Oh! little maid!—(I do not know your nameOr who you are, so, as a safe precautionI’ll add)—Oh, buxom widow! married dame!(As one of these must be your present portion)Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you,And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.
You’ll marry soon—within a year or twain—A bachelor ofcircatwo and thirty:Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain,And when you’re intimate, you’ll call him “Bertie.”Neat—dresses well; his temper has been classifiedAs hasty; but he’s very quickly pacified.
You’ll find him working mildly at the Bar,After a touch at two or three professions,From easy affluence extremely far,A brief or two on Circuit—“soup” at Sessions;A pound or two from whist and backing horses,And, say three hundred from his own resources.
Quiet in harness; free from serious vice,His faults are not particularly shady,You’ll never find him “shy”—for, once or twiceAlready, he’s been driven by a lady,Who parts with him—perhaps a poor excuse for him—Because she hasn’t any further use for him.
Oh! bride of mine—tall, dumpy, dark, or fair!Oh! widow—wife, maybe, or blushing maiden,I’ve toldyourfortune; solved the gravest careWith which your mind has hitherto been laden.I’ve prophesied correctly, never doubt it;Now tell me mine—and please be quick about it!
You—only you—can tell me, an’ you will,To whom I’m destined shortly to be mated,Will she run up a heavymodiste’sbill?If so, I want to hear her income stated(This is a point which interests me greatly).To quote the bard, “Oh! have I seen her lately?”
Say, must I wait till husband number oneIs comfortably stowed away at Woking?How is her hair most usually done?And tell me, please, will she object to smoking?The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention:Come, Sibyl, prophesy—I’m all attention.
Iknewa boor—a clownish card(His only friends were pigs and cows andThe poultry of a small farmyard),Who came into two hundred thousand.
Good fortune worked no change inBrown,Though she’s a mighty social chymist;He was a clown—and by a clownI do not mean a pantomimist.
It left him quiet, calm, and cool,Though hardly knowing what a crown was—You can’t imagine what a foolPoor rich uneducatedBrownwas!
He scouted all who wished to comeAnd give him monetary schooling;And I propose to give you someIdea of his insensate fooling.
I formed a company or two—(Of course I don’t know what the rest meant,I formed them solely with a viewTo help him to a sound investment).
Their objects were—their only cares—To justify their Boards in showingA handsome dividend on sharesAnd keep their good promoter going.
But no—the lout sticks to his brass,Though shares at par I freely proffer:Yet—will it be believed?—the assDeclines, with thanks, my well-meant offer!
He adds, with bumpkin’s stolid grin(A weakly intellect denoting),He’d rather not invest it inA company of my promoting!
“You have two hundred ‘thou’ or more,”Said I. “You’ll waste it, lose it, lend it;Come, take my furnished second floor,I’ll gladly show you how to spend it.”
But will it be believed that he,With grin upon his face of poppy,Declined my aid, while thanking meFor what he called my “philanthroppy”?
Some blind, suspicious fools rejoiceIn doubting friends who wouldn’t harm them;They will not hear the charmer’s voice,However wisely he may charm them!
I showed him that his coat, all dust,Top boots and cords provoked compassion,And proved that men of station mustConform to the decrees of fashion.
I showed him where to buy his hatTo coat him, trouser him, and boot him;But no—he wouldn’t hear of that—“He didn’t think the style would suit him!”
I offered him a county seat,And made no end of an oration;I made it certainty complete,And introduced the deputation.
But no—the clown my prospect blights—(The worth of birth it surely teaches!)“Why should I want to spend my nightsIn Parliament, a-making speeches?
“I haven’t never been to school—I ain’t had not no eddication—And I should surely be a foolTo publish that to all the nation!”
I offered him a trotting horse—No hack had ever trotted faster—I also offered him, of course,A rare and curious “old master.”
I offered to procure him weeds—Wines fit for one in his position—But, though an ass in all his deeds,He’d learnt the meaning of “commission.”
He called me “thief” the other day,And daily from his door he thrusts me;Much more of this, and soon I mayBegin to think thatBrownmistrusts me.
So deaf to all sound Reason’s ruleThis poor uneducated clown is,You cannotfancy what a foolPoor rich uneducatedBrownis.
Ofall the youths I ever sawNone were so wicked, vain, or silly,So lost to shame and Sabbath law,As worldlyTom, andBob, andBilly.
For every Sabbath day they walked(Such was their gay and thoughtless natur)In parks or gardens, where they talkedFrom three to six, or even later.
Sir Macklinwas a priest severeIn conduct and in conversation,It did a sinner good to hearHim deal in ratiocination.
He could in every action showSome sin, and nobody could doubt him.He argued high, he argued low,He also argued round about him.
He wept to think each thoughtless youthContained of wickedness a skinful,And burnt to teach the awful truth,That walking out on Sunday’s sinful.
“Oh, youths,” said he, “I grieve to findThe course of life you’ve been and hit on—Sit down,” said he, “and never mindThe pennies for the chairs you sit on.
