I’vepaintedShakespeareall my life—“An infant” (even then at “play”!)“A boy,” with stage-ambition rife,Then “Married toAnn Hathaway.”
“The bard’s first ticket night” (or “ben.”),His “First appearance on the stage,”His “Call before the curtain”—then“Rejoicings when he came of age.”
The bard play-writing in his room,The bard a humble lawyer’s clerk.The bard a lawyer[287a]—parson[287b]—groom[287c]—The bard deer-stealing, after dark.
The bard a tradesman[288a]—and a Jew[288b]—The bard a botanist[288c]—a beak[288d]—The bard a skilled musician[288e]too—A sheriff[288f]and a surgeon[288g]eke!
Yet critics say (a friendly stock)That, though it’s evident I try,Yet even I can barely mockThe glimmer of his wondrous eye!
One morning as a work I framed,There passed a person, walking hard:“My gracious goodness,” I exclaimed,“How very like my dear old bard!
“Oh, what a model he would make!”I rushed outside—impulsive me!—“Forgive the liberty I take,But you’re so very”—“Stop!” said he.
“You needn’t waste your breath or time,—I know what you are going to say,—That you’re an artist, and that I’mRemarkably likeShakespeare. Eh?
“You wish that I would sit to you?”I clasped him madly round the waist,And breathlessly replied, “I do!”“All right,” said he, “but please make haste.”
I led him by his hallowed sleeve,And worked away at him apace,I painted him till dewy eve,—There never was a nobler face!
“Oh, sir,” I said, “a fortune grandIs yours, by dint of merest chance,—To sporthisbrow at second-hand,To wearhiscast-off countenance!
“To rubhiseyes whene’er they ache—To wearhisbaldness ere you’re old—To cleanhisteeth when you awake—To blowhisnose when you’ve a cold!”
His eyeballs glistened in his eyes—I sat and watched and smoked my pipe;“Bravo!” I said, “I recognizeThe phrensy of your prototype!”
His scanty hair he wildly tore:“That’s right,” said I, “it shows your breed.”He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore—“Bless me, that’s very fine indeed!”
“Sir,” said the grand Shakesperian boy(Continuing to blaze away),“You think my face a source of joy;That shows you know not what you say.
“Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps:I’m always thrown in some such stateWhen on his face well-meaning chapsThis wretched man congratulate.
“For, oh! this face—this pointed chin—This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too,Have always been the originOf all the woes I ever knew!
“If to the play my way I find,To see a grand Shakesperian piece,I have no rest, no ease of mindUntil the author’s puppets cease.
“Men nudge each other—thus—and say,‘This certainly isShakespeare’sson,’And merry wags (of course in play)Cry ‘Author!’ when the piece is done.
“In church the people stare at me,Their soul the sermon never binds;I catch them looking round to see,And thoughts ofShakespearefill their minds.
“And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile,Who find it difficult to crownA bust withBrown’sinsipid smile,OrTomkins’sunmannered frown,
“Yet boldly make my face their own,When (oh, presumption!) they requireTo animate a paving-stoneWithShakespeare’sintellectual fire.
“At parties where young ladies gaze,And I attempt to speak my joy,‘Hush, pray,’ some lovely creature says,‘The fond illusion don’t destroy!’
“Whene’er I speak, my soul is wrungWith these or some such whisperings:‘’Tis pity that aShakespeare’stongueShould say such un-Shakesperian things!’
“I should not thus be criticisedHad I a face of common wont:Don’t envy me—now, be advised!”And, now I think of it, I don’t!
Aleafycot, where no dry rotHad ever been by tenant seen,Where ivy clung and wopses stung,Where beeses hummed and drummed and strummed,Where treeses grew and breezes blew—A thatchy roof, quite waterproof,Where countless herds of dicky-birdsBuilt twiggy beds to lay their heads(My mother begs I’ll make it “eggs,”But though it’s true that dickies doConstruct a nest with chirpy noise,With view to rest their eggy joys,’Neath eavy sheds, yet eggs and beds,As I explain to her in vainFive hundred times, are faulty rhymes).’Neath such a cot, built on a plotOf freehold land, dweltMaryandHer worthy father, named by meGregory Parable, LL.D.
He knew no guile, this simple man,No worldly wile, or plot, or plan,Except that plot of freehold landThat held the cot, andMary, andHer worthy father, named by meGregory Parable, LL.D.
