter past thirteen.”
If ever you by word of mouthInquired ofMister ForthThe way to somewhere in the South,He always sent you North.With little boys his beat alongHe loved to stop and play;He loved to send old ladies wrong,And teach their feet to stray.
He would in frolic moments, whenSuch mischief bent upon,Take Bishops up as betting men—Bid Ministers move on.Then all the worthy boys he knewHe regularly licked,And always collared people whoHad had their pockets picked.
He was not naturally bad,Or viciously inclined,But from his early youth he hadA waggish turn of mind.The Men of London grimly scowledWith indignation wild;The Men of London gruffly growled,ButPetercalmly smiled.
Against this minion of the CrownThe swelling murmurs grew—From Camberwell to Kentish Town—From Rotherhithe to Kew.Still humoured he his wagsome turn,And fed in various waysThe coward rage that dared to burn,But did not dare to blaze.
Still, Retribution has her day,Although her flight is slow:One day that Crusher lost his wayNear Poland Street,Soho.The haughty boy, too proud to ask,To find his way resolved,And in the tangle of his taskGot more and more involved.
The Men of London, overjoyed,Came there to jeer their foe,And flocking crowds completely cloyedThe mazes of Soho.The news on telegraphic wiresSped swiftly o’er the lea,Excursion trains from distant shiresBrought myriads to see.
For weeks he trod his self-made beatsThrough Newport- Gerrard- Bear-Greek- Rupert- Frith- Dean- Poland- Streets,And into Golden Square.But all, alas! in vain, for whenHe tried to learn the wayOf little boys or grown-up men,They none of them would say.
Their eyes would flash—their teeth would grind—Their lips would tightly curl—They’d say, “Thy way thyself must find,Thou misdirecting churl!”And, similarly, also, whenHe tried a foreign friend;Italians answered, “Il balen”—The French, “No comprehend.”
The Russ would say with gleaming eye“Sevastopol!” and groan.The Greek said, “Τυπτω, τυπτομαι,Τυπτω, τυπτειν, τυπτων.”To wander thus for many a yearThat Crusher never ceased—The Men of London dropped a tear,Their anger was appeased.
At length exploring gangs were sentTo find poorForth’sremains—A handsome grant by ParliamentWas voted for their pains.To seek the poor policeman outBold spirits volunteered,And when they swore they’d solve the doubt,The Men of London cheered.
And in a yard, dark, dank, and drear,They found him, on the floor—It leads from Richmond Buildings—nearThe Royalty stage-door.With brandy cold and brandy hotThey plied him, starved and wet,And made him sergeant on the spot—The Men of London’s pet!
Rollon, thou ball, roll on!Through pathless realms of SpaceRoll on!What though I’m in a sorry case?What though I cannot meet my bills?What though I suffer toothache’s ills?What though I swallow countless pills?Neveryoumind!Roll on!
Roll on, thou ball, roll on!Through seas of inky airRoll on!It’s true I’ve got no shirts to wear;It’s true my butcher’s bill is due;It’s true my prospects all look blue—But don’t let that unsettle you!Neveryoumind!Roll on!
[It rolls on.
Itwas a robber’s daughter, and her name wasAlice Brown,Her father was the terror of a small Italian town;Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing;But it isn’t of her parents that I’m going for to sing.
AsAlicewas a-sitting at her window-sill one day,A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way;She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true,That she thought, “I could be happy with a gentleman like you!”
And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen,She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten;A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road(The Custom-house was fifteen minutes’ walk from her abode).
ButAlicewas a pious girl, who knew it wasn’t wiseTo look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes;So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed,The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.
“Oh, holy father,”Alicesaid, “’t would grieve you, would it not,To discover that I was a most disreputable lot?Of all unhappy sinners I’m the most unhappy one!”The padre said, “Whatever have you been and gone and done?”
“I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad,I’ve assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad,I’ve planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque,And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!”
The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear,And said, “You mustn’t judge yourself too heavily, my dear:It’s wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece;But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece.
“Girls will be girls—you’re very young, and flighty in your mind;Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find:We mustn’t be too hard upon these little girlish tricks—Let’s see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly twelve-and-six.”
“Oh, father,” little Alice cried, “your kindness makes me weep,You do these little things for me so singularly cheap—Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget;But, oh! there is another crime I haven’t mentioned yet!
“A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,I’ve noticed at my window, as I’ve sat a-catching flies;He passes by it every day as certain as can be—I blush to say I’ve winked at him, and he has winked at me!”
“For shame!” saidFather Paul, “my erring daughter! On my wordThis is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your handTo a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!
“This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so!They are the most remunerative customers I know;For many many years they’ve kept starvation from my doors:I never knew so criminal a family as yours!
“The common country folk in this insipid neighbourhoodHave nothing to confess, they’re so ridiculously good;And if you marry any one respectable at all,Why, you’ll reform, and what will then become ofFather Paul?”
