But we sat and spake at first of divers inoffensive things, Opera music, Vernon pictures, Popes, and cattle-shows, and Kings.

Then came on to closer matters, sympathy, and kindred thought,

(Johnson, rogue, you understand it, though you know you didn't ought.)

Finally with hands ingrappled, and with faces in a flame,
Changed we vows, and other trifles, inexpedient to name.
O my Kate! False hearted Kitty! Katty mia, most unkind;
Kit-cats have but half a body, thou had'st only half a mind :
Half a mind to share my lodgings (Brompton breezes gently
fan 'em),

Share my joys, and share my sorrows, and my £90 per

annum.

Is it well to wish thee happy, having known me, to recline On a heart whose owner's income's several times as large as mine?

Thou hast been and gone and done it, thou hast wedded Herbert Brooks;

Yesterday you spelt together one of Verrey's* indexed books. Yes, I saw you, as you entered. I was standing in the rain— Verrey's room (I owe him something) never sees my face again.

Ha! thy lord will treat thee often to a trip to Hampton Court,

Or to dine at Waytes's, Gravesend, ere the days become too short.

Go with him-it is thy duty; I had never done it, ha!
Ninety pounds a year opposes to excursionists a bar.

16

He will talk without a purpose," easy things to understand;

I had spoke high art into thee, Kant, and Goethe, and
George Sand.

Merry farces he delights in, and will take his wife to see 'em
I had read her how they're proved all rubbish by the
Athenæum.

One day thou wilt have a baby-well, 'twill serve thee very right;

But beware, and don't baptise it Peter Nicodemus Blight. Johnson, you've had too much brandy, and my clock is rather slow;

As you haven't got a latch-key, Johnson, you had better go.

From The Puppet-Showman's Album, a very scarce pamphlet, illustrated by Gavarni, published about 1848. No copy of this little book is to be found in the Library of the British Museum.

THE NEW CENONE.-AN EPIC FRAGMent. (With Apologies to the Poet Laureate.)

O BRITISH Public, many-fadded public,
Queer British Public, harken ere I die!

It was the bright forenoon; one silvery cloud
Had with soft sprinkle laid the gathered dust
Of Mayfair. To the studio they came.
Scant-robed they came before the camera.
And at their feet was laid a carpet fair,
Lemon, and cinnamon, and ghostly grey,

A well-known restaurant in Regent Street, London.

Purple, and primrose. And the artist rose
And overhead the swift spring-curtains drew
This way and that in many a subtle shift

For fine effect of light and shade, and placed
Background of statuary and drooping boughs,
With cloud and curtain, tower and portico.

O British Public, hearken ere I die!

I heard great Heré. She to Paris made
Proffer of popular power, public rule,
Unquestioned, an elastic revenue
Wherewith to buoy and back Imperial plans.
Honour (with Peace) she said, and tax and roll
From many a Place of Arms and haven large,
And Scientific Frontiers, and all else
That patriotic potency may crave;
To all most welcome, seeing men in power
Then only are like gods, having attained
Rest in another place," and quiet seats
Above the tumult, safe from Dissolution,
In shelter of their great majority.

O British Public harken ere I die!

She ceased, and Paris held the golden fruit

Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power
Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she stood
Somewhat apart, her straight and stately limbs
Uplifted, and her aspect high, if cold.
The while above her full and earnest eye
Over her firm set mouth and haughty cheek
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.
"Unselfishness, high honour, justice clear,
These three alone give worth to sovereign power.
Yet not for power (power of itself

Is a base burden) but to hold as law
The fiat high, Be just and do not fear.'
And because right is right to follow right.
With a serene contempt of consequence."

And Paris pondered, and I cried, "Oh! Paris,
Give it to Pallas!" But he heard me not,
Or hearing, would not heed me. Woe is me!

