0139m
9140
H Hampstead! cool oasis!
(No longer 'green,' alas)—
Where once a week, on Sunday,
The Cockneys go to grass;
Where spurs the bold Apprentice
Up the astonish'd ride,
Pursued by mild suggestions
Of room to spare inside;
Where Donkey-boys still flourish,
Unawed by Martin's Act,
The lash that drives a squadron
Promiscuously whackt;—
Upon whose hills the dust-wreath
Comes down like the simoom,
Beneath whose slopes the winkle
Has a perennial bloom,—
And whose once chrystal waters
Present the sort of look
The sea did when the savages
Plunged in for Captain Cook;—
I love thee still!—Tho' tarnish'd
Is ev'ry blade and leaf,
Tho' Highgate Fields are bitterness,
And Belsize Park is grief,—
Tho' Brick-kilns are not lovely,
And Railways banish rest,
And Omnibi are hateful
And Hansom Cabs unblest,—
Tho' Pic-nics take the place of Cows,
Tho' Geese are abdicating,
Tho' Boys usurp the haunts of Fish
And Ice-carts spoil the skating;—
I love thee still!—Thy benches,
When no East wind assails,—
Thy turf, sweet to recline upon—
When unengross'd by snails,—
Oh! never may thy blooming heath
By Wilson be enclosed;
Still on thy lawn let fairy feet
Disport them unopposed;
I love thee, yes I love thee still!—
Yet must I fain confess
That ev'ry time I gaze above
Thy spreading chimney-pots, my love
Grows beautifully less!
0143m
9144
F thou wouldst stand on Etna's
burning brow,
With smoke above, and roaring
flame below;
And gaze adown that molten
gulf reveal'd,
Till thy soul shudder'd and thy
senses reel'd.—
If thou wouldst beard Niag'ra in his pride,
Or stem the billows of Propontic tide;
Scale all alone some dizzy Alpine "haut,"
And shriek "Excelsior!" amidst the snow.—
Wouldst tempt all deaths, all dangers that may be,—
Perils by land, and perils on the sea,—
This vast round world, I say, if thou wouldst view it,—
0145m
In the name of Fo,
Thus saith the shadow of Nobody.
9146
ROM many a dark delicious ripple
The Moonbeams drank ethereal tipple;
Whilst over Eastern grove and dell
The perfumed breeze of evening fell,
And the young Bulbul warbling gave
Her music to the answering wave.
But not alone the Bulbul's note
Bade Echo strike her silver lute,
Nor fell the music of her dream
Alone on waving wood and stream;
For thro' the twilight blossoms stray'd,
Enamour'd youth, and fairy maid;
And mingled with her warblings lone
A voice of sweet and playful tone.
"And ah!" the gentlest accents said,
"You bid me name the Task;
"But if you love me as you vow,
"Then give me what I ask!
"No quest for errant knight have I,
"No deed of high emprize;
"No giant Tartars to be slain,
"In homage to my eyes."
"Oh, take my life!" her lover cried,
"Nor break this dream of bliss;
"Take house, or head, or lands, or fame—
"Take evry thing butthis,—
"To gaze upon those silken braids
"Unenvious be my part;
"I could not steal one golden tress,
"To bind it round my heart.
"Tho' all the pearls of Ind were strung
"Upon a single hair,
"I would not cut the shiner off,—
"I wouldn't, Za', I swear."
The lady laughed a careless laugh,—
"While downward flows the river,
"The lover who bids for Zadie's heart
"And hand must make up his mind to part
With the Gift, or part for ever!"
"Remorseless Nymph!" exclaimed the youth,
"Thus stick'ling for a curl,—
"Delilah was a joke to you.
"Excruciating girl;—
"Sole Empress of the breast of Fi,
"Whatcanthe object be,
"For you to get a Lock for which
"You ne'er can get a Key?
"Just think, if I should wear a wig,
"How would you like me, Zadie?
"I'm sure you'll give it up, my sweet,
"Do—there's a gentle Lady!"