The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown,And started off in haste to tell the news toRobber Brown—To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit,Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.
GoodRobber Brownhe muffled up his anger pretty well:He said, “I have a notion, and that notion I will tell;I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits,And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits.
“I’ve studied human nature, and I know a thing or two:Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do—A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fallWhen she looks upon his body chopped particularly small.”
He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square;He watched his opportunity, and seized him unaware;He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head,AndMrs. Browndissected him before she went to bed.
And pretty littleAlicegrew more settled in her mind,She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind,Until at length goodRobber Brownbestowed her pretty handOn the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.
Oh, listen to the tale ofMister William, if you please,Whom naughty, naughty judges sent away beyond the seas.He forged a party’s will, which caused anxiety and strife,Resulting in his getting penal servitude for life.
He was a kindly goodly man, and naturally prone,Instead of taking others’ gold, to give away his own.But he had heard of Vice, and longed for only once to strike—To planonelittle wickedness—to see what it was like.
He argued with himself, and said, “A spotless man am I;I can’t be more respectable, however hard I try!For six and thirty years I’ve always been as good as gold,And now for half an hour I’ll plan infamy untold!
“A baby who is wicked at the early age of one,And then reforms—and dies at thirty-six a spotless son,Is never, never saddled with his babyhood’s defect,But earns from worthy men consideration and respect.
“So one who never revelled in discreditable tricksUntil he reached the comfortable age of thirty-six,May then for half an hour perpetrate a deed of shame,Without incurring permanent disgrace, or even blame.
“That babies don’t commit such crimes as forgery is true,But little sins develop, if you leave ’em to accrue;And he who shuns all vices as successive seasons roll,Should reap at length the benefit of so much self-control.
“The common sin of babyhood—objecting to be drest—If you leave it to accumulate at compound interest,For anything you know, may represent, if you’re alive,A burglary or murder at the age of thirty-five.
“Still, I wouldn’t take advantage of this fact, but be contentWith some pardonable folly—it’s a mere experiment.The greater the temptation to go wrong, the less the sin;So with something that’s particularly tempting I’ll begin.
“I would not steal a penny, for my income’s very fair—I do not want a penny—I have pennies and to spare—And if I stole a penny from a money-bag or till,The sin would be enormous—the temptation beingnil.
“But if I broke asunder all such pettifogging bounds,And forged a party’s Will for (say) Five Hundred Thousand Pounds,With such an irresistible temptation to a haul,Of course the sin must be infinitesimally small.
“There’sWilsonwho is dying—he has wealth from Stock and rent—If I divert his riches from their natural descent,I’m placed in a position to indulge each little whim.”So he diverted them—and they, in turn, diverted him.
Unfortunately, though, by some unpardonable flaw,Temptation isn’t recognized by Britain’s Common Law;Men found him out by some peculiarity of touch,AndWilliamgot a “lifer,” which annoyed him very much.
For, ah! he never reconciled himself to life in gaol,He fretted and he pined, and grew dispirited and pale;He was numbered like a cabman, too, which told upon him soThat his spirits, once so buoyant, grew uncomfortably low.
And sympathetic gaolers would remark, “It’s very true,He ain’t been brought up common, like the likes of me and you.”So they took him into hospital, and gave him mutton chops,And chocolate, and arrowroot, and buns, and malt and hops.
Kind Clergymen, besides, grew interested in his fate,Affected by the details of his pitiable state.They waited on the Secretary, somewhere in Whitehall,Who said he would receive them any day they liked to call.
“Consider, sir, the hardship of this interesting case:A prison life brings with it something very like disgrace;It’s telling on youngWilliam, who’s reduced to skin and bone—Remember he’s a gentleman, with money of his own.
“He had an ample income, and of course he stands in needOf sherry with his dinner, and his customary weed;No delicacies now can pass his gentlemanly lips—He misses his sea-bathing and his continental trips.
“He says the other prisoners are commonplace and rude;He says he cannot relish uncongenial prison food.When quite a boy they taught him to distinguish Good from Bad,And other educational advantages he’s had.
“A burglar or garotter, or, indeed, a common thiefIs very glad to batten on potatoes and on beef,Or anything, in short, that prison kitchens can afford,—A cut above the diet in a common workhouse ward.
“But beef and mutton-broth don’t seem to suit ourWilliam’swhim,A boon to other prisoners—a punishment to him.It never was intended that the discipline of gaolShould dash a convict’s spirits, sir, or make him thin or pale.”
“Good Gracious Me!” that sympathetic Secretary cried,“Suppose in prison fettersMister Williamshould have died!Dear me, of course! Imprisonment forLifehis sentence saith:I’m very glad you mentioned it—it might have been For Death!
“Release him with a ticket—he’ll be better then, no doubt,And tell him I apologize.” SoMister William’sout.I hope he will be careful in his manuscripts, I’m sure,And not begin experimentalizing any more.