A grave and learned scholar he,Yet simple as a child could be.He’d shirk his meal to sit and cramA goodish deal of Eton Gram.No man alive could him nonplusWith vocative offilius;No man alive more fully knewThe passive of a verb or two;None better knew the worth than heOf words that end inb,d,t.Upon his green in early springHe might be seen endeavouringTo understand the hooks and crooksOfHenryand his Latin books;Or calling for his “Cæsar onThe Gallic War,” like any don;Or, p’raps, expounding unto allHow mythicBalbusbuilt a wall.So lived the sage who’s named by meGregory Parable, LL.D.
To him one autumn day there cameA lovely youth of mystic name:He took a lodging in the house,And fell a-dodging snipe and grouse,For, oh! that mild scholastic oneLet shooting for a single gun.
By three or four, when sport was o’er,The Mystic One laid by his gun,And made sheep’s eyes of giant size,Till after tea, atMaryP.AndMaryP. (so kind was she),She, too, made eyes of giant size,Whose every dart right through the heartAppeared to run that Mystic One.The Doctor’s whim engrossing him,He did not know they flirted so.For, save at tea, “musa musæ,”As I’m advised, monopolisedAnd rendered blind his giant mind.But looking up above his cupOne afternoon, he saw them spoon.“Aha!” quoth he, “you naughty lass!As quaint oldOvidsays, ‘Amas!’”
The Mystic Youth avowed the truth,And, claiming ruth, he said, “In soothI love your daughter, aged man:Refuse to join us if you can.Treat not my offer, sir, with scorn,I’m wealthy though I’m lowly born.”“Young sir,” the aged scholar said,“I never thought you meant to wed:Engrossed completely with my books,I little noticed lovers’ looks.I’ve lived so long away from man,I do not know of any planBy which to test a lover’s worth,Except, perhaps, the test of birth.I’ve half forgotten in this wildA father’s duty to his child.It is his place, I think it’s said,To see his daughters richly wedTo dignitaries of the earth—If possible, of noble birth.If noble birth is not at hand,A father may, I understand(And this affords a chance for you),Be satisfied to wed her toABoucicaultorBaring—whichMeans any one who’s very rich.Now, there’s an Earl who lives hard by,—My child and I will go and tryIf he will make the maid his bride—If not, to you she shall be tied.”
They sought the Earl that very day;The Sage began to say his say.The Earl (a very wicked man,Whose face bore Vice’s blackest ban)Cut short the scholar’s simple tale,And said in voice to make them quail,“Pooh! go along! you’re drunk, no doubt—Here,Peters, turn these people out!”
The Sage, rebuffed in mode uncouth,Returning, met the Mystic Youth.“My darling boy,” the Scholar said,“TakeMary—blessings on your head!”
The Mystic Boy undid his vest,And took a parchment from his breast,And said, “Now, by that noble brow,I ne’er knew father such as thou!The sterling rule of common senseNow reaps its proper recompense.Rejoice, my soul’s unequalled Queen,For I amDuke of Gretna Green!”
Thestory ofFrederick Gowler,A mariner of the sea,Who quitted his ship, theHowler,A-sailing in Caribbee.For many a day he wandered,Till he met in a state of rumCalamity Pop Von Peppermint Drop,The King of Canoodle-Dum.
That monarch addressed him gaily,“Hum! Golly de do to-day?Hum! Lily-white Buckra Sailee”—(You notice his playful way?)—“What dickens you doin’ here, sar?Why debbil you want to come?Hum! Picaninnee, dere isn’t no seaIn City Canoodle-Dum!”
AndGowlerhe answered sadly,“Oh, mine is a doleful tale!They’ve treated me werry badlyIn Lunnon, from where I hail.I’m one of the Family Royal—No common Jack Tar you see;I’mWilliam the Fourth, far up in the North,A King in my own countree!”
Bang-bang! How the tom-toms thundered!Bang-bang! How they thumped this gongs!Bang-bang! How the people wondered!Bang-bang! At it hammer and tongs!Alliance with Kings of EuropeIs an honour Canoodlers seek,Her monarchs don’t stop withPeppermint DropEvery day in the week!
Fredtold them that he wasundone,For his people all went insane,And fired the Tower of London,And Grinnidge’s Naval Fane.And some of them racked St. James’s,And vented their rage uponThe Church of St. Paul, the Fishmongers’ Hall,And the Angel at Islington.
Calamity Popimplored himIn his capital to remainTill those people of his restored himTo power and rank again.Calamity Pophe made himA Prince of Canoodle-Dum,With a couple of caves, some beautiful slaves,And the run of the royal rum.