The Maiden laugh'd a silv'ry laugh;—
"The white stars set and shiver;
"The lover who bids for Zadie's heart
"And hand, must make up his mind to part
"With the Gift—or part for ever"
9150
HE stars were out on the lake,
The silk sail stirr'd the skiff;
And faint on the billow, and fresh on the breeze,
The summer came up thro' the cinnamon trees
With an odoriferous sniff.
There was song in the scented air,
And a light in the listening leaves,—
The light of the myriad myrtle fly,
When young Fo-Fum and little Fe-Fi
Came forth to gaze upon the sky—&c.!
Oh! little Fe-Fi was fair,
With the rose in her raven hair!
From her almond eyes, and celestial nose,
To the tips of her imperceptible toes &c.
Fo-Fum stood tall I wis,
(May his shadow never be less!)
A highly irresistible male,
The ladies turn'd pale
At the length of his nail
And the twirl of his unapproachable tail &c.
"Now listen, Mooo-mine, my Star!
My life! my little Fe-Fi;
For over the blossom and under the bough
There's a soft little word that is whispering now
Which I think you can guess if you try!
In the bosom of faithful Fum,
There's a monosyllabic hum,—
A little wee word Fe-Fi can spell,
Concluding with 'E,' and beginning with 'L,' &c."
"Oh! dear, now what can it be?
That little wee word Fo-Fum?
That funny wee word that sounds so absurd
With an 'E' and an 'L' and a 'Hum!'
A something that ends with an E?—
It must be my cousin So-Sle?
"Or pretty Pe-Pale
Who admired your tail?—
I shall never guess what it can be
I can see
That is spelt with an L and an El
I never shall guess, if I die—
Fo-Fum, sir, I'm going to cry!—
Oh, dear how my heart is beginning to beat!
Why there's silly Fo-Fum on his knees at my feet," &c.
Deponent knoweth not,
History showeth not,
If the lady read the riddle;
And whether she found
It hard to expound—
As the story ends in the middle.
Was gallant Fo-Fum
Constrain'd to succumb
To the "thrall of delicious fetters,"—
Or pretty Fe-Fi
Induced to supply
The text of the missing letters?
Oh, no one can tell!
But this extract looks well,
Faute de mieux (e. g. "want of a betterer")—
"Received: by Hang-Hi,
"From Fo-Fum, for Fe-Fi,
"A thousand dollars" &c!
9154
DREAMT it! such a funny
thing
And now it's taken wing:
I s'pose no man before or
since
Dreamt such a funny thing.
It had a monkey—in a trap—
Suspended by the tail:
Oh! but that monkey look'd distress'd,
And his countenance was pale.
And he had danced and dangled there;
Till he grew very mad:
For his tail it was a handsome tail
And the trap had pinch'd it—bad.
The trapper sat below, and grinn'd;
His victim's wrath wax'd hot:—
He bit his tail—and fell—and kill'd
The trapper on the spot:—
It had a pig—a stately pig;
With curly tail and quaint:
And the Great Mogul had hold of that
Till he was like to faint.
So twenty thousand Chinamen;
With three tails each at least:
Came up to help the Great Mogul
And took him round the waist.
And so, the tail slipp'd through his hands;
And so it came to pass;
That twenty thousand Chinamen
Sat down upon the grass:—
It had a Khan—a Tartar Khan—
With tail superb, I wis:
And that fell graceful down a back
Which was consider'd his.
And so, all sorts of boys that were
Accursed, swung by it:
Till he grew savage in his mind
And vex'd, above a bit—
And so, he swept his tail, as one
Awak'ning from a dream:
And those abominable ones
Flew off into the stream—
And so, they hobbled up and down,
Like many apples there:
Till they subsided—and became
Amongst the things that were:—
And so it had a moral too;
That would be bad to lose:
"Whoever takes atailin hand
Should mind his p's andqueues."
I dreamt it!—such a funny thing!
And now it's taken wing;
I s'pose no man before or since
Dreamt such a funny thing!
5159
0158m
9160
AS any one read the great lunacy case?
The case that's Lock'd, and Labell'd, and
Laced
With a Tissue of lies, and a Docket of 'waste,'
And a golden Key, the reverse of chased,
(Tho' hunted thro' the Hilary)—
Has any one read how the Law can hound,
And badger, and bully a man,'till it's bound
A mortgage on ev'ry acre of ground
And robb'd him of sixty thousand pound—
Without being put in the pillory?
