Theother night, from cares exempt,I slept—and what d’you think I dreamt?I dreamt that somehow I had comeTo dwell in Topsy-Turveydom—
Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice:Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice:Where right is wrong and wrong is right—Where white is black and black is white.
Where babies, much to their surprise,Are born astonishingly wise;With every Science on their lips,And Art at all their finger-tips.
For, as their nurses dandle themThey crow binomial theorem,With views (it seems absurd to us)On differential calculus.
But though a babe, as I have said,Is born with learning in his head,He must forget it, if he can,Before he calls himself a man.
For that which we call folly here,Is wisdom in that favoured sphere;The wisdom we so highly prizeIs blatant folly in their eyes.
A boy, if he would push his way,Must learn some nonsense every day;And cut, to carry out this view,His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.
Historians burn their midnight oils,Intent on giant-killers’ toils;And sages close their aged eyesTo other sages’ lullabies.
Our magistrates, in duty bound,Commit all robbers who are found;But there the Beaks (so people said)Commit all robberies instead.
Our Judges, pure and wise in tone,Know crime from theory alone,And glean the motives of a thiefFrom books and popular belief.
But there, a Judge who wants to primeHis mind with true ideas of crime,Derives them from the common senseOf practical experience.
Policemen march all folks awayWho practise virtue every day—Of course, I mean to say, you know,What we call virtue here below.
For only scoundrels dare to doWhat we consider just and true,And only good men do, in fact,What we should think a dirty act.
But strangest of these social twirls,The girls are boys—the boys are girls!The men are women, too—but then,Per contra, women all are men.
To one who to tradition clingsThis seems an awkward state of things,But if to think it out you try,It doesn’t really signify.
With them, as surely as can be,A sailor should be sick at sea,And not a passenger may sailWho cannot smoke right through a gale.
A soldier (save by rarest luck)Is always shot for showing pluck(That is, if others can be foundWith pluck enough to fire a round).
“How strange!” I said to one I saw;“You quite upset our every law.However can you get alongSo systematically wrong?”
“Dear me!” my mad informant said,“Have you no eyes within your head?You sneer when you your hat should doff:Why, we begin where you leave off!
“Your wisest men are very farLess learned than our babies are!”I mused awhile—and then, oh me!I framed this brilliant repartee:
“Although your babes are wiser farThan our most valued sages are,Your sages, with their toys and cots,Are duller than our idiots!”
But this remark, I grieve to state,Came just a little bit too lateFor as I framed it in my head,I woke and found myself in bed.
Still I could wish that, ’stead of here,My lot were in that favoured sphere!—Where greatest fools bear off the bellI ought to do extremely well.
Ioftenwonder whether youThink sometimes of that Bishop, whoFrom black but balmy Rum-ti-FooLast summer twelvemonth came.Unto your mind I p’r’aps may bringRemembrance of the man I singTo-day, by simply mentioningThatPeterwas his name.
Remember how that holy manCame with the great Colonial clanTo Synod, called Pan-Anglican;And kindly recollectHow, having crossed the ocean wide,To please his flock all means he triedConsistent with a proper prideAnd manly self-respect.
He only, of the reverend packWho minister to Christians black,Brought any useful knowledge backTo his Colonial fold.In consequence a place I claimFor “Peter” on the scroll of Fame(ForPeterwas that Bishop’s name,As I’ve already told).
He carried Art, he often said,To places where that timid maid(Save by Colonial Bishops’ aid)Could never hope to roam.The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taughtAs he had learnt it; for he thoughtThe choicest fruits of Progress oughtTo bless the Negro’s home.
And he had other work to do,For, while he tossed upon the Blue,The islanders of Rum-ti-FooForgot their kindly friend.Their decent clothes they learnt to tear—They learnt to say, “I do not care,”Though they, of course, were well awareHow folks, who say so, end.
Some sailors, whom he did not know,Had landed there not long ago,And taught them “Bother!” also, “Blow!”(Of wickedness the germs).No need to use a casuist’s penTo prove that they were merchantmen;No sailor of the Royal N.Would use such awful terms.
And so, whenBishop Petercame(That was the kindly Bishop’s name),He heard these dreadful oaths with shame,And chid their want of dress.(Except a shell—a bangle rare—A feather here—a feather thereThe South Pacific Negroes wearTheir native nothingness.)
