of the Saintly "); F. B. Perkins, of the Free Public Library, San Francisco; W. Smith, of Morley, near Bret Harte. DICKENS IN CAMP. ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire : Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths intwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, This spray of Western pine! July, 1870, BRET HARTE. The older authors, with rude humour, painted Now lost in dreary prose, jokes died or fainted Till one arose, and from the past's great treasure A scheme to tap the hoard untold of pleasure And so the parodies unearthed grew vaster, All mimicking some mighty poet Master, Perhaps 'tis too fond fancy,--that the reader Let Punch go prosing, scorn the D. T. leader, While 'mid these gambols of poetic shadows, As each mad parody evokes the glad "Ohs!" See Tennyson, in mighty verse-o'ertaken, When jokes from Longfellow, so grave, are shaken To find in rush of their poetic fire, A comic theme told well, While stately verse, and song, and culture higher, Are used some joke to tell. Lost be that scamp, who would no funny story Tell in the rhyme that thrills Like farthing rushlight posing as the glory Of sun o'er ancient hills. If, in the crowd of puppets, some poor dolly Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly- November, 1884. J. W. G. W. THAT HEBREW BEN D—— House of Lords, January, 1878. WHICH I wish to remark— And my language is plain-- The Hebrew Ben D-- is peculiar, Which the same I would like to explain. I have mentioned his name, And I shall not deny, In regard to the same He is wary and sly; And his smile it is mocking and ice-like And there isn't no green in his eye. Now, some rumours had spread, Which Ben D--- could not burke, And every one said He'd been at his old work. (It was strange, you must know, how he doated Upon the " Unspeakable Turk.") It was Gran-Vil who rose, And quite soft was his style; But you must not suppose That he hasn't no guile; Yet D-played it that day upon Gran Vil In a way that made most of them smile. Which some questions he'd brought, He did well understand ; But he smiled, as he stood at the table, How he trifled with sense, You would scarcely believe; Fancy statements did weave : Whilst he kept back his facts by the dozen, And the same, with intent to deceive. Yes, the tricks that were play'd By that Hebrew, Ben D And the points that he made Were quite shocking to me; Till at last he sat down amid laughter, And chuckling himself, I could see. Then up sprang Ar-Gyle, With his hair flowing free, And he gave a wild snort, And said, "Shall this be? We are humbugged by Asian myst'ries, And he went for that Hebrew, Ben D-. Which the war-dance he had Was exciting to watch, Though I feared, lest too mad, His job he might botch, For he whooped, and he raved, and he ranted ;-You see he's so pepp'ry and Scotch. Still, the scene that ensued Was uncommonly grand, For the floor it was strewed, Like the leaves on the strand, With the facts that Ben D-- had been hiding, The facts"He did well understand." For his head, which is long, Contained facts by the score ; Which, with effort so strong, Ar-Gyle out of it tore; Till Ben D--, if he has any feelings, Must have, morally, felt very sore. Which expressions is strong, Yet but feebly imply What I think of the wrong Not to call it a lie As was worked off by Benjy on Gran-Vil, Which he can't go for it to deny. Which is why I remark- And my language is plain That for ways that are dark, And tricks that are vain, The Hebrew Ben D- is peculiar, Which the same I am bold to maintain. Truth, January 31, 1878. Nay, nay, I know," Said the farmer, "Say no more; "He fell in battle,-I see alas ! 'Thou 'ast smooth these tidings o'er,— Nay speak the truth, whatever it be, Though it rend my bosom's core. "How fell he,with his face to the foe, O, say not that my boy disgraced "I cannot tell," said the aged man, Then the farmer spake him never a word, That aged man, who had worked for Grant Some three years before the war. BRET HARTE. The following parody appeared in Fon Duan, one of Beeton's Christmas Annuals. The original poem refers to General Ulysses S. Grant, President of the United States; the parody is in allusion to Mr. Albert Grant, M.P, who presented Leicester Square to the public in July, 1874, and whose name was then prominently before the public in connection with numerous financial schemes : "I WAS WITH GRANT." "I WAS with Grant--" the stranger said; Said McDougal, "Say no more, But come you in-I have much to ask- "I was with Grant- the stranger said; "What said my Albert-my Baron brave, I warrant he bore him scurvily "No doubt he did," said the stranger then; I was with Grant——” "Nay, nay, I know," Said McDougal; "but tell me more. " "He's presented another square !—I see, Or started, perchance, more Water-works "Or made the Credit Foncier pay, Charley Peaces abound In the subbubs to-day; And they're apt, when they're found, At a constable all unpertected, which the same has the worst of the fray. Can you tap a cove's head If you're progress is checked By the neat bit o' lead That a Colt does eject? And when bullets is lodged in your stummick, can you tootle with proper effect? That you can't, I submit, And the truth must be faced That the Force will get hit, And the town be disgraced, Till each Bobby with Billy-that's Sikes, sir-on a more equal footing is placed. Are these shootings a dream? (I'm sarcastic, no doubt.) Are things what they seem? Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle and truncheon played out? Funny Folks, August 2, 1884. Scribners' Monthly for May, 1881, contained a humorous collection of imitations of various authors, entitled "Home, Sweet Home, with Variations." It commences by giving a couple of verses from the original poem by John Howard Payne; next comes a variation such as might have been written by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Walt Whitman, Austin Dobson, Oliver Goldsmith, and Alexander Pope are also supposed each to contribute a new setting of the old song, the imitation of Walt Whitman is Nor no variety-show lays over a man's own ranche. Aint got naathin' I'd swop for that house over thar on the hill-side. Thar is my ole gal, 'n' the kids, 'n' the rest o' my live-stock ; Thar my Remington hargs, and thar there's a griddle-cake br'ilin' Fer the two of us, pard-and thar, I allow, the heavens (After Bret Harte's "The Return of Belisarius.") So again you've been at it, old fellow, And those vows of yours four years ago? Bret Harte's prose writings have been frequently parodied, and several examples will be given when the subject of prose parodies is reached. One of the best of these occurs on page 156 of The Shotover Papers for November, 1874; it is entitled "His Finger." Attempted, and all that, you know! You denounce Lords and Tories with vigour; The Weekly Dispatch, September 14, 1884. AVONICUS. THE NIGHT "COMP." WITH fingers weary and worn, Eyelids heavy and red, Thomas A "comp." stood at his frame all night, Picking up "stamps " for bread. Full-point, comma, and rule, Colon, and quad, and space, "Setting" a line, "pie-ing" a line, Dozing awhile at his "case." "Leader," and "latest," and "ads." "Nonp." and "brevier and all that; "break ;" Matter all solid, never a Oh! for a trifle of "fat!" Moon peeping in through the pane ; Gas, with its dull yellow glare; Hood. (Continued from Part 12) Nought to be heard, save the solemn "click, click," And the Editor's foot on the stair. One o'clock ! two o'clock chimed ! "Proofs," coming up again, “read ;" Three o'clock four o'clock ! daylight is here; Trudge away homeward to bed. Oh! but to breathe the breath For I must with such odours near. I formerly used my dinner to want, But a walk now costs a meal. With boots all dirty and worn, And trousers heavy with mud, Splash, splash, splash! While garbage may spatter and spirt, Punch, August 23, 1884. |