Has any one read—does any one know—
If he marries a wife who's not quitecomme il,
And a handsome estate should inherit,—
What a suit of chancery can effect,
To strip him, even of self-respect,
Hold him up to scorn contempt; and neglect,
And ruin him, body and spirit?
Has any one read—mark'd—weigh'd—the worth
Of a common name and a kindred birth,
A Brother's—Uncle's—love upon earth,
To the love that is filthy lucre's?
How day after day, without being hurt,
A man can drag his own flesh thro' the dirt
For a thousand pounds at his Broker's?
Yes, ev'ry one's read—we all of us know—
What man's 'first friend* could become his worst foe,
Bring him up in the way he ought not to go,—
Then lie, to make him a beggar;—
Turn him loose upon Town without guardian or friend,—
Lay traps in his paths lest they happen'd to mend,—
Set spies to note ev'ry shilling he'd spend—
Ev'iy pitiful pound he might borrow or lend,—
And dip his fingers in slime without end—
We can guess who cuts such a figure!
9163
HE shades of night had fallen (at
When from the Eagle Tavern pass'd
A youth, who bore, in manual vice,
A pot of something monstrous nice—
'X—X:' Haw haw!
His brow was bad:—his young eye scann'd
The frothing flaggon in his hand,
And like a gurgling streamlet sprung
The accents to that thirsty tongue,
X—X: Haw haw!
In happy homes he saw them grub
On stout, and oysters from a tub,—
The dismal gas-lights gleam'd without,
And from his lips escaped a shout,
"X—X: Haw haw!"
"Young man," the Sage observed, "just stay,
"And let me dip my beak, I say—
"The pewter is deep, and I am dry!"
"Perceiv'st thou verdure in my eye?
"X—X? Haw haw!"
"Oh stop," the maiden cried, "and lend
"Thy beery burden here, my friend—"
Th' unbidden tear regretful rose,
But still his thumb tip sought his nose;
"X—X? Haw haw!"
"Beware the gutter at thy feet!
"Beware the Dragons of the street!
"Beware lest Thirsty Bob you meet!"
This was the ultimate remark;
A voice replied far thro' the dark,
"X—X? Haw haw!"
That night, by watchmen on their round,
The person in a ditch was found;
Still grasping in his manual vice
That pot—once fill'd with something nice.—
X—X: Haw haw!!
0165m
(After T—s H—d.)
9167
IFE! what depths of mystery
hide
In the oceans of Hate and the
rivers of Pride,
That mingle in Tribulation's
tide,
To quench the spark,
Vitality!
What chords of Love and "bands" of Hope,
Were "made strong" (without the use of rope)
In the Thread—Individuality.
Life! what a web of follies and fears,
Pleasures and griefs, sighs, smiles and tears,
Are twined in the woof that Mortality's shears
Must be everlastingly thinning,—
What holes for Physician Death to darn,
Are eternally spun in the wonderful yam
That the Fates are eternally spinning!
Life! what marvellous throbs and throes
The alchemy of Existence knows;
What "weals within wheels" (and woes withoutwohs!)
Give sophistry a handle;
Though Hare * himself could be dipp'd in the well
Where Truth's proverbial waters dwell,
It would throw no more light on the vital spell
Than a dip in the Polytechnic bell,
Or the dip—a ha'penny candle!
Alas! for the metaphysical host;
The wonderful wit and wisdom they boast,
* C. J. Hare, author of "Guesses at Truth."
When the time arrives they must give up the ghost,
Become quite phantasmagorical,—
And it's found at the last that they know as much
Of the secret of LIFE—as they do of Dutch—
Or, if a lame verse may borrow a crutch,
As was known by the Delphic Oracle.
Into being we come, in ones and twos,
To be kiss'd, to be cuffd, to obey, to abuse,
Each destined to stand in another's shoes
To whose heels we may come the nighest;
This turns at once into Luxury's bed,
Whilst that in a gutter lays his head,
And this—in a house with a wooden lid
And a roof that's none of the highest.