“My opening head is ‘Kensington,’How walking there the sinner hardens,Which when I have enlarged upon,I go to ‘Secondly’—its ‘Gardens.’
“My ‘Thirdly’ comprehendeth ‘Hyde,’Of Secresy the guilts and shameses;My ‘Fourthly’—‘Park’—its verdure wide—My ‘Fifthly’ comprehends ‘St. James’s.’
“That matter settled, I shall reachThe ‘Sixthly’ in my solemn tether,And show that what is true of each,Is also true of all, together.
“Then I shall demonstrate to you,According to the rules ofWhately,That what is true of all, is trueOf each, considered separately.”
In lavish stream his accents flow,Tom,Bob, andBillydare not flout him;He argued high, he argued low,He also argued round about him.
“Ha, ha!” he said, “you loathe your ways,You writhe at these my words of warning,In agony your hands you raise.”(And so they did, for they were yawning.)
To “Twenty-firstly” on they go,The lads do not attempt to scout him;He argued high, he argued low,He also argued round about him.
“Ho, ho!” he cries, “you bow your crests—My eloquence has set you weeping;In shame you bend upon your breasts!”(And so they did, for they were sleeping.)
He proved them this—he proved them that—This good but wearisome ascetic;He jumped and thumped upon his hat,He was so very energetic.
His Bishop at this moment chancedTo pass, and found the road encumbered;He noticed how the Churchman danced,And how his congregation slumbered.
The hundred and eleventh headThe priest completed of his stricture;“Oh, bosh!” the worthy Bishop said,And walked him off as in the picture.
’Twason the shores that round our coastFrom Deal to Ramsgate span,That I found alone on a piece of stoneAn elderly naval man.
His hair was weedy, his beard was long,And weedy and long was he,And I heard this wight on the shore recite,In a singular minor key:
“Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,And the mate of theNancybrig,And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain’s gig.”
And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,Till I really felt afraid,For I couldn’t help thinking the man had been drinking,And so I simply said:
“Oh, elderly man, it’s little I knowOf the duties of men of the sea,And I’ll eat my hand if I understandHowever you can be
“At once a cook, and a captain bold,And the mate of theNancybrig,And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain’s gig.”
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, whichIs a trick all seamen larn,And having got rid of a thumping quid,He spun this painful yarn:
“’Twas in the good shipNancy BellThat we sailed to the Indian Sea,And there on a reef we come to grief,Which has often occurred to me.
“And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned(There was seventy-seven o’ soul),And only ten of theNancy’smenSaid ‘Here!’ to the muster-roll.
“There was me and the cook and the captain bold,And the mate of theNancybrig,And the bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain’s gig.
“For a month we’d neither wittles nor drink,Till a-hungry we did feel,So we drawed a lot, and, accordin’ shotThe captain for our meal.
“The next lot fell to theNancy’smate,And a delicate dish he made;Then our appetite with the midshipmiteWe seven survivors stayed.
“And then we murdered the bo’sun tight,And he much resembled pig;Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,On the crew of the captain’s gig.
“Then only the cook and me was left,And the delicate question, ‘WhichOf us two goes to the kettle?’ arose,And we argued it out as sich.
“For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,And the cook he worshipped me;But we’d both be blowed if we’d either be stowedIn the other chap’s hold, you see.
“‘I’ll be eat if you dines off me,’ saysTom;‘Yes, that,’ says I, ‘you’ll be,—‘I’m boiled if I die, my friend,’ quoth I;And ‘Exactly so,’ quoth he.
“Says he, ‘DearJames, to murder meWere a foolish thing to do,For don’t you see that you can’t cookme,While I can—and will—cookyou!’
“So he boils the water, and takes the saltAnd the pepper in portions true(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,And some sage and parsley too.
“‘Come here,’ says he, with a proper pride,Which his smiling features tell,‘’T will soothing be if I let you seeHow extremely nice you’ll smell.’
“And he stirred it round and round and round,And he sniffed at the foaming froth;When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squealsIn the scum of the boiling broth.
“And I eat that cook in a week or less,And—as I eating beThe last of his chops, why, I almost drops,For a wessel in sight I see!
* * * *
“And I never larf, and I never smile,And I never lark nor play,But sit and croak, and a single jokeI have—which is to say:
“Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,And the mate of theNancybrig,And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain’s gig!’”
Fromeast and south the holy clanOf Bishops gathered to a man;To Synod, called Pan-Anglican,In flocking crowds they came.Among them was a Bishop, whoHad lately been appointed toThe balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo,AndPeterwas his name.
His people—twenty-three in sum—They played the eloquent tum-tum,And lived on scalps served up, in rum—The only sauce they knew.When first goodBishop Petercame(ForPeterwas that Bishop’s name),To humour them, he did the sameAs they of Rum-ti-Foo.
