She raised her brows and looked at the King"To swear before ladies is not the thing !" “Why should I wed thee," he cried, “old maid ? A faded beauty, a heathen jade !" He swore a swear, and he stamped a stamp, And he fetched her a whack with his gingham Gamp. And he'd been accustomed to Red Heart Rum ! A SHORTFELLOW. Smote on the Acme steel, Banged it and smashed it up Into smithereens. Shocked, then I left him there, Grumbling at Thor! Punch's Almanack, 1834. Another long parody of the same original was contained in Punch, September 20, 1879. It was entitled "A Modern Saga," and consisted of nine verses, describing Professor Nordenskiöld's travels and discoveries concerning the NorthEast passage. THE SAGA OF THE SKATERMAN. Down by the Serpentine, "Cheer up, O Skaterman ! "Hark to the Skald !" I says, Then spake the Skaterman, Deep in his diaphragm, "Blow Thaw and Scald !" he cried; "Blow heverythink !" he cried, Salt tears a-rolling down Alongside his nose. "See these here Hacmes,' Sir, New from the Store they are, Never been used afore, Twelve-and-six thrown away! Mete for the Skaterman. Then I began to hoard. It is now a good many years since a wellknown American author, Mr. Bayard Taylor, produced a clever little book, entitled "Diversions of the Echo Club." The late Mr. John Camden Hotten published it in London, and it has since gone through several editions. The scheme of the book is thus given by the author:-"In the rear of Karl Schäfer's lagerbeer cellar and restaurant-which everyone knows, is but a block from the central part of Broadway-there is a small room, with a vaulted ceiling, which Karl calls his Löwengrube, or Lions' Den. Here, in their Bohemian days, Zoïlus and the Gannet had been accustomed to meet, discuss literary projects, and read fragments of manuscript to each other. The Chorus, the Ancient and young Galahad gradually fell into the same habit, and thus a little circle of six, seven, or eight members came to be formed. The room could comfortably contain no more: it was quiet, with a dim, smoky, confidential atmosphere, and suggested Auerbach's Cellar to the Ancient, who had been in Leipzig. Here authors, books, magazines, and newspapers were talked about; sometimes a manuscript poem was read by its writer; while mild potations of beer and the dreamy breath of cigars delayed the nervous, fidgetty, clattering-footed American Hours. The character which the society assumed for a short time was purely accidental. As one of the Chorus, I was present at the first meeting, and, of course, I never failed afterwards. The four authors who furnished our entertainment were not aware that I had written down, from memory, the substance of the conversations, until our evenings came to an end, and I have had some difficulty in obtain These so-called "Reports" describe the proceedings at eight meetings of the Club, and the conversation is devoted to criticisms of the most famous modern poets. The members next proceed to draw lots as to whose works they shall imitate, the result being a series of parodies, or, more correctly speaking, comical imitations of style, many of which are exceedingly amusing. The principal poets thus parodied are William Morris; Robert Browning; E. A. Poe; John Keats; Mrs. Sigourney; A. C. Swinburne ; R. W. Emerson; E. C. Stedman; Dante G. Rossetti; Barry Cornwall; J. G. Whittier ; Oliver Wendell Holmes; Alfred Tennyson; H. W. Longfellow; Walt Whitman; Bret Harte; J. R. Lowell; Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning; and several less known authors. Amongst the minor poets are included several American writers, whose works are almost unknown to English readers. On the Fifth night Zoilus draws Longfellow, and his comrades caution him to beware how he treats an author, already a classic, whose works have been complimented by many ordinary parodies. He composes the following imitation of Longfellow's hexameters : NAUVOO. This is the place: be still for a while, my high-pressure steamboat! Let me survey the spot where the Mormons builded their temple. Much have I mused on the wreck and ruin of ancient religions, Scandinavian, Greek, Assyrian, Zend, and the Sanskrit, Studied Ojibwa symbols and those of the Quarry of Pipestone, Also the myths of the Zulus whose questions converted Colenso, So, methinks, it were well I should muse a little at Nauvoo. Fair was he not, the primitive Prophet, nor he who succeeded, Hardly for poetry fit, though using the Urim and