We fall like the drops of April show'rs,
Cradled in mud or cradled in flow'rs,
Now idly to wile the rosy hours,
And now for bread to importune;
Petted, and fêted, and fed upon pap
One prattler comes in for a fortune, slap—
And one—a "more kicks than ha'pence chap"—
For a slap—without the fortune!
0170m
Who hasn't heard of the infant squall?
Sharper, shriller, and longer than all
The Nor'-wester squalls, that may chance to befall
At Cape Horn, as nauticals tell us;
And who,—oh who?—hasn't heard before
The dulcet tones of the infant roar?
Ear-piercing in at the drawing room door—
Down-bellowing, right thro' the nursery floor—
Like a hundred power bellows?
Alas! that the very rosiest wreath
Should ever be twined with a thorn beneath!
Forth peeping, from purple and damask sheath,
In a manner quite anti-floral;
And startling, as when to that Indian root
The traveller stretches his hand for the fruit,
And a crested head comes glittering out
With a tongue that is somewhat forkèd no doubt,
And a tail—that has quite a moral!
And who'd have believed that diminutive thing
Just form'd as you'd say, to kiss and to cling,
Would ever have opened, except to sing,
Those lips, that look so choral?
Behold the soft little struggling ball!
With rosy niouth ever ready to squall,
Kicking and crowing and grasping "small,"
At its Indiarrabber dangle,—
Whilst tiny fists in the pillows lurk
That are destined perhaps for fighting the Turk,
And doing no end of mangling work,
Or perhaps, for working a mangle!
'Tis passing strange, that all over the earth
Men talk of the "stars" that "rule" at their birth,
For little such dazzling sponsors are worth,
Whate'er Cagliostro may say;
Tho' all the Bears in the heav'ns combined—
Mars, Mercury, Venus, and Jupiter shined,
In our glitt'ring horoscope, we shall find
Most men who are bom of woman kind
Are born in themilky-way.
In the milky-way! ev'ry mother's son;
From the son of a lord, to the 'son of a gun,'
Of colors, red, brown and yellow and dun,
An astonishing constellation;
From the black Papouse of the Cape de Verd,
The cream of Tartar, and scum of Kurd,
To the son and heir of Napoleon the Third,
Who sucks—to the joy of a Nation!
And that puny atom may happen to claim
The yeiy first round on the Ladder of Fame,
At the general conflagration.
The squeaky voice may be heard ere long
In the shout of the battle, deep and strong,
Like the brazen clash of a mighty gong
That has broken loose from tether;
Whilst many a hardy bosom quails
And many a swarthy visage pales
At the griffin clutch of those tender nails
As they come to the "scratch" together.
But well says a poet of rising fame,*
That to hint at an 'infantile frailty's' a shame
For the Baby-days have come round the same
To us all, and we can't but confess'em;
* F. Locker, Author of London Lyrics, &c.
When the brawny hands, that can rend an oak,
Went both into Mammy's mouth for a joke!—
And the feet that stand like the solid rock,
Were "tootsies pootsies, bless'em!"
When to howl was the only accomplishment rife
In our 'tight little bundle' of wailing and strife,
And pap was the summum bonum of life,
To a mouth in perpetual pucker;
When "Ma" was a semi-intelligent lump,
Possess'd by a mania for making us "plump,"
And "Nus" was an inexhaustible pump
With an everlasting "sucker."
Yet, laugh if we will at those baby-days,
There was more of bliss in its careless plays,
Than in after time from the careful ways
Or the hollow world, with its empty praise,
Its honey'd speeches, and hackney'd phrase,
And its pleasures, for ever fleeting,—
And more of sense in its bald little pate,
On its own little matters of Church and State,
Than in many a House of Commons' debate,
Or the "sense" of a Manchester meeting!
And laugh as we may, it would make us start,
Could we read the depths of its mother's heart,—
Or imagine one twenty-thousandth part
Of the feelings that stir within it;
What a freight that little existence bears
Of pallid smiles and tremulous tears,
Of joys never breathed into mortal ears,
Griefs that the callous world never hears,
SufFring that only the more endears,
And love, that would reach into endless years,
Snuff' d out, it may be, in a minute!