His flock, I’ve often heard him tell,(His name wasPeter) loved him well,And, summoned by the sound of bell,In crowds together came.“Oh, massa, why you go away?Oh,Massa Peter, please to stay.”(They called himPeter, people say,Because it was his name.)
He told them all good boys to be,And sailed away across the sea,At London Bridge that Bishop heArrived one Tuesday night;And as that night he homeward strodeTo his Pan-Anglican abode,He passed along the Borough Road,And saw a gruesome sight.
He saw a crowd assembled roundA person dancing on the ground,Who straight began to leap and boundWith all his might and main.To see that dancing man he stopped,Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped,Then down incontinently dropped,And then sprang up again.
The Bishop chuckled at the sight.“This style of dancing would delightA simple Rum-ti-Foozleite.I’ll learn it if I can,To please the tribe when I get back.”He begged the man to teach his knack.“Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack,”Replied that dancing man.
The dancing man he worked away,And taught the Bishop every day—The dancer skipped like any fay—GoodPeterdid the same.The Bishop buckled to his task,Withbattements, andpas de basque.(I’ll tell you, if you care to ask,ThatPeterwas his name.)
“Come, walk like this,” the dancer said,“Stick out your toes—stick in your head,Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread—Your fingers thus extend;The attitude’s considered quaint.”The weary Bishop, feeling faint,Replied, “I do not say it ain’t,But ‘Time!’ my Christian friend!”
“We now proceed to something new—Dance as thePaynesandLaurisdo,Like this—one, two—one, two—one, two.”The Bishop, never proud,But in an overwhelming heat(His name wasPeter, I repeat)Performed thePayneandLaurifeat,And puffed his thanks aloud.
Another game the dancer planned—“Just take your ankle in your hand,And try, my lord, if you can stand—Your body stiff and stark.If, when revisiting your see,You learnt to hop on shore—like me—The novelty would striking be,And must attract remark.”
“No,” said the worthy Bishop, “no;That is a length to which, I trow,Colonial Bishops cannot go.You may express surpriseAt finding Bishops deal in pride—But if that trick I ever tried,I should appear undignifiedIn Rum-ti-Foozle’s eyes.
“The islanders of Rum-ti-FooAre well-conducted persons, whoApprove a joke as much as you,And laugh at it as such;But if they saw their Bishop land,His leg supported in his hand,The joke they wouldn’t understand—’Twould pain them very much!”
(To be sung to the Air of the“Whistling Oyster.”)
Anelderly person—a prophet by trade—With his quips and tipsOn withered old lips,He married a young and a beautiful maid;The cunning old blade!Though rather decayed,He married a beautiful, beautiful maid.
She was only eighteen, and as fair as could be,With her tempting smilesAnd maidenly wiles,And he was a trifle past seventy-three:Now what she could seeIs a puzzle to me,In a prophet of seventy—seventy-three!
Of all their acquaintances bidden (or bad)With their loud high jinksAnd underbred winks,None thought they’d a family have—but they had;A dear little ladWho drove ’em half mad,For he turned out a horribly fast little cad.
For when he was born he astonished all by,With their “Law, dear me!”“Did ever you see?”He’d a pipe in his mouth and a glass in his eye,A hat all awry—An octagon tie—And a miniature—miniature glass in his eye.
He grumbled at wearing a frock and a cap,With his “Oh, dear, oh!”And his “Hang it! ’oo know!”And he turned up his nose at his excellent pap—“My friends, it’s a tapDat is not worf a rap.”(Now this was remarkably excellent pap.)
He’d chuck his nurse under the chin, and he’d say,With his “Fal, lal, lal”—“’Oo doosed fine gal!”This shocking precocity drove ’em away:“A month from to-dayIs as long as I’ll stay—Then I’d wish, if you please, for to toddle away.”
His father, a simple old gentleman, heWith nursery rhymeAnd “Once on a time,”Would tell him the story of “Little Bo-P,”“So pretty was she,So pretty and wee,As pretty, as pretty, as pretty could be.”
But the babe, with a dig that would startle an ox,With his “C’ck! Oh, my!—Go along wiz ’oo, fie!”Would exclaim, “I’m afraid ’oo a socking ole fox.”Now a father it shocks,And it whitens his locks,When his little babe calls him a shocking old fox.
The name of his father he’d couple and pair(With his ill-bred laugh,And insolent chaff)With those of the nursery heroines rare—Virginia the Fair,Or Good Goldenhair,Till the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear.
“There’s Jill and White Cat” (said the bold little brat,With his loud, “Ha, ha!”)“’Oo sly ickle Pa!Wiz ’oo Beauty, Bo-Peep, and ’oo Mrs. Jack Sprat!I’ve noticed ’oo patMypretty White Cat—I sink dear mamma ought to know about dat!”
He early determined to marry and wive,For better or worseWith his elderly nurse—Which the poor little boy didn’t live to contrive:His hearth didn’t thrive—No longer alive,He died an enfeebled old dotard at five!