Pop gave him his only daughter,Hum Pickety Wimple Tip:Fredvowed that if over the waterHe went, in an English ship,He’d make her his Queen,—though trulyIt is an unusual thingFor a Caribbee brat who’s as black as your hatTo be wife of an English King.
And all the Canoodle-DummersThey copied his rolling walk,His method of draining rummers,His emblematical talk.For his dress and his graceful breeding,His delicate taste in rum,And his nautical way, were the talk of the dayIn the Court of Canoodle-Dum.
Calamity Popmost wiselyDetermined in everythingTo model his Court preciselyOn that of the English King;And ordered that every ladyAnd every lady’s lordShould masticate jacky (a kind of tobaccy),And scatter its juice abroad.
They signified wonder roundlyAt any astounding yarn,By darning their dear eyes roundly(’T was all they had to darn).They “hoisted their slacks,” adjustingGarments of plantain-leavesWith nautical twitches (as if they wore breeches,Instead of a dress likeEve’s!)
They shivered their timbers proudly,At a phantom forelock dragged,And called for a hornpipe loudlyWhenever amusement flagged.“Hum! Golly! himPopresemble,Him Britisher sov’reign, hum!Calamity Pop Von Peppermint Drop,De King of Canoodle-Dum!”
The mariner’s lively “Hollo!”Enlivened Canoodle’s plain(For blessings unnumbered followIn Civilization’s train).But Fortune, who loves a bathos,A terrible ending planned,ForAdmiral D. Chickabiddy, C.B.,Placed foot on Canoodle land!
That rebel, he seizedKing Gowler,He threatened his royal brains,And put him aboard theHowler,And fastened him down with chains.TheHowlershe weighed her anchor,WithFredericknicely nailed,And off to the North withWilliam the FourthThese horrible pirates sailed.
Calamitysaid (with folly),“Hum! nebber want him again—Him civilize all of us, golly!Calamitysuck him brain!”The people, however, were pained whenThey saw him aboard his ship,But none of them wept for theirFreddy, exceptHum Pickety Wimple Tip.
Aclergymanin Berkshire dwelt,TheReverend Bernard Powles,And in his church there weekly kneltAt least a hundred souls.
There littleEllenyou might see,The modest rustic belle;In maidenly simplicity,She loved herBernardwell.
ThoughEllenwore a plain silk gownUntrimmed with lace or fur,Yet not a husband in the townBut wished his wife like her.
Though sterner memories might fade,You never could forgetThe child-form of that baby-maid,The Village Violet!
A simple frightened loveliness,Whose sacred spirit-partShrank timidly from worldly stress,And nestled in your heart.
Powleswoo’d with every well-worn planAnd all the usual wilesWith which a well-schooled gentlemanA simple heart beguiles.
The hackneyed compliments that boreWorld-folks like you and me,Appeared to her as if they woreThe crown of Poesy.
His winking eyelid sang a songHer heart could understand,Eternity seemed scarce too longWhenBernardsqueezed her hand.
He ordered down the martial crewOfGodfrey’sGrenadiers,AndCooteconspired withTinneytoEcstaticise her ears.
Beneath her window, veiled from eye,They nightly took their stand;On birthdays supplemented byThe Covent Garden band.
And littleEllen, all alone,Enraptured sat above,And thought how blest she was to ownThe wealth ofPowles’slove.
I often, often wonder whatPoorEllensaw in him;For calculated he wasnotTo please a woman’s whim.
He wasn’t good, despite the airAn M.B. waistcoat gives;Indeed, his dearest friends declareNo greater humbug lives.
No kind of virtue decked this priest,He’d nothing to allure;He wasn’t handsome in the least,—He wasn’t even poor.
No—he was cursed with acres fat(A Christian’s direst ban),And gold—yet, notwithstanding that,PoorEllenloved the man.
As unlikeBernardas could beWas poor oldAaron Wood(DisgracefulBernard’scurate he):He was extremely good.
ABayardin his moral pluckWithout reproach or fear,A quiet venerable duckWith fifty pounds a year.
No fault had he—no fad, exceptA tendency to strum,In mode at which you would have wept,A dull harmonium.
He had no gold with which to hireThe minstrels who could bestConvey a notion of the fireThat raged within his breast.
And so, whenCooteandTinney’sOwnHad tootled all they knew,And when the Guards, completely blown,Exhaustedly withdrew,
AndNellbegan to sleepy feel,PoorAaronthen would come,And underneath her window wheelHis plain harmonium.
He woke her every morn at two,And having gained her ear,In vivid coloursAarondrewThe sluggard’s grim career.
He warbled Apiarian praise,And taught her in his chantTo shun the dog’s pugnacious ways,And imitate the ant.