He taught them that a Bishop loathesTo listen to disgraceful oaths,He gave them all his left-off clothes—They bent them to his will.The Bishop’s gift spreads quickly round;InPeter’sleft-off clothes they bound(His three-and-twenty suits they foundIn fair condition still).
The Bishop’s eyes with water fill,Quite overjoyed to find them stillObedient to his sovereign will,And said, “Good Rum-ti-Foo!Half-way I’ll meet you, I declare:I’ll dress myself in cowries rare,And fasten feathers in my hair,And dance the ‘Cutch-chi-boo!’”[192]
And to conciliate his SeeHe marriedPiccadillillee,The youngest of his twenty-three,Tall—neither fat nor thin.(And though the dress he made her donLooks awkwardly a girl upon,It was a great improvement onThe one he found her in.)
The Bishop in his gay canoe(His wife, of course, went with him too)To some adjacent island flew,To spend his honeymoon.Some day in sunny Rum-ti-FooA littlePeter’ll be on view;And that (if people tell me true)Is like to happen soon.
Anactor—Gibbs, of Drury Lane—Of very decent station,Once happened in a part to gainExcessive approbation:It sometimes turns a fellow’s brainAnd makes him singularly vainWhen he believes that he receivesTremendous approbation.
His great success half drove him mad,But no one seemed to mind him;Well, in another piece he hadAnother part assigned him.This part was smaller, by a bit,Than that in which he made a hit.So, much ill-used, he straight refusedTo play the part assigned him.
* * * * * * * *
That night that actor slept,and I’ll attemptTo tell you of the vivid dream he dreamt.
THE DREAM.
In fighting with a robber band(A thing he loved sincerely)A sword struckGibbsupon the hand,And wounded it severely.At first he didn’t heed it much,He thought it was a simple touch,But soon he found the weapon’s boundHad wounded him severely.
To SurgeonCobbhe made a trip,Who’d just effected featlyAn amputation at the hipParticularly neatly.A rising man was SurgeonCobbBut this extremely ticklish jobHe had achieved (as he believed)Particularly neatly.
The actor rang the surgeon’s bell.“Observe my wounded finger,Be good enough to strap it well,And prithee do not linger.That I, dear sir, may fill againThe Theatre Royal Drury Lane:This very night I have to fight—So prithee do not linger.”
“I don’t strap fingers up for doles,”Replied the haughty surgeon;“To use your cant, I don’t playrôlesUtility that verge on.First amputation—nothing less—That is my line of business:We surgeon nobs despise all jobsUtility that verge on
“When in your hip there lurks disease”(So dreamt this lively dreamer),“Or devastatingcariesInhumerusorfemur,If you can pay a handsome fee,Oh, then you may remember me—With joy elate I’ll amputateYourhumerusorfemur.”
The disconcerted actor ceasedThe haughty leech to pester,But when the wound in size increased,And then began to fester,He sought a learned Counsel’s lair,And told that Counsel, then and there,HowCobb’sneglect of his defectHad made his finger fester.
“Oh, bring my action, if you please,The case I pray you urge on,And win me thumping damagesFromCobb, that haughty surgeon.He culpably neglected meAlthough I proffered him his fee,So pray come down, in wig and gown,OnCobb, that haughty surgeon!”
That Counsel learned in the laws,With passion almost trembled.He just had gained a mighty causeBefore the Peers assembled!Said he, “How dare you have the faceTo come with Common Jury caseTo one who wings rhetoric flingsBefore the Peers assembled?”
Dispirited became our friend—Depressed his moral pecker—“But stay! a thought!—I’ll gain my end,And save my poor exchequer.I won’t be placed upon the shelf,I’ll take it into Court myself,And legal lore display beforeThe Court of the Exchequer.”
He found a Baron—one of thoseWho with our laws supply us—In wig and silken gown and hose,As if atNisi Prius.But he’d just given, off the reel,A famous judgment on Appeal:It scarce became his heightened fameTo sit atNisi Prius.
Our friend began, with easy wit,That half concealed his terror:“Pooh!” said the Judge, “I only sitInBancoor in Error.Can you suppose, my man, that I’dO’erNisi PriusCourts preside,Or condescend my time to spendOn anything but Error?”
“Too bad,” saidGibbs, “my case to shirk!You must be bad innately,To save your skill for mighty workBecause it’s valued greatly!”But here he woke, with sudden start.