MORAL.
Now, elderly men of the bachelor crew,With wrinkled hoseAnd spectacled nose,Don’t marry at all—you may take it as trueIf ever you doThe step you will rue,For your babes will be elderly—elderly too.
“Gentle, modest little flower,Sweet epitome of May,Love me but for half an hour,Love me, love me, little fay.”Sentences so fiercely flamingIn your tiny shell-like ear,I should always be exclaimingIf I loved you,Phœbedear.
“Smiles that thrill from any distanceShed upon me while I sing!Please ecstaticize existence,Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!”Words like these, outpouring sadlyYou’d perpetually hear,If I loved you fondly, madly;—But I do not,Phœbedear.
Ofall the good attorneys whoHave placed their names upon the roll,But few could equalBaines CarewFor tender-heartedness and soul.
Whene’er he heard a tale of woeFrom client A or client B,His grief would overcome him soHe’d scarce have strength to take his fee.
It laid him up for many days,When duty led him to distrain,And serving writs, although it pays,Gave him excruciating pain.
He made out costs, distrained for rent,Foreclosed and sued, with moistened eye—No bill of costs could representThe value of such sympathy.
No charges can approximateThe worth of sympathy with woe;—Although I think I ought to stateHe did his best to make them so.
Of all the many clients whoHad mustered round his legal flag,No single client of the crewWas half so dear asCaptain Bagg.
Now,Captain Bagghad bowed him toA heavy matrimonial yoke—His wifey had of faults a few—She never could resist a joke.
Her chaff at first he meekly bore,Till unendurable it grew.“To stop this persecution soreI will consult my friendCarew.
“And whenCarew’sadvice I’ve got,Divorcea mensâI shall try.”(A legal separation—notA vinculo conjugii.)
“Oh,Baines Carew, my woe I’ve keptA secret hitherto, you know;”—(AndBaines Carew,Esquire, he weptTo hear thatBagghadany woe.)
“My case, indeed, is passing sad.My wife—whom I considered true—With brutal conduct drives me mad.”“I am appalled,” saidBaines Carew.
“What! sound the matrimonial knellOf worthy people such as these!Why was I an attorney? Well—Go on to thesævitia, please.”
“Domestic bliss has proved my bane,—A harder case you never heard,My wife (in other matters sane)Pretends that I’m a Dicky bird!
“She makes me sing, ‘Too-whit, too-wee!’And stand upon a rounded stick,And always introduces meTo every one as ‘Pretty Dick’!”
“Oh, dear,” said weepingBaines Carew,“This is the direst case I know.”“I’m grieved,” saidBagg, “at paining you—ToCobbandPoltherthwaiteI’ll go—
“ToCobb’scold, calculating ear,My gruesome sorrows I’ll impart”—“No; stop,” saidBaines, “I’ll dry my tear,And steel my sympathetic heart.”
“She makes me perch upon a tree,Rewarding me with ‘Sweety—nice!’And threatens to exhibit meWith four or five performing mice.”
“Restrain my tears I wish I could”(SaidBaines), “I don’t know what to do.”SaidCaptain Bagg, “You’re very good.”“Oh, not at all,” saidBaines Carew.
“She makes me fire a gun,” saidBagg;“And, at a preconcerted word,Climb up a ladder with a flag,Like any street performing bird.
“She places sugar in my way—In public places calls me ‘Sweet!’She gives me groundsel every day,And hard canary-seed to eat.”
“Oh, woe! oh, sad! oh, dire to tell!”(SaidBaines). “Be good enough to stop.”And senseless on the floor he fell,With unpremeditated flop!
SaidCaptain Bagg, “Well, really IAm grieved to think it pains you so.I thank you for your sympathy;But, hang it!—come—I say, you know!”
ButBaineslay flat upon the floor,Convulsed with sympathetic sob;—The Captain toddled off next door,And gave the case toMr. Cobb.
Inall the towns and cities fairOn Merry England’s broad expanse,No swordsman ever could compareWithThomas Winterbottom Hance.
The dauntless lad could fairly hewA silken handkerchief in twain,Divide a leg of mutton too—And this without unwholesome strain.
On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,His sabre sometimes he’d employ—No bar of lead, however thick,Had terrors for the stalwart boy.
At Dover daily he’d prepareTo hew and slash, behind, before—Which aggravatedMonsieur Pierre,Who watched him from the Calais shore.
It caused goodPierreto swear and dance,The sight annoyed and vexed him so;He was the bravest man in France—He said so, and he ought to know.
“Regardez donc, ce cochon gros—Ce polisson! Oh, sacré bleu!Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigotsComme cela m’ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!
“Il sait que les foulards de soieGive no retaliating whack—Les gigots morts n’ont pas de quoi—Le plomb don’t ever hit you back.”
But every day the headstrong ladCut lead and mutton more and more;And every day poorPierre, half mad,Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.