StillNellseemed not, how much he played,To love him out and out,Although the admirable maidRespected him, no doubt.
She told him of her early vow,And said asBernard’swifeIt might be hers to show him howTo rectify his life.
“You are so pure, so kind, so true,Your goodness shines so bright,What use wouldEllenbe to you?Believe me, you’re all right.”
She wished him happiness and health,And flew on lightning wingsToBernardwith his dangerous wealthAnd all the woes it brings.
Oh, big was the bosom of braveAlum Bey,And also the region that under it lay,In safety and peril remarkably cool,And he dwelt on the banks of the river Stamboul.
Each morning he went to his garden, to cullA bunch of zenana or sprig of bul-bul,And offered the bouquet, in exquisite bloom,ToBacksheesh, the daughter ofRahat Lakoum.
No maiden likeBacksheeshcould tastily cookA kettle of kismet or joint of tchibouk,AsAlum, brave fellow! sat pensively by,With a bright sympathetic ka-bob in his eye.
Stern duty compelled him to leave her one day—(A ship’s supercargo was braveAlum Bey)—To pretty youngBacksheeshhe made a salaam,And sailed to the isle of Seringapatam.
“OAlum,” said she, “think again, ere you go—Hareems may arise and Moguls they may blow;You may strike on a fez, or be drowned, which is wuss!”ButAlumembraced her and spoke to her thus:
“Cease weeping, fairBacksheesh! I willingly swearCork jackets and trousers I always will wear,And I also throw in a large number of oathsThat I never—no,never—will take off my clothes!”
* * * * *
They left Madagascar away on their right,And made Clapham Common the following night,Then lay on their oars for a fortnight or two,Becalmed in the ocean of Honololu.
One dayAlumsaw, with alarm in his breast,A cloud on the nor-sow-sow-nor-sow-nor-west;The wind it arose, and the crew gave a scream,For they knew it—they knew it!—the dreaded Hareem!!
The mast it went over, and so did the sails,BraveAlumthrew over his casks and his bales;The billows arose as the weather grew thick,And all exceptAlumwere terribly sick.
The crew were but three, but they holloa’d for nine,They howled and they blubbered with wail and with whine:The skipper he fainted away in the fore,For he hadn’t the heart for to skip any more.
“Ho, coward!” saidAlum, “with heart of a child!Thou son of a party whose grave is defiled!IsAlumin terror? isAlumafeard?Ho! ho! If you had one I’d laugh at your beard.”
His eyeball it gleamed like a furnace of coke;He boldly inflated his clothes as he spoke;He daringly felt for the corks on his chest,And he recklessly tightened the belt at his breast.
For he knew, the braveAlum, that, happen what might,With belts and cork-jacketing,hewas all right;Though others might sink, he was certain to swim,—No Hareem whatever had terrors for him!
They begged him to spare from his personal storeA single cork garment—they asked for no more;But he couldn’t, because of the number of oathsThat he never—no, never!—would take off his clothes.
The billows dash o’er them and topple around,They see they are pretty near sure to be drowned.A terrible wave o’er the quarter-deck breaks,And the vessel it sinks in a couple of shakes!
The dreadful Hareem, though it knows how to blow,Expends all its strength in a minute or so;When the vessel had foundered, as I have detailed,The tempest subsided, and quiet prevailed.
One seized on a cork with a yelling “Ha! ha!”(Its bottle had ’prisoned a pint of Pacha)—Another a toothpick—another a tray—“Alas! it is useless!” said braveAlum Bey.
“To holloa and kick is a very bad plan:Get it over, my tulips, as soon as you can;You’d better lay hold of a good lump of lead,And cling to it tightly until you are dead.
“Just raise your hands over your pretty heads—so—Right down to the bottom you’re certain to go.Ta! ta! I’m afraid we shall not meet again”—For the truly courageous are truly humane.
BraveAlumwas picked up the very next day—A man-o’-war sighted him smoking away;With hunger and cold he was ready to drop,So they sent him below and they gave him a chop.
O reader, or readress, whichever you be,You weep for the crew who have sunk in the sea?O reader, or readress, read farther, and dryThe bright sympathetic ka-bob in your eye.
That ship had a grapple with three iron spikes,—It’s lowered, and, ha! on a something it strikes!They haul it aboard with a British “heave-ho!”And what it has fished the drawing will show.
There wasWilson, andParker, andTomlinson, too—(The first was the captain, the others the crew)—As lively and spry as a Malabar ape,Quite pleased and surprised at their happy escape.