* * * * * * * *
He wrote to say he’d play the part.I’ve but to tell he played it well—The author’s words—his native witCombined, achieved a perfect “hit”—The papers praised him greatly.
Anexcellent soldier who’s worthy the nameLoves officers dashing and strict:When good, he’s content with escaping all blame,When naughty, he likes to be licked.
He likes for a fault to be bullied and stormed,Or imprisoned for several days,And hates, for a duty correctly performed,To be slavered with sickening praise.
No officer sickened with praises hiscorpsSo little asMajor La Guerre—No officer swore at his warriors moreThanMajor Makredi Prepere.
Their soldiers adored them, and every gradeDelighted to hear their abuse;Though whenever these officers came on paradeThey shivered and shook in their shoes.
For, oh! ifLa Guerrecould all praises withhold,Why, so couldMakredi Prepere,And, oh! ifMakredicould bluster and scold,Why, so could the mightyLa Guerre.
“No doubt we deserve it—no mercy we crave—Go on—you’re conferring a boon;We would rather be slanged by a warrior brave,Than praised by a wretched poltroon!”
Makrediwould say that in battle’s fierce rageTrue happiness only was met:PoorMajor Makredi, though fifty his age,Had never known happiness yet!
La Guerrewould declare, “With the blood of a foeNo tipple is worthy to clink.”Poor fellow! he hadn’t, though sixty or so,Yet tasted his favourite drink!
They agreed at their mess—they agreed in the glass—They agreed in the choice of their “set,”And they also agreed in adoring, alas!The Vivandière, prettyFillette.
Agreement, you see, may be carried too far,And after agreeing all roundFor years—in this soldierly “maid of the bar,”A bone of contention they found!
It may seem improper to call such a pet—By a metaphor, even—a bone;But though they agreed in adoring her, yetEach wanted to make her his own.
“On the day that you marry her,” mutteredPrepere(With a pistol he quietly played),“I’ll scatter the brains in your noddle, I swear,All over the stony parade!”
“I cannot dothatto you,” answeredLa Guerre,“Whatever events may befall;But thisI cando—if youwed her,mon cher!I’ll eat you, moustachios and all!”
The rivals, although they would never engage,Yet quarrelled whenever they met;They met in a fury and left in a rage,But neither took prettyFillette.
“I am not afraid,” thoughtMakredi Prepere:“For country I’m ready to fall;But nobody wants, for a mere Vivandière,To be eaten, moustachios and all!
“Besides, thoughLa Guerrehas his faults, I’ll allowHe’s one of the bravest of men:My goodness! if I disagree with him now,I might disagree with him then.”
“No coward am I,” saidLa Guerre, “as you guess—I sneer at an enemy’s blade;But I don’t wantPrepereto get into a messFor splashing the stony parade!”
One day on parade toPrepereandLa GuerreCameCorporal Jacot Debette,And trembling all over, he prayed of them thereTo give him the prettyFillette.
“You see, I am willing to marry my brideUntil you’ve arranged this affair;I will blow out my brains when your honours decideWhich marries the sweet Vivandière!”
“Well, take her,” said both of them in a duet(A favourite form of reply),“But when I am ready to marryFillette.Remember you’ve promised to die!”
He married her then: from the flowery plainsOf existence the roses they cull:He lived and he died with his wife; and his brainsAre reposing in peace in his skull.
Emily Janewas a nursery maid,Jameswas a bold Life Guard,Johnwas a constable, poorly paid(And I am a doggerel bard).
A very good girl wasEmily Jane,Jimmywas good and true,Johnwas a very good man in the main(And I am a good man too).
Rivals forEmmiewereJohnnyandJames,ThoughEmilyliked them both;She couldn’t tell which had the strongest claims(AndIcouldn’t take my oath).
But sooner or later you’re certain to findYour sentiments can’t lie hid—Janethought it was time that she made up her mind(And I think it was time she did).
SaidJane, with a smirk, and a blush on her face,“I’ll promise to wed the boyWho takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!”(Which I would have done, with joy).
FromJohnnyescaped an expression of pain,But Jimmy said, “Done with you!I’ll take you with pleasure, myEmily Jane!”(And I would have said so too).
Johnlay on the ground, and he roared like mad(ForJohnnywas sore perplexed),And he kicked very hard at a very small lad(WhichIoften do, when vexed).
ForJohnwas on duty next day with the Force,To punish all Epsom crimes;Young peoplewillcross when they’re clearing the course(I do it myself, sometimes).