O British Public, many-headed Public,
Crass British Public, hearken ere I die!
Audacious Aphrodite, beautiful,
Fresh as the purple hyacinth's rain-washed bells,
With soft seductive fingers backward drew
From her bold brow and bosom her long hair
Auricomous, and bared her shining throat
And shoulder; on the carpet her small feet
Shone lily-like, and on her rounded form,
Between the shadows of the studio blinds,
Shifted the cunning "high lights" as she moved.

O British Public, harken ere I die.
She, with a subtle smile in her bold eyes,
The herald of her triumph, well assured,
Half whispered in his ear, " I promise thee
The negative of my next photograph!"

She spoke and laughed, I shut my eyes in fear,
And when I looked, Paris had not the apple.
And I beheld great Heré's angry eyes

As she withdrew from forth the studio door,
And I was left alone within the place.

From Punch. December, 1879.

There still remain to be quoted some amusing parodies of Tennyson's early poems, the first in order being Mariana.

THE BOW STREET GRANGE.

By Alfred Tennyson.

WITH blackest mud, the locked-up sots Were splashed and covered, one and all. And rusty nails, and callous knots,

Stuck from the bench against the wall. The wooden bed felt hard and strange; Lost was the key that oped the latch; To light his pipe he had no match, Within the Bow Street station's range.

He only said, "It's very dreary;"
"Bail will not come," he said;
He said, "I have been very beery,
I would I were a-bed !"

Did prove; but most he loathed the hour
When Mr. Jardine chose to say
Five shillings he would have to pay,
Now he was in policeman's power.

Then said he, "This is very dreary;"
"Bail will not come," he said;
He said, "I'll never more get beery,
But go straight home to bed!”
George Cruikshank's Comic Almanack, 1846.

-:0:

In 1855, Messrs. George Routledge & Co., published a small volume, by Frank E. Smedley and Edmund Hodgson Yates, entitled Mirth and Metre, which contained several excellent parodies, one entitled Boreäna, after The Ballad of Oriana; and another called Vauxhall, which imitated Locksley Hall. Most of the parodies in the book were written by Mr. Edmund H. Yates, but he gave the credit of Boreäna to Mr. Frank Smedley, (the author of Lewis Arundel, Frank Fairlegh, and several other well-known novels,) who died in May, 1864.

To which my soul made answer readily: "Trust me, in bliss I shall abide

In this great mansion, that is built for me, So royal-rich and wide."

"Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are So lightly, beautifully built;

Perchance I may return with others there
When I have purged my guilt."

THE PALACE OF ART.

I BUILT myself a high-art pleasure house
For my sick soul at peace therein to dwell.

I said, "I have the true æsthetic nous,
And can design it well."

'Twas dull red brick, with gables set galore,

And little light did through the windows pass, For 'twas shut out by thick lead frames that bore, Quarrels of grey green glass.

The dadoed walls, in green were stained, no tint Which common blue and yellow mingled make; But a green y-wrought-of sepia without stintWith indigo and lake.

Nor grainèd panel, nor enamelled slate

Was there to jar on my artistic sight;
Plain ebon wood-work framed the open grate,
And over,-blue and white.

Two lovely griffins, made of burnished brass,
I found, to guard the fireplace on each side,
With curling tails (though one was lost, alas !),
And mouths that gaped wide.

All round the rooms were shelves of black-dyed deal,
On which stood pots and plates of every hue;
Whilst far apart two lilièd angels kneel

In Robbia white and blue.

One deep recess, serged-covered, like a lawn,
Held on a brass-nailed shelf, its seat of state,
Apart from other pots and pans withdrawn,
An ancient kitchen-plate.

"Hence whilst the world runs round and round," I said,
"I will send forth my wits to gather wool;
With task or toil I will not vex my head;
But on that plate feed full."

So day and night upon that plate I gazed,

And strove to fix thereon what thought I had;
Until my sight grew dim, and my sense dazed
And my digestion bad.

My brain shrunk like a nut adust and dried;
I felt that I was not at all myself,
And longed to lay my dwindled wits beside
That plate upon that shelf.