AndAlum, brave fellow, who stood in the fore,And never expected to look on them more,Was really delighted to see them again,For the truly courageous are truly humane.
ThisisSir Barnaby Bampton Boo,Last of a noble race,Barnaby Bampton, coming to woo,All at a deuce of a pace.Barnaby Bampton Boo,Here is a health to you:Here is wishing you luck, you elderly buck—Barnaby Bampton Boo!
The excellent women of TuptonveeKnewSir Barnaby Boo;One of them surely his bride would be,But dickens a soul knew who.Women of Tuptonvee,Here is a health to yeFor a Baronet, dears, you would cut off your ears,Women of Tuptonvee!
Here are oldMr. andMrs. de Plow(Peterhis Christian name),They kept seven oxen, a pig, and a cow—Farming it was their game.Worthy oldPeter de Plow,Here is a health to thou:Your race isn’t run, though you’re seventy-one,Worthy oldPeter de Plow!
To excellentMr. andMrs. de PlowCameSir Barnaby Boo,He asked for their daughter, and told ’em as howHe was as rich as a Jew.Barnaby Bampton’swealth,Here is your jolly good health:I’d never repine if you came to be mine,Barnaby Bampton’swealth!
“O greatSir Barnaby Bampton Boo”(SaidPlowto that titled swell),“My missus has given me daughters two—AmeliaandVolatile Nell!”AmeliaandVolatile Nell,I hope you’re uncommonly well:You two pretty pearls—you extremely nice girls—AmeliaandVolatile Nell!
“Ameliais passable only, in face,But, oh! she’s a worthy girl;Superior morals like hers would graceThe home of a belted Earl.”Morality, heavenly link!To you I’ll eternally drink:I’m awfully fond of that heavenly bond,Morality, heavenly link!
“NowNelly’sthe prettier, p’raps, of my gals,But, oh! she’s a wayward chit;She dresses herself in her showy fal-lals,And doesn’t readTuppera bit!”OTupper, philosopher true,How do you happen to do?A publisher looks with respect on your books,For theydosell, philosopher true!
The Bart. (I’ll be hanged if I drink him again,Or care if he’s ill or well),He sneered at the goodness ofMilly the Plain,And cottoned toVolatile Nell!OVolatile Nelly deP.!Be hanged if I’ll empty to thee:I like worthy maids, not mere frivolous jades,Volatile Nelly deP.!
They bolted, the Bart. and his frivolous dear,AndMillywas left to pout;For years they’ve got on very well, as I hear,But soon he will rue it, no doubt.O excellentMilly de Plow,I really can’t drink to you now;My head isn’t strong, and the song has been long,ExcellentMilly de Plow!
Whenman and maiden meet, I like to see a drooping eye,I always droop my own—I am the shyest of the shy.I’m also fond of bashfulness, and sitting down on thorns,For modesty’s a quality that womankind adorns.
Whenever I am introduced to any pretty maid,My knees they knock together, just as if I were afraid;I flutter, and I stammer, and I turn a pleasing red,For to laugh, and flirt, and ogle I consider most ill-bred.
But still in all these matters, as in other things below,There is a proper medium, as I’m about to show.I do not recommend a newly-married pair to tryTo carry on asPetercarried on withSarah Bligh.
Betrothed they were when very young—before they’d learnt to speak(ForSarahwas but six days old, andPeterwas a week);Though little more than babies at those early ages, yetThey bashfully would faint when they occasionally met.
They blushed, and flushed, and fainted, till they reached the age of nine,WhenPeter’sgood papa (he was a Baron of the Rhine)Determined to endeavour some sound argument to findTo bring these shy young people to a proper frame of mind.
He told them that asSarahwas to be hisPeter’sbride,They might at least consent to sit at table side by side;He begged that they would now and then shake hands, till he was hoarse,WhichSarahthought indelicate, andPetervery coarse.
AndPeterin a tremble to the blushing maid would say,“You must excuse papa,Miss Bligh,—it is his mountain way.”SaysSarah, “His behaviour I’ll endeavour to forget,But your papa’s the coarsest person that I ever met.
“He plighted us without our leave, when we were very young,Before we had begun articulating with the tongue.His underbred suggestions fill yourSarahwith alarm;Why, gracious me! he’ll ask us next to walk out arm-in-arm!”
At length whenSarahreached the legal age of twenty-one,The Baron he determined to unite her to his son;AndSarahin a fainting-fit for weeks unconscious lay,AndPeterblushed so hard you might have heard him miles away.