* * * * * * * *
The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads,On maidens with gamboge hair,On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads,(For I, with my harp, was there).
AndJimmywent down with hisJanethat day,AndJohnby the collar or napeSeized everybody who came in his way(AndIhad a narrow escape).
He noticed hisEmily JanewithJim,And envied the well-made elf;And people remarked that he muttered “Oh, dim!”(I often say “dim!” myself).
Johndogged them all day, without asking their leaves;For his sergeant he told, aside,ThatJimmyandJanewere notorious thieves(And I think he was justified).
ButJameswouldn’t dream of abstracting a fork,AndJennywould blush with shameAt stealing so much as a bottle or cork(A bottle I think fair game).
But, ah! there’s another more serious crime!They wickedly strayed uponThe course, at a critical moment of time(I pointed them out toJohn).
The constable fell on the pair in a crack—And then, with a demon smile,LetJennycross over, but sentJimmyback(I played on my harp the while).
SternJohnnytheir agony loud deridesWith a very triumphant sneer—They weep and they wail from the opposite sides(AndIshed a silent tear).
AndJennyis crying away like mad,AndJimmyis swearing hard;AndJohnnyis looking uncommonly glad(And I am a doggerel bard).
ButJimmyhe ventured on crossing againThe scenes of our Isthmian Games—Johncaught him, and collared him, giving him pain(I felt very much forJames).
Johnled him away with a victor’s hand,AndJimmywas shortly seenIn the station-house under the grand Grand Stand(As many a timeI’vebeen).
AndJimmy, bad boy, was imprisoned for life,ThoughEmilypleaded hard;AndJohnnyhadEmily Janeto wife(And I am a doggerel bard).
Old Peterled a wretched life—OldPeterhad a furious wife;OldPetertoo was truly stout,He measured several yards about.
The little fairyPicklekinOne summer afternoon looked in,And said, “OldPeter, how de do?Can I do anything for you?
“I have three gifts—the first will giveUnbounded riches while you live;The second health where’er you be;The third, invisibility.”
“O little fairyPicklekin,”OldPeteranswered with a grin,“To hesitate would be absurd,—Undoubtedly I choose the third.”
“’Tis yours,” the fairy said; “be quiteInvisible to mortal sightWhene’er you please. Remember meMost kindly, pray, toMrs. P.”
OldMrs. PeteroverheardWeePicklekin’sconcluding word,And, jealous of her girlhood’s choice,Said, “That was some young woman’s voice!”
OldPeterlet her scold and swear—OldPeter, bless him, didn’t care.“My dear, your rage is wasted quite—Observe, I disappear from sight!”
A well-bred fairy (so I’ve heard)Is always faithful to her word:OldPetervanished like a shot,Put then—his suit of clothes did not!
For when conferred the fairy slimInvisibility onhim,She popped away on fairy wings,Without referring to his “things.”
So there remained a coat of blue,A vest and double eyeglass too,His tail, his shoes, his socks as well,His pair of—no, I must not tell.
OldMrs. Petersoon beganTo see the failure of his plan,And then resolved (I quote the Bard)To “hoist him with his own petard.”
OldPeterwoke next day and dressed,Put on his coat, and shoes, and vest,His shirt and stock;but could not findHis only pair of—never mind!
OldPeterwas a decent man,And though he twigged his lady’s plan,Yet, hearing her approaching, heResumed invisibility.
“DearMrs. P., my only joy,”Exclaimed the horrified old boy,“Now, give them up, I beg of you—You know what I’m referring to!”
But no; the cross old lady sworeShe’d keep his—what I said before—To make him publicly absurd;AndMrs. Peterkept her word.
The poor old fellow had no rest;His coat, his stick, his shoes, his vest,Were all that now met mortal eye—The rest, invisibility!
“Now, madam, give them up, I beg—I’ve had rheumatics in my leg;Besides, until you do, it’s plainI cannot come to sight again!
“For though some mirth it might affordTo see my clothes without their lord,Yet there would rise indignant oathsIf he were seen without his clothes!”
But no; resolved to have her quiz,The lady held her own—and his—AndPeterleft his humble cotTo find a pair of—you know what.
But—here’s the worst of the affair—Whene’er he came across a pairAlready placed for him to don,He was too stout to get them on!
So he resolved at once to train,And walked and walked with all his main;For years he paced this mortal earth,To bring himself to decent girth.