Would you look on a mother in all her pride?
Her radiant, dazzling, glorious pride?—
Then seek yon garret—leaden-eyed—
And thrust the mouldering panel aside—
The door that has nothing to lock it,—
And the walls are tatter'd, and damp, and drear,
And the light has a quivering gleam, like fear,
For the hand of Sickness is heavy here
And the lamp bums low in the socket.
Mid rags, and want, and misery, piled,
A woman is watching her stricken child,
With a love so tender, a look so mild,
That the patient little sufTrer has smil'd—
A smile that is strangely fair!—
And lo! in that chamber, poverty-dyed,
A mother in all her dazzling pride—
A glorious mother is there!
And the child is squalid, and puny, and thin,—
But HUSH—hush your voice as you enter in!
Nor dare to despise, lest a deadly sin
On your soul rest unforgiven;—
Perchance, oh scornful and worldly-wise,
A Shakespeare dreams in those thoughtful eyes—
A Newton looks out at the starry skies—
Or a prison'd angel in calm surprise
Looks back to its Heaven!
Life, life! a year or two more,
And the Bark has launch'd from the quiet shore
To the restless waves that bubble and roar,
Where the billow never slumbers,—
And the storms of fate have caught in the sail,
And the sharks are gathering thick on his trail,
Like a New Edition of Jonah's whale—
That is coming out in Numbers!*
Tempus, time,—fuflit, flies!
And the ship returns with a gallant prize,
A fairy Craft of diminutive size,
Or perhaps with a huge Three-decker;
He has sailed from the matrimonial shore,
With a 'breeze' at starting, and 'squalls' before,
And he's married a Blue, or he's wed to a Bore,
Or perhaps—to my Lady Pecker!
"'Puck on Pegasus' is at the same time the handsomest and cheapest book of the kind that we have ever seen.... Puck, as he careers through the world on his mad horse, shoots arrows of the pleasantest raillery, dipped in Eau de Cologne rather than gall, at the follies of the season, the artistic foibles of literary celebrities, and the affectations of all classes, high and low. The wee, mocking urchin indites a sonnet in the style of Martin Tupper, mimics Mrs. Browning, trills a song ofIn- the-waterafter the fashion of Longfellow; and, with the aid of a black cat, stirs up 'a shocking sort of knocking at your chamber door,' that reminds the beating heart of Edgar Poe. He induces Tennyson to write theCharge of the Light (Irish) Brigadeand gives us a lay ofThe Fight for the Championshipby Lord Macaulay. Some of the youngster's capers are certainly unjustifiable; but extravagant mirth is never severely judged when it expresses itself in easy running verses, the music of which is as sweet as their rhymes are ingenious and unexpected. Moreover, though Mr. Pennell's muse respects neither the age nor fame of those whom he satirises, he never forgets gentlemanly con—sideration for the feelings of his readers. A joke that would bring a blush to a maiden's cheek, or a sarcasm aimed at the inoffensive, are not to be found in his poems. Nor do we draw attention to the prevailing lightness of his muse in a spirit of condemnation, but rather of regret that the fine feeling and pathetic force manifested in the treatment of his two finest pieces/ theNight Mail North, and theDerbyshould have inspired him less frequently than mere gaiety of heart.... The rhythm and rugged swing of theNight Mail North, will give the reader a taste of Mr. Pennell's higher qualities."
"—— Mr. Pennell's parodies and imitations are certainly above the average; they are at times, it is true, somewhat unequal, but there is a good deal of vigorous and healthy versification scattered throughout the volume."... "He has, moreover, studied with considerable advantage what is vulgarly termed the art of 'selling,' more properly described as a species of bathos. Barham, of theIngoldsby Legends, as well as Hood and Bon
Gualtier, excelled greatly in this. Such pieces usually give scope for some pretty writing at their commencement, which the reader may accept seriously or ironically as he should feel disposed. The absurdity or satire is condensed generally into the last one or two lines. Mr. Pennell's stanzas headedAh / Who, are among his most neat and amusing efforts of this character."... "No doubt the works of Hood have exercised a con—siderable influence on Mr. Pennell's versification; and in this school he may be fairly considered to have enrolled himself.