And when the time arrived for takingSarahto his heart,They were married in two churches half-a-dozen miles apart(Intending to escape all public ridicule and chaff),And the service was conducted by electric telegraph.
And when it was concluded, and the priest had said his say,Until the time arrived when they were both to drive away,They never spoke or offered for to fondle or to fawn,Forhewaited in the attic, andshewaited on the lawn.
At length, when four o’clock arrived, and it was time to go,The carriage was announced, but decentSarahanswered “No!Upon my word, I’d rather sleep my everlasting nap,Than go and ride alone withMr. Peterin a trap.”
AndPeter’sover-sensitive and highly-polished mindWouldn’t suffer him to sanction a proceeding of the kind;And further, he declared he suffered overwhelming shocksAt the bare idea of having any coachman on the box.
SoPeterinto one turn-out incontinently rushed,WhileSarahin a second trap sat modestly and blushed;AndMr. Newman’scoachman, on authority I’ve heard,Drove away in gallant style upon the coach-box of a third.
Now, though this modest couple in the matter of the carWere very likely carrying a principle too far,I hold their shy behaviour was more laudable in themThan that ofPeter’sbrother withMiss Sarah’ssisterEm.
Alphonso, who in cool assurance all creation licks,He up and said toEmmie(who had impudence for six),“Miss Emily, I love you—will you marry? Say the word!”AndEmilysaid, “Certainly,Alphonso, like a bird!”
I do not recommend a newly-married pair to tryTo carry on asPetercarried on withSarah Bligh,But still their shy behaviour was more laudable in themThan that ofPeter’sbrother withMiss Sarah’ssisterEm.
Sometime ago, in simple verseI sang the story trueOfCaptain Reece, theMantelpiece,And all her happy crew.
I showed how any captain mayAttach his men to him,If he but heeds their smallest needs,And studies every whim.
Now mark how, by Draconic ruleAndhauteurill-advised,The noblest crew upon the BlueMay be demoralized.
When his ungrateful country placedKindReeceupon half-pay,Without much claimSir Berkelycame,And took command one day.
Sir Berkelywas a martinet—A stern unyielding soul—Who ruled his ship by dint of whipAnd horrible black-hole.
A sailor who was overcomeFrom having freely dined,And chanced to reel when at the wheel,He instantly confined!
And tars who, when an action raged,Appeared alarmed or scared,And those below who wished to go,He very seldom spared.
E’en he who smote his officerFor punishment was booked,And mutinies upon the seasHe rarely overlooked.
In short, the happyMantelpiece,Where all had gone so well,Beneath that foolSir Berkely’sruleBecame a floating hell.
When firstSir Berkelycame aboardHe read a speech to all,And told them how he’d made a vowTo act on duty’s call.
ThenWilliam Lee, he up and said(The Captain’s coxswain he),“We’ve heard the speech your honour’s made,And werry pleased we be.
“We won’t pretend, my lad, as howWe’re glad to lose ourReece;Urbane, polite, he suited quiteThe saucyMantelpiece.
“But if your honour gives your mindTo study all our ways,With dance and song we’ll jog alongAs in those happy days.
“I like your honour’s looks, and feelYou’re worthy of your sword.Your hand, my lad—I’m doosid gladTo welcome you aboard!”
Sir Berkelylooked amazed, as thoughHe didn’t understand.“Don’t shake your head,” goodWilliamsaid,“It is an honest hand.
“It’s grasped a better hand than yourn—Come, gov’nor, I insist!”The Captain stared—the coxswain glared—The hand became a fist!
“Down, upstart!” said the hardy salt;ButBerkelydodged his aim,And made him go in chains below:The seamen murmured “Shame!”
He stopped all songs at 12 p.m.,Stopped hornpipes when at sea,And swore his cot (or bunk) should notBe used by aught than he.
He never joined their daily mess,Nor asked them to his own,But chaffed in gay and social wayThe officers alone.
His First Lieutenant,Peter, wasAs useless as could be,A helpless stick, and always sickWhen there was any sea.
This First Lieutenant proved to beHis foster-sisterMay,Who went to sea for love of heIn masculine array.
And when he learnt the curious fact,Did he emotion show,Or dry her tears or end her fearsBy marrying her? No!
Or did he even try to sootheThis maiden in her teens?Oh, no!—instead he made her wedThe Sergeant of Marines!
Of course such Spartan disciplineWould make an angel fret;They drew a lot, andWilliamshotThis fearful martinet.
The Admiralty saw how illThey’d treatedCaptain Reece;He was restored once more aboardThe saucyMantelpiece.