At night, when all around is still,You’ll find him pounding up a hill;And shrieking peasants whom he meets,Fall down in terror on the peats!
OldPeterwalks through wind and rain,Resolved to train, and train, and train,Until he weighs twelve stone’ or so—And when he does, I’ll let you know.
Perhaps already you may knowSir Blennerhasset Portico?A Captain in the Navy, he—A Baronet and K.C.B.You do? I thought so!It was that Captain’s favourite whim(A notion not confined to him)ThatRodneywas the greatest tarWho ever wielded capstan-bar.He had been taught so.
“Benbow!Cornwallis!Hood!—Belay!Compared withRodney”—he would say—“No other tar is worth a rap!The greatLord Rodneywas the chapThe French to polish!Though, mind you, I respectLord Hood;Cornwallis, too, was rather good;Benbowcould enemies repel,Lord Nelson, too, was pretty well—That is, tol-lol-ish!”
Sir Blennerhassetspent his daysIn learningRodney’slittle ways,And closely imitated, too,His mode of talking to his crew—His port and paces.An ancient tar he tried to catchWho’d served inRodney’sfamous batch;But since his time long years have fled,AndRodney’stars are mostly dead:Eheu fugaces!
But after searching near and far,At last he found an ancient tarWho served withRodneyand his crewAgainst the French in ’Eighty-two,(That gained the peerage).He gave him fifty pounds a year,His rum, his baccy, and his beer;And had a comfortable denRigged up in what, by merchantmen,Is called the steerage.
“Now,Jasper”—’t was that sailor’s name—“Don’t fear that you’ll incur my blameBy saying, when it seems to you,That there is anything I doThatRodneywouldn’t.”The ancient sailor turned his quid,Prepared to do as he was bid:“Ay, ay, yer honour; to begin,You’ve done away with ‘swifting in’—Well, sir, you shouldn’t!
“Upon your spars I see you’ve clappedPeak halliard blocks, all iron-capped.I would not christen that a crime,But ’twas not done inRodney’stime.It looks half-witted!Upon your maintop-stay, I see,You always clap a selvagee!Your stays, I see, are equalized—No vessel, such asRodneyprized,Would thus be fitted!
“AndRodney, honoured sir, would grinTo see you turning deadeyes in,Notup, as in the ancient way,But downwards, like a cutter’s stay—You didn’t oughter;Besides, in seizing shrouds on board,Breast backstays you have quite ignored;GreatRodneykept unto the lastBreast backstays on topgallant mast—They make it tauter.”
Sir Blennerhasset“swifted in,”Turned deadeyes up, and lent a finTo strip (as told byJasper Knox)The iron capping from his blocks,Where there was any.Sir Blennerhassetdoes away,With selvagees from maintop-stay;And though it makes his sailors stare,He rigs breast backstays everywhere—In fact, too many.
One morning, when the saucy craftLay calmed, oldJaspertoddled aft.“My mind misgives me, sir, that weWere wrong about that selvagee—I should restore it.”“Good,” said the Captain, and that dayRestored it to the maintop-stay.Well-practised sailors often makeA much more serious mistake,And then ignore it.
Next day oldJaspercame once more:“I think, sir, I was right before.”Well, up the mast the sailors skipped,The selvagee was soon unshipped,And all were merry.Again a day, andJaspercame:“I p’r’aps deserve your honour’s blame,I can’t make up my mind,” said he,“About that cursed selvagee—It’s foolish—very.
“On Monday night I could have swornThat maintop-stay it should adorn,On Tuesday morning I could swearThat selvagee should not be there.The knot’s a rasper!”“Oh, you be hanged,” saidCaptainP.,“Here, go ashore at Caribbee.Get out—good bye—shove off—all right!”OldJaspersoon was out of sight—Farewell, oldJasper!
“Come, collar this bad man—Around the throat he knotted meTill I to choke began—In point of fact, garotted me!”
So spakeSir Herbert WhiteToJames, Policeman Thirty-two—All ruffled with his fightSir Herbertwas, and dirty too.
Policeman nothing said(Though he had much to say on it),But from the bad man’s headHe took the cap that lay on it.
“No, greatSir Herbert White—Impossible to take him up.This man is honest quite—Wherever did you rake him up?
“For Burglars, Thieves, and Co.,Indeed, I’m no apologist,But I, some years ago,Assisted a Phrenologist.