That ancient plate of willow-pattern blue,
Which so absorbed had my every thought,
I seemed to live thereon, and slowly grew
Confucian, clear of thought.

One year I gazed upon that much-loved plate,
Till at the last the sight began to pall.

I said, "How know I 'tis of ancient date,
Or China-ware at all?"

So when one year was wholly finished,
I put that willow-pattern plate away.

"Now rather bring me Satsuma !" I said. "Or blue-green Cloisonnée.

"For I am sick of this pervading hue,

Steeped wherein this landscape, stream, and sky, To my heart-weary question, 'Is all blue?' 'Yea, all is blue,' reply.

"Yet do not smash the plate I so admired, When first my high æsthetic house I built; I may come back to it, of Dresden tired, And Sèvres gaily gilt."

Punch, February 15, 1879.

Although taken from Cruikshank's Comic Almanack, for 1846, the following parody of The May Queen is so fresh and so funny that it might have been written yesterday ::

THE QUEEN OF THE FÊTE.

By Alfred Tennyson.

I. THE DAY BEFORE.

[To be read with liveliness.]

IF you're waking, call me early, mother, fine, or wet, or bleak;

To-morrow is the happiest day of all the Ascot week;
It is the Chiswick fête, mother, of flowers and people gay,
And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may.

There's many a bright barège, they say, but none so bright as mine,

And whiter gloves, that have been cleaned, and smell of turpentine;

But none so nice as mine, I know, and so they all will say ; And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not shout at my bedside, and give me a good shake; For I have got those gloves to trim with blonde and ribbons gay,

And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may.

As I came home to-day, mother, whom think you I should meet,

But Harry-looking at a cab, upset in Oxford-street;

He thought of when we met, to learn the Polka of Miss RaeBut I'll be queen, if I may, mother; I'll be queen, if I may.

They say he wears moustachios, that my chosen he may be ;
They say he's left off raking, mother-what is that to me?
I shall meet all the Fusiliers upon the Chiswick day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen if I
may.

The night cabs come and go, mother, with panes of mended glass,

And all the things about us seem to clatter as they pass;
The roads are dry and dusty; it will be a fine, fine day,
And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if
I may.

The weather-glass hung in the hall has turned to "fair" from "showers."

The see-weed crackles and feels dry, that's hanging mid'st the flowers.

Vauxhall, too, is not open, so 'twill be a fine, fine day; And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.

So call me, if you're waking; call me, mother, from my

rest

The Middle Horticultural" is sure to be the best.

Of all the three, this one will be the brightest, happiest day; And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I

may.

II. THE DAY AFTER.

[Slow, and with sad expression.]

IF you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear;
The soaking rain of yesterday has spoilt my dress I fear;
I've caught a shocking cold, mamma, so make a cup for me,
Of what sly folks call blackthorn, and facetious grocers, tea.
I started forth in floss and flowers to have a pleasant day,
When all at once down came the wet, and hurried all away;
And now there's not a flower but is washed out by the rain :
I wonder if the colours, mother, will come round again.

I have been wild and wayward, but I am not wayward now,
I think of my allowance, and I'm sure I don't know how
I shall make both ends meet. Papa will be so very wild;
He says, already mother, I'm his most expensive child.
Just say to Harry a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
Perhaps I was cross, but then he knows it was so very wet;
Had it been fine-I cannot tell-he might have had my arm;
But the bad weather ruin'd all, and spoilt my toilet's charm.
I'll wear the dress again, mother; I do not care a pin,-
Or, perhaps, 'twill do for Effie, but it must be taken in ;
But do not let her see it yet-she's not so very green,
And will not take it until washed and ironed it has been.

So, if you're waking, call me, when the day begins to dawn;
I dread to look at my barège-it must be so forlorn;
We'll put it in the rough-dried box: it may come out next
year;

So, if your waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

ALBERT SMITH.

Light Green, a magazine published at Cambridge, in 1872, contained another parody of the same original, it is called "The May Exam." by Alfred Pennysong.