Hancehad a mother, poor and old,A simple, harmless village dame,Who crowed and clapped as people toldOfWinterbottom’srising fame.
She said, “I’ll be upon the spotTo see myTommy’ssabre-play;”And so she left her leafy cot,And walked to Dover in a day.
Pierrehad a doating mother, whoHad heard of his defiant rage;HisMa was nearly ninety-two,And rather dressy for her age.
AtHance’sdoings every morn,With sheer delighthismother cried;AndMonsieur Pierre’scontemptuous scornFilledhismamma with proper pride.
ButHance’spowers began to fail—His constitution was not strong—AndPierre, who once was stout and hale,Grew thin from shouting all day long.
Their mothers saw them pale and wan,Maternal anguish tore each breast,And so they met to find a planTo set their offsprings’ minds at rest.
SaidMrs. Hance, “Of course I shrinksFrom bloodshed, ma’am, as you’re aware,But still they’d better meet, I thinks.”“Assurément!” saidMadame Pierre.
A sunny spot in sunny FranceWas hit upon for this affair;The ground was picked byMrs. Hance,The stakes were pitched byMadame Pierre.
SaidMrs. H., “Your work you see—Go in, my noble boy, and win.”“En garde, mon fils!” saidMadameP.“Allons!” “Go on!” “En garde!” “Begin!”
(The mothers were of decent size,Though not particularly tall;But in the sketch that meets your eyesI’ve been obliged to draw them small.)
Loud sneered the doughty man of France,“Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!”“The French for ‘Pish’” saidThomas Hance.SaidPierre, “L’Anglais, Monsieur, pour ‘Bah.’”
SaidMrs. H., “Come, one! two! three!—We’re sittin’ here to see all fair.”“C’est magnifique!” saidMadameP.,“Mais, parbleu! ce n’est pas la guerre!”
“Je scorn un foe si lache que vous,”SaidPierre, the doughty son of France.“I fight not coward foe like you!”Said our undauntedTommy Hance.
“The French for ‘Pooh!’” ourTommycried.“L’Anglais pour ‘Va!’” the Frenchman crowed.And so, with undiminished pride,Each went on his respective road.
The Reverend Micah Sowls,He shouts and yells and howls,He screams, he mouths, he bumps,He foams, he rants, he thumps.
His armour he has buckled on, to wageThe regulation war against the Stage;And warns his congregation all to shun“The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One,”
The subject’s sad enoughTo make him rant and puff,And fortunately, too,His Bishop’s in a pew.
SoReverend Micahclaps on extra steam,His eyes are flashing with superior gleam,He is as energetic as can be,For there are fatter livings in that see.
The Bishop, when it’s o’er,Goes through the vestry door,WhereMicah, very red,Is mopping of his head.
“Pardon, my Lord, yourSowls’ excessive zeal,It is a theme on which I strongly feel.”(The sermon somebody had sent him downFrom London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)
The Bishop bowed his head,And, acquiescing, said,“I’ve heard your well-meant rageAgainst the Modern Stage.
“A modern Theatre, as I heard you say,Sows seeds of evil broadcast—well it may;But let me ask you, my respected son,Pray, have you ever ventured into one?”
“My Lord,” saidMicah, “no!I never, never go!What! Go and see a play?My goodness gracious, nay!”
The worthy Bishop said, “My friend, no doubtThe Stage may be the place you make it out;But if, myReverend Sowls, you never go,I don’t quite understand how you’re to know.”
“Well, really,”Micahsaid,“I’ve often heard and read,But never go—do you?”The Bishop said, “I do.”
“That proves me wrong,” saidMicah, in a trice:“I thought it all frivolity and vice.”The Bishop handed him a printed card;“Go to a theatre where they play our Bard.”
The Bishop took his leave,Rejoicing in his sleeve.The next ensuing daySowlswent and heard a play.
He saw a dreary person on the stage,Who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage,Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd,And spoke an EnglishSowlshad never heard.
For “gaunt” was spoken “garnt,”And “haunt” transformed to “harnt,”And “wrath” pronounced as “rath,”And “death” was changed to “dath.”
For hours and hours that dismal actor walked,And talked, and talked, and talked, and talked,Till lethargy upon the parson crept,And sleepyMicah Sowlsserenely slept.
He slept away untilThe farce that closed the billHad warned him not to stay,And then he went away.
“I thoughtmygait ridiculous,” said he—“Myelocution faulty as could be;I thoughtImumbled on a matchless plan—I had not seen our great Tragedian!
“Forgive me, if you can,O great Tragedian!I own it with a sigh—You’re drearier than I!”
AGentlemanof City fameNow claims your kind attention;East India broking was his game,His name I shall not mention:No one of finely-pointed senseWould violate a confidence,And shallIgoAnd do it? No!His name I shall not mention.
He had a trusty wife and true,And very cosy quarters,A manager, a boy or two,Six clerks, and seven porters.A broker must be doing well(As any lunatic can tell)Who can employAn active boy,Six clerks, and seven porters.