“Observe his various bumps,His head as I uncover it:His morals lie in lumpsAll round about and over it.”
“Now take him,” saidSir White,“Or you will soon be rueing it;Bless me! I must be right,—I caught the fellow doing it!”
Policeman calmly smiled,“Indeed you are mistaken, sir,You’re agitated—riled—And very badly shaken, sir.
“Sit down, and I’ll explainMy system of Phrenology,A second, please, remain”—(A second is horology).
Policeman left his beat—(The Bart., no longer furious,Sat down upon a seat,Observing, “This is curious!”)
“Oh, surely, here are signsShould soften your rigidity:This gentleman combinesPoliteness with timidity.
“Of Shyness here’s a lump—A hole for Animosity—And like my fist his bumpOf Impecuniosity.
“Just here the bump appearsOf Innocent Hilarity,And just behind his earsAre Faith, and Hope, and Charity.
“He of true Christian waysAs bright example sent us is—This maxim he obeys,‘Sorte tuâ contentus sis.’
“There, let him go his ways,He needs no stern admonishing.”The Bart., in blank amaze,Exclaimed, “This is astonishing!
“Imusthave made a mull,This matter I’ve been blind in it:Examine, please,myskull,And tell me what you find in it.”
That Crusher looked, and said,With unimpaired urbanity,“Sir Herbert, you’ve a headThat teems with inhumanity.
“Here’s Murder, Envy, Strife(Propensity to kill any),And Lies as large as life,And heaps of Social Villany.
“Here’s Love of Bran-New Clothes,Embezzling—Arson—Deism—A taste for Slang and Oaths,And Fraudulent Trusteeism.
“Here’s Love of Groundless Charge—Here’s Malice, too, and Trickery,Unusually largeYour bump of Pocket-Pickery—”
“Stop!” said the Bart., “my cupIs full—I’m worse than him in all;Policeman, take me up—No doubt I am some criminal!”
That Pleeceman’s scorn grew large(Phrenology had nettled it),He took that Bart. in charge—I don’t know how they settled it.
Oncea fairyLight and airyMarried with a mortal;Men, however,Never, neverPass the fairy portal.Slyly stealing,She to EalingMade a daily journey;There she found him,Clients round him(He was an attorney).
Long they tarried,Then they married.When the ceremonyOnce was ended,Off they wendedOn their moon of honey.Twelvemonth, maybe,Saw a baby(Friends performed an orgie).Much they prized him,And baptized himBy the name ofGeorgie,
Georgiegrew up;Then he flew upTo his fairy mother.Happy meeting—Pleasant greeting—Kissing one another.“Choose a callingMost enthralling,I sincerely urge ye.”“Mother,” said he(Rev’rence made he),“I would join the clergy.
“Give permissionIn addition—Pa will let me do it:There’s a livingIn his giving—He’ll appoint me to it.Dreams of coff’ring,Easter off’ring,Tithe and rent and pew-rate,So inflame me(Do not blame me),That I’ll be a curate.”
She, with pleasure,Said, “My treasure,’T is my wish precisely.Do your duty,There’s a beauty;You have chosen wisely.Tell your fatherI would ratherAs a churchman rank you.You, in clover,I’ll watch over.”Georgiesaid, “Oh, thank you!”
Georgiescudded,Went and studied,Made all preparations,And with credit(Though he said it)Passed examinations.(Do not quarrelWith him, moral,Scrupulous digestions—’Twas his mother,And no other,Answered all the questions.)
Time proceeded;Little neededGeorgieadmonition:He, elated,VindicatedClergyman’s position.People round himAlways found himPlain and unpretending;Kindly teaching,Plainly preaching,All his money lending.
So the fairy,Wise and wary,Felt no sorrow rising—No occasionFor persuasion,Warning, or advising.He, resumingFairy pluming(That’s not English, is it?)Oft would fly up,To the sky up,Pay mamma a visit.
* * * * * * * *
Time progressing,Georgie’sblessingGrew more Ritualistic—Popish scandals,Tonsures—sandals—Genuflections mystic;Gushing meetings—Bosom-beatings—Heavenly ecstatics—Broidered spencers—Copes and censers—Rochets and dalmatics.
This quandaryVexed the fairy—Flew she down to Ealing.“Georgie, stop it!Pray you, drop it;Hark to my appealing:To this foolishPapal rule-ishTwaddle put an ending;This a swerve isFrom our ServicePlain and unpretending.”