Thummin. Had he but borrowed Levitical trappings, the girdle and ephod, Fine twined linen, and ouches of gold, and bells and pomegranates, That, indeed, might have kindled the weird necromancy of fancy. Had he but set up mystical forms, like Astarte or Peor, Yet the Muse that delights in Mesopotamian numbers, Vague and vast as the roar of the wind in a forest of pite trees, Now must tune her strings to the names of Joseph and Brigham. Hebrew, the first; and a Smith before the Deluge was Tubal, Thor of the East, who first made iron ring to the hammer; So on the iron heads of the people about him, the latter, Striking the sparks of belief and forging their faith in the Good Time Coming, the Latter Day, as he called it,—the Kingdom of Zion. Then, in the words of Philip the Eunuch unto Belshazzar, Came to him multitudes wan, diseased and decrepit of spirit Came and heard and believed, and builded the temple of Nauvoo. All is past; for Joseph was smitten with lead from a pistol, Brigham went with the others over the prairies to Salt Lake Answers now to the long, disconsolate wail of the steame", Hoarse, inarticulate, shrill, the rolling and bounding of tenpins, — Answers the voice of the bar-tender, mixing the smash and the julep, Answers, precocious, the boy, and bites a chew of tobacco. Lone as the towers of Afrasiab now is the seat of the Prophet, Mournful, inspiring to verse, though seeming utterly vulgar: Also-for each thing now is expected to furnish a moralTeaching innumerable lessons for who so believes and is patient. Thou, that readest, be resolute, learn to be strong and to suffer! Let the dead Past bury its dead and act in the Present! Bear a banner of strange devices, "Forever" and "Never Build in the walls of time the fame of a permanent Nauvoo, So that thy brethren may see it and say, "Go thou and do likewise !" This poem does not altogether meet with his comrades' approval; Zoïlus retorts that "it is no easy thing to be funny in hexameters; the Sapphic verse is much more practicable." The Gannet hereupon asserts that he could write an imitation of Longfellow's higher strains -not of those which are so well known and so much quoted-which would be fairer to the poet, and after a short interval produces THE SEWING-MACHINE. A strange vibration from the cottage window My vagrant steps delayed, And half abstracted, like the ancient Hindoo, What is, I said, this unremitting humming, As unto prayer the murmurous answer coming, Is this the sound of unimpeded labour, Our harsher substitute for pipe and tabor, Or, is it yearning for a higher vision, SHOULD you ask me why these columns Their inane deliberations, And their aggravating dulness? I should answer, I should tell you, "That I write them as I hear them, As I hear, and as I see them ;That the world may learn what happens In the painted, gilded chamber, In the chapel of St. Stephen's, At the House of Talkee-Talkee, Where, upon the woolsack, patient, Where, enthroned above the table, Should you ask me why he sits there? If still further you should ask me, For the riding of their hobbies; I should tell you, "There are many If you really had the conscience To make any more enquiries, I would answer, I should tell you Not to ask more leading questions, But to wait and read these columns. In these records find your answers, In these lines replies discover; THE LORDS. To the gilded, painted chamber Like to agéd washerwoman; In their puffed lawn sleeves, the Bishops, Fussy, like the hen that cackles Over new-laid egg or chicken; Come diplomatists by dozens, Blazing with their numerous orders, Which they gladly take, like bagmen; Come with their vermilion buttons These so-called "Reports" describe the proceedings at eight meetings of the Club, and the conversation is devoted to criticisms of the most famous modern poets. The members next proceed to draw lots as to whose works they shall imitate, the result being a series of parodies, or, more correctly speaking, comical imitations of style, many of which are exceedingly amusing. The principal poets thus parodied are William Morris; Robert Browning; E. A. Poe; John Keats; Mrs. Sigourney; A. C. Swinburne; R. W. Emerson; E. C. Stedman; Dante G. Rossetti; Barry Cornwall; J. G. Whittier; Oliver Wendell Holmes; Alfred Tennyson; H. W. Longfellow; Walt Whitman; Bret Harte; J. R. Lowell; Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning; and several less known authors. Amongst the minor poets are included several