His knocker advertised no dun,No losses made him sulky,He had one sorrow—only one—He was extremely bulky.A man must be, I beg to state,Exceptionally fortunateWho owns his chiefAnd only griefIs—being very bulky.
“This load,” he’d say, “I cannot bear;I’m nineteen stone or twenty!Henceforward I’ll go in for airAnd exercise in plenty.”Most people think that, should it come,They can reduce a bulging tumTo measures fairBy taking airAnd exercise in plenty.
In every weather, every day,Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty,He took to dancing all the wayFrom Brompton to the City.You do not often get the chanceOf seeing sugar brokers danceFrom their abodeIn Fulham RoadThrough Brompton to the City.
He braved the gay and guileless laughOf children with their nusses,The loud uneducated chaffOf clerks on omnibuses.Against all minor things that rackA nicely-balanced mind, I’ll backThe noisy chaffAnd ill-bred laughOf clerks on omnibuses.
His friends, who heard his money chink,And saw the house he rented,And knew his wife, could never thinkWhat made him discontented.It never entered their pure mindsThat fads are of eccentric kinds,Nor would they ownThat fat aloneCould make one discontented.
“Your riches know no kind of pause,Your trade is fast advancing;You dance—but not for joy, becauseYou weep as you are dancing.To dance implies that man is glad,To weep implies that man is sad;But here are youWho do the two—You weep as you are dancing!”
His mania soon got noised aboutAnd into all the papers;His size increased beyond a doubtFor all his reckless capers:It may seem singular to you,But all his friends admit it true—The more he foundHis figure round,The more he cut his capers.
His bulk increased—no matter that—He tried the more to toss it—He never spoke of it as “fat,”But “adipose deposit.”Upon my word, it seems to meUnpardonable vanity(And worse than that)To call your fatAn “adipose deposit.”
At length his brawny knees gave way,And on the carpet sinking,Upon his shapeless back he layAnd kicked away like winking.Instead of seeing in his stateThe finger of unswerving Fate,He laboured stillTo work his will,And kicked away like winking.
His friends, disgusted with him now,Away in silence wended—I hardly like to tell you howThis dreadful story ended.The shocking sequel to impart,I must employ the limner’s art—If you would know,This sketch will showHow his exertions ended.
MORAL.
I hate to preach—I hate to prate—I’m no fanatic croaker,But learn contentment from the fateOf this East India broker.He’d everything a man of tasteCould ever want, except a waist;And discontentHis size anent,And bootless perseverance blind,Completely wrecked the peace of mindOf this East India broker.
Vastempty shell!Impertinent, preposterous abortion!With vacant stare,And ragged hair,And every feature out of all proportion!Embodiment of echoing inanity!Excellent type of simpering insanity!Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!I ring thy knell!
To-night thou diest,Beast that destroy’st my heaven-born identity!Nine weeks of nights,Before the lights,Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity,I’ve been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally,Credited for the smile you wear externally—I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally,As there thou liest!
I’ve been thy brain:I’vebeen the brain that lit thy dull concavity!The human raceInvestmyfaceWith thine expression of unchecked depravity,Invested with a ghastly reciprocity,I’vebeen responsible for thy monstrosity,I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity—But not again!
’T is time to tollThy knell, and that of follies pantomimical:A nine weeks’ run,And thou hast doneAll thou canst do to make thyself inimical.Adieu, embodiment of all inanity!Excellent type of simpering insanity!Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!Freed is thy soul!
(The Mask respondeth.)
Oh! master mine,Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me.Art thou awareOf nothing thereWhich might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me?A brain that mournsthineunredeemed rascality?A soul that weeps atthythreadbare morality?Both grieving thattheirindividualityIs merged in thine?
LordB. was a nobleman boldWho came of illustrious stocks,He was thirty or forty years old,And several feet in his socks.
To Turniptopville-by-the-SeaThis elegant nobleman went,For that was a borough that heWas anxious to rep-per-re-sent.
At local assemblies he dancedUntil he felt thoroughly ill;He waltzed, and he galoped, and lanced,And threaded the mazy quadrille.
The maidens of TurniptopvilleWere simple—ingenuous—pure—And they all worked away with a willThe nobleman’s heart to secure.
Two maidens all others beyondEndeavoured his cares to dispel—The one was the livelyAnn Pond,The other sadMary Morell.
Ann Pondhad determined to tryAnd carry the Earl with a rush;Her principal feature was eye,Her greatest accomplishment—gush.
AndMarychose this for her play:Whenever he looked in her eyeShe’d blush and turn quickly away,And flitter, and flutter, and sigh.
It was noticed he constantly sighedAs she worked out the scheme she had planned,A fact he endeavoured to hideWith his aristocratical hand.
OldPondwas a farmer, they say,And so was oldTommy Morell.In a humble and pottering wayThey were doing exceedingly well.