He, replying,Answered, sighing,Hawing, hemming, humming,“It’s a pity—They’re so pritty;Yet in mode becoming,Mother tender,I’ll surrender—I’ll be unaffected—”But his BishopIntohisshopEntered unexpected!
“Who is this, sir,—Ballet miss, sir?”Said the Bishop coldly.“’T is my mother,And no other,”Georgieanswered boldly.“Go along, sir!You are wrong, sir;You have years in plenty,While this hussy(Gracious mussy!)Isn’t two and twenty!”
(Fairies cleverNever, neverGrow in visage older;And the fairy,All unwary,Leant upon his shoulder!)Bishop grieved him,Disbelieved him;Georgethe point grew warm on;Changed religion,Like a pigeon,[233]And became a Mormon!
Amaidensat at her window wide,Pretty enough for a Prince’s bride,Yet nobody came to claim her.She sat like a beautiful picture there,With pretty bluebells and roses fair,And jasmine-leaves to frame her.And why she sat there nobody knows;But this she sang as she plucked a rose,The leaves around her strewing:“I’ve time to lose and power to choose;’T is not so much the gallant who woos,But the gallant’swayof wooing!”
A lover came riding by awhile,A wealthy lover was he, whose smileSome maids would value greatly—A formal lover, who bowed and bent,With many a high-flown compliment,And cold demeanour stately,“You’ve still,” said she to her suitor stern,“The ’prentice-work of your craft to learn,If thus you come a-cooing.I’ve time to lose and power to choose;’T is not so much the gallant who woos,As the gallant’swayof wooing!”
A second lover came ambling by—A timid lad with a frightened eyeAnd a colour mantling highly.He muttered the errand on which he’d come,Then only chuckled and bit his thumb,And simpered, simpered shyly.“No,” said the maiden, “go your way;You dare but think what a man would say,Yet dare to come a-suing!I’ve time to lose and power to choose;’T is not so much the gallant who woos,As the gallant’swayof wooing!”
A third rode up at a startling pace—A suitor poor, with a homely face—No doubts appeared to bind him.He kissed her lips and he pressed her waist,And off he rode with the maiden, placedOn a pillion safe behind him.And she heard the suitor bold confideThis golden hint to the priest who tiedThe knot there’s no undoing;“With pretty young maidens who can choose,’T is not so much the gallant who woos,As the gallant’swayof wooing!”
Thesun was setting in its wonted west,WhenHongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,MetMahry Daubigny, the Village Rose,Under the Wizard’s Oak—old trysting-placeOf those who loved in rosy Aquitaine.
They thought themselves unwatched, but they were not;ForHongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,Found inLieutenant-Colonel Jooles DuboscA rival, envious and unscrupulous,Who thought it not foul scorn to dodge his steps,And listen, unperceived, to all that passedBetween the simple little Village RoseAndHongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.
A clumsy barrack-bully wasDubosc,Quite unfamiliar with the well-bred tactThat animates a proper gentlemanIn dealing with a girl of humble rank.You’ll understand his coarseness when I sayHe would have marriedMahry Daubigny,And dragged the unsophisticated girlInto 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.How different to this unreflecting boorWasHongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.
Contemporary with the incidentRelated in our opening paragraph,Was that sad war ’twixt Gallia and ourselvesThat followed on the treaty signed at Troyes;And soLieutenant-Colonel Jooles Dubosc(Brave soldier, he, with all his faults of style)AndHongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,Were sent byCharlesof France against the linesOf our SixthHenry(Fourteen twenty-nine),To drive his legions out of Aquitaine.
WhenHongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,Returned, suspecting nothing, to his camp,After his meeting with the Village Rose,He found inside his barrack letter-boxA note from the commanding officer,Requiring his attendance at head-quarters.He went, and foundLieutenant-Colonel Jooles.
“YoungHongree, 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.As every man 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 benefitOf knowing that you die a soldier’s death.”
Obedience was youngHongree’sstrongest point,But he imagined that he only owedAllegiance to hisMahryand his King.“IfMahrybade me lead these fated men,I’d lead them—but I do not think she would.IfCharles, my King, said, ‘Go, my son, and die,’I’d go, of course—my duty would be clear.ButMahryis in bed asleep, I hope,AndCharles, my King, a hundred leagues from this.As forLieutenant-Colonel Jooles Dubosc,How know I that our monarch would approveThe 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!”ThusHongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,Interpreted the terms of his commission.