American writers, whose works are almost unknown to English readers. On the Fifth night Zoilus draws Longfellow, and his comrades caution him to beware how he treats an author, already a classic, whose works have been complimented by many ordinary parodies. He composes the following imitation of Longfellow's hexameters : NAUVOO. This is the place: be still for a while, my high-pressure steamboat! Let me survey the spot where the Mormons builded their temple. Much have I mused on the wreck and ruin of ancient religions, Scandinavian, Greek, Assyrian, Zend, and the Sanskrit, Yea, and explored the mysteries hidden in Talmudic targums, Caught the gleam of Chrysaor's sword and occulted Orion, Backward spelled the lines of the Hebrew graveyard at Newport, Studied Ojibwa symbols and those of the Quarry of Pipe stone, Also the myths of the Zulus whose questions converted Colenso, So, methinks, it were well I should muse a little at Nauvoo. Fair was he not, the primitive Prophet, nor he who succeeded, Hardly for poetry fit, though using the Urim and Thummin. Had he but borrowed Levitical trappings, the girdle and ephod, Fine twined linen, and ouches of gold, and bells and pomegranates, That, indeed, might have kindled the weird necromancy of fancy. Had he but set up mystical forms, like Astarte or Peor, Yet the Muse that delights in Mesopotamian numbers, Vague and vast as the roar of the wind in a forest of pine trees, Now must tune her strings to the names of Joseph and Brigham. Hebrew, the first; and a Smith before the Deluge was Tubal, Thor of the East, who first made iron ring to the hammer; So on the iron heads of the people about him, the latter, Striking the sparks of belief and forging their faith in the Good Time Coming, the Latter Day, as he called it,-the Kingdom of Zion. Then, in the words of Philip the Eunuch unto Belshazzar, Came to him multitudes wan, diseased and decrepit of spirit Came and heard and believed, and builded the temple of Nauvoo. All is past; for Joseph was smitten with lead from a pistol, Brigham went with the others over the prairies to Salt Lake. Answers now to the long, disconsolate wail of the steamer, Hoarse, inarticulate, shrill, the rolling and bounding of tenpins, Answers the voice of the bar-tender, mixing the smash and the julep, Answers, precocious, the boy, and bites a chew of tobacco. Lone as the towers of Afrasiab now is the seat of the Prophet, Mournful, inspiring to verse, though seeming utterly vulgar: Also-for each thing now is expected to furnish a moral— Teaching innumerable lessons for who so believes and is patient. Thou, that readest, be resolute, learn to be strong and to suffer! Let the dead Past bury its dead and act in the Present! Bear a banner of strange devices, "Forever" and "Never Build in the walls of time the fame of a permanent Nauvoo, So that thy brethren may see it and say, "Go thou and do likewise !" This poem does not altogether meet with his comrades' approval; Zoïlus retorts that "it is no easy thing to be funny in hexameters; the Sapphic verse is much more practicable." The Gannet hereupon asserts that he could write an imitation of Longfellow's higher strains -not of those which are so well known and so much quoted-which would be fairer to the poet, and after a short interval produces THE SEWING-MACHINE. A strange vibration from the cottage window My vagrant steps delayed, And half abstracted, like the ancient Hindoo, What is, I said, this unremitting humming, As unto prayer the murmurous answer coming, Is this the sound of unimpeded labour, Our harsher substitute for pipe and tabor, Or, is it yearning for a higher vision, Where, enthroned above the table, If still further you should ask me, In the House of Talkee-Talkee ?" For the riding of their hobbies; I should tell you, "There are many If you really had the conscience THE SONG OF BIG BEN. SHOULD you ask me why these columns And their aggravating dulness? I should answer, I should tell you, "That I write them as I hear them, As I hear, and as I see them ;That the world may learn what happens In the painted, gilded chamber, In the chapel of St. Stephen's, At the House of Talkee-Talkee, Where, upon the woolsack, patient, THE LORDS. To the gilded, painted chamber Like to agéd washerwoman; In their puffed lawn sleeves, the Bishops, Fussy, like the hen that cackles Over new-laid egg or chicken; Come diplomatists by dozens, Blazing with their numerous orders, Which they gladly take, like bagmen ; |