They both of them carried by voteThe Earl was a dangerous man;So nervously clearing his throat,One morning oldTommybegan:
“My darter’s no pratty young doll—I’m a plain-spoken Zommerzet man—Now what do ’ee mean by myPoll,And what do ’ee mean by hisAnn?”
Said B., “I will give you my bondI mean them uncommonly well,Believe me, my excellentPond,And credit me, worthyMorell.
“It’s quite indisputable, forI’ll prove it with singular ease,—You shall have it in ‘Barbara’ or‘Celarent’—whichever you please.
‘You see, when an anchorite bowsTo the yoke of intentional sin,If the state of the country allows,Homogeny always steps in—
“It’s a highly æsthetical bond,As any mere ploughboy can tell—”“Of course,” replied puzzled oldPond.“I see,” said oldTommy Morell.
“Very good, then,” continued the lord;“When it’s fooled to the top of its bent,With a sweep of a Damocles swordThe web of intention is rent.
“That’s patent to all of us here,As any mere schoolboy can tell.”Pondanswered, “Of course it’s quite clear”;And so did that humbugMorell.
“Its tone’s esoteric in force—I trust that I make myself clear?”Morellonly answered, “Of course,”WhilePondslowly muttered, “Hear, hear.”
“Volition—celestial prize,Pellucid as porphyry cell—Is based on a principle wise.”“Quite so,” exclaimedPondandMorell.
“From what I have said you will seeThat I couldn’t wed either—in fine,By Nature’s unchanging decreeYourdaughters could never bemine.
“Go home to your pigs and your ricks,My hands of the matter I’ve rinsed.”So they take up their hats and their sticks,Andexeunt ambo, convinced.
O’erunreclaimed suburban claysSome years ago were hobblin’An elderly ghost of easy ways,And an influential goblin.The ghost was a sombre spectral shape,A fine old five-act fogy,The goblin imp, a lithe young ape,A fine low-comedy bogy.
And as they exercised their joints,Promoting quick digestion,They talked on several curious points,And raised this delicate question:“Which of us two is Number One—The ghostie, or the goblin?”And o’er the point they raised in funThey fairly fell a-squabblin’.
They’d barely speak, and each, in fine,Grew more and more reflective:Each thought his own particular lineBy chalks the more effective.At length they settled some one shouldBy each of them be haunted,And so arrange that either couldExert his prowess vaunted.
“The Quaint against the Statuesque”—By competition lawful—The goblin backed the Quaint Grotesque,The ghost the Grandly Awful.“Now,” said the goblin, “here’s my plan—In attitude commanding,I see a stalwart EnglishmanBy yonder tailor’s standing.
“The very fittest man on earthMy influence to try on—Of gentle, p’r’aps of noble birth,And dauntless as a lion!Now wrap yourself within your shroud—Remain in easy hearing—Observe—you’ll hear him scream aloudWhen I begin appearing!”
The imp with yell unearthly—wild—Threw off his dark enclosure:His dauntless victim looked and smiledWith singular composure.For hours he tried to daunt the youth,For days, indeed, but vainly—The stripling smiled!—to tell the truth,The stripling smiled inanely.
For weeks the goblin weird and wild,That noble stripling haunted;For weeks the stripling stood and smiled,Unmoved and all undaunted.The sombre ghost exclaimed, “Your planHas failed you, goblin, plainly:Now watch yon hardy Hieland man,So stalwart and ungainly.
“These are the men who chase the roe,Whose footsteps never falter,Who bring with them, where’er they go,A smack of oldSir Walter.Of such as he, the men sublimeWho lead their troops victorious,Whose deeds go down to after-time,Enshrined in annals glorious!
“Of such as he the bard has said‘Hech thrawfu’ raltie rorkie!Wi’ thecht ta’ croonie clapperheadAnd fash’ wi’ unco pawkie!’He’ll faint away when I appear,Upon his native heather;Or p’r’aps he’ll only scream with fear,Or p’r’aps the two together.”
The spectre showed himself, alone,To do his ghostly battling,With curdling groan and dismal moan,And lots of chains a-rattling!But no—the chiel’s stout Gaelic stuffWithstood all ghostly harrying;His fingers closed upon the snuffWhich upwards he was carrying.
For days that ghost declined to stir,A foggy shapeless giant—For weeks that splendid officerStared back again defiant.Just as the Englishman returnedThe goblin’s vulgar staring,Just so the Scotchman boldly spurnedThe ghost’s unmannered scaring.
For several years the ghostly twainThese Britons bold have haunted,But all their efforts are in vain—Their victims stand undaunted.This very day the imp, and ghost,Whose powers the imp derided,Stand each at his allotted post—The bet is undecided.
ABISHOPonce—I will not name his see—Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional;From pulpit shackles never set them free,And found a sin where sin was unintentional.All pleasures ended in abuse auricular—The Bishop was so terribly particular.
Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man,He sought to make of human pleasures clearances;And form his priests on that much-lauded planWhich pays undue attention to appearances.He couldn’t do good deeds without a psalm in ’em,Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in ’em.