Igoaway this blessed day,To sail across the sea,Matilda!My vessel starts for various partsAt twenty after three,Matilda.I hardly know where we may go,Or if it’s near or far,Matilda,ForCaptain Hydedoes not confideIn any ’fore-mast tar,Matilda!
Beneath my ban that mystic manShall suffer,coûte qui coûte,Matilda!What right has he to keep from meThe Admiralty route,Matilda?Because, forsooth! I am a youthOf common sailors’ lot,Matilda!Am I a man on human planDesigned, or am I not,Matilda?
But there, my lass, we’ll let that pass!With anxious love I burn,Matilda.I want to know if we shall goTo church when I return,Matilda?Your eyes are red, you bow your head;It’s pretty clear you thirst,Matilda,To name the day—What’s that you say?—“You’ll see me further first,”Matilda?
I can’t mistake the signs you make,Although you barely speak,Matilda;Though pure and young, you thrust your tongueRight in your pretty cheek,Matilda!My dear, I fear I hear you sneer—I do—I’m sure I do,Matilda!With simple grace you make a face,Ejaculating, “Ugh!”Matilda.
Oh, pause to think before you drinkThe dregs of Lethe’s cup,Matilda!Remember, do, what I’ve gone through,Before you give me up,Matilda!Recall again the mental painOf what I’ve had to do,Matilda!And be assured that I’ve enduredIt, all along of you,Matilda!
Do you forget, my blithesome pet,How once with jealous rage,Matilda,I watched you walk and gaily talkWith some one thrice your age,Matilda?You squatted free upon his knee,A sight that made me sad,Matilda!You pinched his cheek with friendly tweak,Which almost drove me mad,Matilda!
I knew him not, but hoped to spotSome man you thought to wed,Matilda!I took a gun, my darling one,And shot him through the head,Matilda!I’m made of stuff that’s rough and gruffEnough, I own; but, ah,Matilda!Itdidannoy your sailor boyTo find it was your pa,Matilda!
I’ve passed a life of toil and strife,And disappointments deep,Matilda;I’ve lain awake with dental acheUntil I fell asleep,Matilda!At times again I’ve missed a train,Or p’rhaps run short of tin,Matilda,And worn a boot on corns that shoot,Or, shaving, cut my chin,Matilda.
But, oh! no trains—no dental pains—Believe me when I say,Matilda,No corns that shoot—no pinching bootUpon a summer day,Matilda—It’s my belief, could cause such griefAs that I’ve suffered for,Matilda,My having shot in vital spotYour old progenitor,Matilda.
Bethink you how I’ve kept the vowI made one winter day,Matilda—That, come what could, I never wouldRemain too long away,Matilda.And, oh! the crimes with which, at times,I’ve charged my gentle mind,Matilda,To keep the vow I made—and nowYou treat me so unkind,Matilda!
For when at sea, off Caribbee,I felt my passion burn,Matilda,By passion egged, I went and beggedThe captain to return,Matilda.And when, my pet, I couldn’t getThat captain to agree,Matilda,Right through a sort of open portI pitched him in the sea,Matilda!
Remember, too, how all the crewWith indignation blind,Matilda,Distinctly swore they ne’er beforeHad thought me so unkind,Matilda.And how they’d shun me one by one—An unforgiving group,Matilda—I stopped their howls and sulky scowlsBy pizening their soup,Matilda!
So pause to think, before you drinkThe dregs of Lethe’s cup,Matilda;Remember, do, what I’ve gone through,Before you give me up,Matilda.Recall again the mental painOf what I’ve had to do,Matilda,And be assured that I’ve enduredIt, all along of you,Matilda!
Arichadvowson, highly prized,For private sale was advertised;And many a parson made a bid;TheReverend Simon Magusdid.
He sought the agent’s: “Agent, IHave come prepared at once to buy(If your demand is not too big)The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge.”
“Ah!” said the agent, “there’sa berth—The snuggest vicarage on earth;No sort of duty (so I hear),And fifteen hundred pounds a year!
“If on the price we should agree,The living soon will vacant be;The good incumbent’s ninety five,And cannot very long survive.
“See—here’s his photograph—you see,He’s in his dotage.” “Ah, dear me!Poor soul!” saidSimon. “His deceaseWould be a merciful release!”
The agent laughed—the agent blinked—The agent blew his nose and winked—And poked the parson’s ribs in play—It was that agent’s vulgar way.
TheReverend Simonfrowned: “I grieveThis light demeanour to perceive;It’s scarcelycomme il faut, I think:Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.