AndHongree, who was wise as he was good,Disguised himself that night in ample cloak,Round flapping hat, and vizor mask of black,And made, unnoticed, for the English camp.He passed the unsuspecting sentinels(Who little thought a man in this disguiseCould 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’mHongree, 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 excellentKing CharlesWould not approve of this; but he’s awayA 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 discloseAll schemes that emanate fromColonel Jooles,If I believe that they are not the kindOf schemes that our good monarch would approve.”
“But how,” said Bedford’s Duke, “do you proposeThat we should overthrow your Colonel’s scheme?”AndHongree, 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 pathInto the heart ofColonel Jooles’ array,And you can then attack them unprepared,And slay my fellow-countrymen unarmed.”
The thing was done. TheDuke of BedfordgaveThe order, and two thousand fighting menCrept silently into the Gallic camp,And slew the Frenchmen as they lay asleep;And Bedford’s haughty Duke slewColonel Jooles,And gave fairMahry, pride of Aquitaine,ToHongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.
TheBallyshannonfoundered off the coast of Cariboo,And down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew;Down went the owners—greedy men whom hope of gain allured:Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.
Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew,The passengers were also drowned excepting only two:YoungPeter Gray, who tasted teas forBaker,Croop,and Co.,AndSomers, who from Eastern shores imported indigo.
These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast,Upon a desert island were eventually cast.They hunted for their meals, asAlexander Selkirkused,But they couldn’t chat together—they had not been introduced.
ForPeter Gray, andSomerstoo, though certainly in trade,Were properly particular about the friends they made;And somehow thus they settled it without a word of mouth—ThatGrayshould take the northern half, whileSomerstook the south.
OnPeter’sportion oysters grew—a delicacy rare,But oysters were a delicacyPetercouldn’t bear.OnSomers’ side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick,WhichSomerscouldn’t eat, because it always made him sick.
Graygnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty storeOf turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature’s shore.The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved,For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved.
AndSomerssighed in sorrow as he settled in the south,For the thought ofPeter’soysters brought the water to his mouth.He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff:He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough.
How they wished an introduction to each other they had hadWhen on board theBallyshannon! And it drove them nearly madTo think how very friendly with each other they might get,If it wasn’t for the arbitrary rule of etiquette!
One day, when out a-hunting for themus ridiculus,Grayoverheard his fellow-man soliloquizing thus:“I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on,M’Connell, S. B.Walters,Paddy Byles, andRobinson?”
These simple words madePeteras delighted as could be,Old chummies at the Charterhouse wereRobinsonand he!He walked straight up toSomers, then he turned extremely red,Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said:
“I beg your pardon—pray forgive me if I seem too bold,But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old.You spoke aloud ofRobinson—I happened to be by.You know him?” “Yes, extremely well.” “Allow me, so do I.”
It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on,For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knewRobinson!And Mr.Somers’ turtle was atPeter’sservice quite,And Mr.SomerspunishedPeter’soyster-beds all night.
They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs:They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs;They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives;On several occasions, too, they saved each other’s lives.
They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night,And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light;Each other’s pleasant company they reckoned so upon,And all because it happened that they both knewRobinson!
They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore,And day by day they learned to love each other more and more.At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day,They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay.
ToPeteran idea occurred. “Suppose we cross the main?So good an opportunity may not be found again.”AndSomersthought a minute, then ejaculated, “Done!I wonder how my business in the City’s getting on?”
“But stay,” said Mr.Peter: “when in England, as you know,I earned a living tasting teas forBaker,Croop,and Co.,I may be superseded—my employers think me dead!”“Then come with me,” saidSomers, “and taste indigo instead.”
But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they foundThe vessel was a convict ship from Portland, outward bound;When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind,To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.
As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke,They recognized a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke:’TwasRobinson—a convict, in an unbecoming frock!Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!
They laughed no more, forSomersthought he had been rather rashIn knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash;AndPeterthought a foolish tack he must have gone uponIn making the acquaintance of a friend ofRobinson.
At first they didn’t quarrel very openly, I’ve heard;They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word:The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head,And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead.
To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth,AndPetertakes the north again, andSomerstakes the south;AndPeterhas the oysters, which he hates, in layers thick,AndSomershas the turtle—turtle always makes him sick.