"TheDerby Dayis one of the most spirited sketches in this volume. The first three lines of our extract are excellent in their way, and have a fine healthyélanabout them. The absence of the word 'trump' would render them eligible for quotation in much higher poetical company. The next verse, of a decidedly lower order, may still be given as a very fair reproduction of Hood's peculiar style and humour. Our author is telling how thé Derby favourite breaks his neck in the race:—
'He fell like a trump in the foremost
place—
He died with the rushing wind on his
face—
At the wildest bound of his glorious
pace—
In the mad exulting revel
He left his shoes to his son and heir,
His hocks to a champagne-dealer at Ware,
A lock of his hair
To the Lady-Mare,
And his hoofs and his tail to the——!
"There are also to be found some prettyish bits of descriptive verse, of which the following may be quoted, from the so-called song ofIn-the-Waterwith Longfellow's metre preserved:—
'Down into the water stept she,
Down into the tranquil nver,
Like a red deer in the sunset—
Like a ripe leaf in the autumn!
Ever from her lips of coral,
From her lips like roses snow-flll'd,
Came a soft and dreamy murmur,
Softer than the murm'ring river!
Sighs that melted as the snows melt,
Silently and sweetly melted.'
"We should advise Mr. Pennell, on the first available occasion, to disem—barrass himself here of the stock-in-trade 'lips of coral.' This passage would be materially improved by the omission. Again, in theNight Mail North, our author seems at home in his subject, and writes with considerable effect
"Tis a splendid race I a race against
Time,—
'The quivering carriages rock and reel,
Hurrah! for the rush of the grinding
steel!
And a thousand to one we win it.
Look at those flitting ghosts—
The thundering crank, and the mighty
The white-arm'd finger-posts— wheel!—'
If we're moving the eighth of an inch, Isay,
We're going a mile a minute!...'
"The last line but one is powerful enough, and the best in the extract. There is plenty of poetry in railways and steam engines; and now that other mines of inspiration are growing somewhat exhausted, we cannot see why a new shaft should not be run in this direction. Many of our readers may find, besides these extracts, much that is clever and amusing in 'Puck on Pegasus.'"
"To be funny without being vulgar, to tell a story with gestures and yet not become a buffoon, to parody a poet and yet retain the flavour of his real poetry, to turn all the finest feelings of the heart into fun, and yet not to be coarse or unfeeling, is not granted by Apollo to every writer of humorous poems."... "Mr. Pennell is an excellent parodyist, an ingenious punster, a reviver and modifier of existing systems of fun, a vigorous worker of veins of humour not yet carried for enough."... "Of all the poems, we like best theNight Mail North, which has a singular weird power about it that takes a hold on the imagination....Lord Jolly Green's Courtshipis a well-written parody on a well-known poem of Mrs. Browning. Next best is, perhaps, theSayers and Heenan Fight, a very vigorous imitation of Lord Macaulay'sComan Ballads.There is a great rush and gallop about theDerby Day; the lines at the end are- not unworthy of Hood's playful thoughtfulness."
"There is, without doubt, a good deal of humorous verse in this gaily got up and cleverly illustrated volume.... But there are better things than slang versides in Mr. Pennell's book, and more striking lines than those which are printed in black letters. TheDerby Dayoffers a favourable example of a popular subject well treated, in which the scene is vividly and often poetically depicted. TheFight for the Championship, written in imitation of Lord Macaulay'sHoratius, is also very well done.... The measure of the author's power may, however, be taken from the poem emtitledThe Night Mail North, one of the best things the book contains..... Let Mr. Pennell trust to the original strength that is in him, and he may bestride his 'Pegasus' without fear."
"When a gentleman means to be absurd, and at the same time can support his pretensions to amuse his readers with cleverness, we know how to accost him. 'Puck on Pegasus' is full of those eccentricities which make one laugh in spite of oneself, or in unison with oneself, according as one takes it up in a grave or a gay humour. It reminds one of theBon Gaultier Balladsof some years ago.... The illustrations are capital, as they were likely to be considering whose they are."