“Don’t dig my waistcoat into holes—Your mission is to sell the soulsOf human sheep and human kidsTo that divine who highest bids.
“Do well in this, and on your headUnnumbered honours will be shed.”The agent said, “Well, truth to tell,Ihavebeen doing very well.”
“You should,” saidSimon, “at your age;But now about the parsonage.How many rooms does it contain?Show me the photograph again.
“A poor apostle’s humble houseMust not be too luxurious;No stately halls with oaken floor—It should be decent and no more.
“No billiard-rooms—no stately trees—No croquêt-grounds or pineries.”“Ah!” sighed the agent, “very true:This property won’t do for you.”
“All these about the house you’ll find.”—“Well,” said the parson, “never mind;I’ll manage to submit to theseLuxurious superfluities.
“A clergyman who does not shirkThe various calls of Christian work,Will have no leisure to employThese ‘common forms’ of worldly joy.
“To preach three times on Sabbath days—To wean the lost from wicked ways—The sick to soothe—the sane to wed—The poor to feed with meat and bread;
“These are the various wholesome waysIn which I’ll spend my nights and days:My zeal will have no time to coolAt croquet, archery, or pool.”
The agent said, “From what I hear,This living will not suit, I fear—There are no poor, no sick at all;For services there is no call.”
The reverend gent looked grave, “Dear me!Then there isno‘society’?—I mean, of course, no sinners thereWhose souls will be my special care?”
The cunning agent shook his head,“No, none—except”—(the agent said)—“TheDuke ofA., theEarl ofB.,TheMarquisC., andViscountD.
“But you will not be quite alone,For though they’ve chaplains of their own,Of course this noble well-bred clanReceive the parish clergyman.”
“Oh, silence, sir!” saidSimonM.,“Dukes—Earls! What should I care for them?These worldly ranks I scorn and flout!”“Of course,” the agent said, “no doubt!”
“Yet I might show these men of birthThe hollowness of rank on earth.”The agent answered, “Very true—But I should not, if I were you.”
“Who sells this rich advowson, pray?”The agent winked—it was his way—“His name isHart; ’twixt me and you,He is, I’m grieved to say, a Jew!”
“A Jew?” saidSimon, “happy find!I purchase this advowson, mind.My life shall be devoted toConverting that unhappy Jew!”
Twobetter friends you wouldn’t passThroughout a summer’s day,ThanDamonand hisPythias,—Two merchant princes they.
At school together they contrivedAll sorts of boyish larks;And, later on, together thrivedAs merry merchants’ clerks.
And then, when many years had flown,They rose together tillThey bought a business of their own—And they conduct it still.
They loved each other all their lives,Dissent they never knew,And, stranger still, their very wivesWere rather friendly too.
Perhaps you think, to serve my ends,These statements I refute,When I admit that these dear friendsWere parties to a suit?
But ’twas a friendly action, forGoodPythias, as you see,Fought merely as executor,AndDamonas trustee.
They laughed to think, as through the throngOf suitors sad they passed,That they, who’d lived and loved so long,Should go to law at last.
The junior briefs they kindly letTwo sucking counsel hold;These learned persons never yetHad fingered suitors’ gold.
But though the happy suitors twoWere friendly as could be,Not so the junior counsel whoWere earning maiden fee.
They too, till then, were friends. At schoolThey’d done each other’s sums,And under Oxford’s gentle ruleHad been the closest chums.
But now they met with scowl and grinIn every public place,And often snapped their fingers inEach other’s learned face.
It almost ended in a fightWhen they on path or stairMet face to face. They made it quiteA personal affair.
And when at length the case was called(It came on rather late),Spectators really were appalledTo see their deadly hate.
One junior rose—with eyeballs tense,And swollen frontal veins:To all his powers of eloquenceHe gave the fullest reins.
His argument was novel—forA verdict he reliedOn blackening the juniorUpon the other side.
“Oh,” said the Judge, in robe and fur,“The matter in disputeTo arbitration pray refer—This is a friendly suit.”
AndPythias, in merry mood,DiggedDamonin the side;AndDamon, tickled with the feud,With other digs replied.
But oh! those deadly counsel twain,Who were such friends before,Were never reconciled again—They quarrelled more and more.
At length it happened that they metOn Alpine heights one day,And thus they paid each one his debt,Their fury had its way—
They seized each other in a trice,With scorn and hatred filled,And, falling from a precipice,They, both of them, were killed.
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.
Ourmagistrates, in duty bound,Commit all robbers who are found;But there the Beaks (so people said)Commit all robberies instead.
OurJudges, 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.