Enraged to find a deacon at a dance,Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity,He sought by open censure to enhanceTheir dread of joining harmless social jollity.Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety)The ordinary pleasures of society.
One evening, sitting at a pantomime(Forbidden treat to those who stood in fear of him),Roaring at jokes,sansmetre, sense, or rhyme,He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him,His peace of mind upsetting, and annoying it,A curate, also heartily enjoying it.
Again, ’t was Christmas Eve, and to enhanceHis children’s pleasure in their harmless rollicking,He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance;When something checked the current of his frolicking:That curate, with a maid he treated lover-ly,Stood up and figured with him in the “Coverley!”
Once, yielding to an universal choice(The company’s demand was an emphatic one,For the old Bishop had a glorious voice),In a quartet he joined—an operatic one.Harmless enough, though ne’er a word of grace in it,When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it!
One day, when passing through a quiet street,He stopped awhile and joined a Punch’s gathering;And chuckled more than solemn folk think meet,To see that gentleman his Judy lathering;And heard, as Punch was being treated penalty,That phantom curate laughing all hyænally.
Now at a picnic, ’mid fair golden curls,Bright eyes, straw hats,bottinesthat fit amazingly,A croquêt-bout is planned by all the girls;And he, consenting, speaks of croquêt praisingly;But suddenly declines to play at all in it—The curate fiend has come to take a ball in it!
Next, when at quiet sea-side village, freedFrom cares episcopal and ties monarchical,He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed,In manner anything but hierarchical—He sees—and fixes an unearthly stare on it—That curate’s face, with half a yard of hair on it!
At length he gave a charge, and spake this word:“Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye may;To check their harmless pleasuring’s absurd;What laymen do without reproach, my clergy may.”He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him,The curate vanished—no one since has heard of him.
Nonobler captain ever trodThanCaptain Parklebury Todd,So good—so wise—so brave, he!But still, as all his friends would own,He had one folly—one alone—This Captain in the Navy.
I do not think I ever knewA man so wholly given toCreating a sensation,Or p’raps I should in justice say—To what in an Adelphi playIs known as “situation.”
He passed his time designing trapsTo flurry unsuspicious chaps—The taste was his innately;He couldn’t walk into a roomWithout ejaculating “Boom!”Which startled ladies greatly.
He’d wear a mask and muffling cloak,Not, you will understand, in joke,As some assume disguises;He did it, actuated byA simple love of mysteryAnd fondness for surprises.
I need not say he loved a maid—His eloquence threw into shadeAll others who adored her.The maid, though pleased at first, I know,Found, after several years or so,Her startling lover bored her.
So, when his orders came to sail,She did not faint or scream or wail,Or with her tears anoint him:She shook his hand, and said “Good-bye,”With laughter dancing in her eye—Which seemed to disappoint him.
But ere he went aboard his boat,He placed around her little throatA ribbon, blue and yellow,On which he hung a double-tooth—A simple token this, in sooth—’Twas all he had, poor fellow!
“I often wonder,” he would say,When very, very far away,“IfAngelinawears it?A plan has entered in my head:I will pretend that I am dead,And see howAngybears it.”
The news he made a messmate tell.HisAngelinabore it well,No sign gave she of crazing;But, steady as the Inchcape Rock,HisAngelinastood the shockWith fortitude amazing.
She said, “Some one I must electPoorAngelinato protectFrom all who wish to harm her.Since worthyCaptain Toddis dead,I rather feel inclined to wedA comfortable farmer.”
A comfortable farmer came(Bassanio Tylerwas his name),Who had no end of treasure.He said, “My noble gal, be mine!”The noble gal did not decline,But simply said, “With pleasure.”
When this was told toCaptain Todd,At first he thought it rather odd,And felt some perturbation;But very long he did not grieve,He thought he could a way perceiveTosucha situation!
“I’ll not reveal myself,” said he,“Till they are both in the Ecclesiastical arena;Then suddenly I will appear,And paralysing them with fear,Demand myAngelina!”
At length arrived the wedding day;Accoutred in the usual wayAppeared the bridal body;The worthy clergyman began,When in the gallant Captain ranAnd cried, “Behold yourToddy!”
The bridegroom, p’raps, was terrified,And also possibly the bride—The bridesmaidswereaffrighted;ButAngelina, noble soul,Contrived her feelings to control,And really seemed delighted.
“My bride!” said gallantCaptain Todd,“She’s mine, uninteresting clod!My own, my darling charmer!”“Oh dear,” said she, “you’re just too late—I’m married to, I beg to state,This comfortable farmer!”
“Indeed,” the farmer said, “she’s mine:You’ve been and cut it far too fine!”“I see,” saidTodd, “I’m beaten.”And so he went to sea once more,“Sensation” he for aye forswore,And married on her native shoreA lady whom he’d met before—A lovely Otaheitan.