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From the same work is taken this parody on a well-known passage in Southey's “Kehama :"
Midnight, yet not a nose
Midnight, yet not a nose
See with what crimson fury,
The tops of houses, blue with lead.
Bend beneath the landlord's tread:
Nailer and tailor,
Grazier and brazier,
All, all abroad to gaze
And wonder at the blaze.
As if the dismal view
Were but to them a mighty jubilee.
For what is Hamlet but a hare in March?
Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,
And nought is everything, and everything is nought. The imitation of Moore, too, is good :
The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge
By woman were plucked, and she still wears the prize,
I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.
There, too, is the lash which, all statutes controlling,
Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair;
Is lifted to rapture or sunk in despair. The “Bon Gaultier Ballads,” by William Edmonstoune Aytoun and Theo. dore Martin, contain some equally good parodies. “The Laureate's Tourney, by the Hon. T— B— M'A— ,” is the best travesty of Macaulay ever written :
"He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!" 'twas thus the cry began,
Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight,-we may not tarry long !" and so on. Are there not here the very lilt and spirit of the “ Battle of Ivry" and other noble ballads ? But even better is the "Lay of the Lovelorn," a burlesque of “Locksley Hall.” It is too long to quote entire, but here is the
travesty of that famous passage where the hero threatens to go off and marry a savage :
There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin !
1, the swell,--the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,-
I to wed with Coromantes !-1, who managed-very near-
Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may. Barham's “ Ingoldsby Legends” has this admirable imitation of “The Burial of Sir John Moore :"
Not a sou had he got.-not a guinea or note,
And he looked most confoundedly flurried,
And the landlady after him hurrie
When home from the club returning :
Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.
Reclined in the gutter we found him,
With his Marshall cloak around him.
And we managed a shutter to borrow.
Would confoundedly ache on the morrow,
And we told his wife and daughter
Herrings with soda-water.
And his lady began to upbraid him;
'Neath the counterpane, just as we laid him,
When beneath the window calling
Or a watchman“ One o'clock" bawling.
From his room on the uppermost story,
And we left him alone in his glory.
That lightly draws its breath,
And look as pale as death.
Adopting a parental tone,
I asked her why she cried ;
“I've got a pain inside.
Last night about eleven."
She answered, “Only seven !"
My little maid?" quoth I.
But they were in a pie."
"Of course you've had eleven."
“I ain't had more nor seven!"
And said, “I'm bad at riddles,
For telling taradiddles.
"You'll never go to heaven!"
Or slightly misapplied ;
“Lines from Ache-inside." From the same author we take the following burlesque of a weli-known passage in “Lalla Rookh :"
I never reared a young gazelle
(Because, you see, I never tried);
No doubt the creature would have died.
Has known me long and loves me well,
I would he were a young gazelle !
But, if I had, I beg to say,
Would soon have withered it away.
From childhood till the present hour,
I would he were a tree or flower! This passage has always proved a tempting mark for the parodist. Here are two more attempts, the first by C. S. Calverley, the second from an anonymous source :
I never nursed a dear gazelle :
But I was given a paroquet,
He's imbecile, but lingers yet.
He melts me with his small black eye;
Particularly long and wide,
And always on the buttered side. Perhaps the best of all English parodists was C. S. Calverley. His "Story of a Cock and Bull” is an admirable rifacimento of Browning ; but it is too long to quote here entire. Let us take this travesty of Tennyson's “ Brook :"
For any job I'm willing :
And here and there a shilling.
I deal in every ware in turn :
I've rings for buddin' Sally,
I've liquor for the valet.
The things I've done 'neath moon and stars
Have got me into messes;
I've torn up prison dresses.
But out again I come, and show
My face, nor care a stiver ;
But mine goes on forever ; and this evident skit at Jean Ingelow:
In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter
(And Heaven it knoweth what that may mean;
Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween,
I and my Willie (O love, my love !):
And Aitter: bats wavered alow, above.
(Boats in that climate are so polite),
And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!
(O love, my Willie!) and smelt for flowers ;
Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours. The “Heptalogia, or the Seven against Sense,” has already been mentioned. It is attributed to Swinburne, and the evidence is sufficient to convict him. But he has never acknowledged it. Indeed, he attempted to throw the detective off the track by a parody of his own manner and style, which we have quoted under ALLITERATION. A portion of his parody on Owen Meredith appears in our article on PLAGIARISM. Here is a clever take-off on “ The New Pantheism” of Tennyson :
THE HIGHER PANTHEISM
(IN A NUTSHELL).
Fiddle we know is diddle ; and diddle, we take it, is dee. Swinburne has been parodied by others besides himself. Here is an effort by Mortimer Collins :
If life were never bitter,
And love were always sweet,
And joy would ne'er retreat,
And love were always sweet.
If care were not the waiter
Behind a fellow's chair,
By Jove, it would be rare,
Behind a fellow's chair.
And wine were always iced,
'Twere sad to be enticed,
And wine were always iced. Another very good parody is contained in the “Shotover Papers,” contributed to by members of the University of Cambridge. The procuratores, it should be explained, are a sort of university police :