After many years of discussion, it was decided to remove Temple Bar, principally because it interfered with the traffic, but the City authorities, egged on by a nobody who shall be nameless, decided to erect a monument in its place. Hence the hideous Griffin obstruction which it was said cost London £12,000; it was so detested and ridiculed that for a long time after its erection two constables had to guard it night and day, or it would probably have been demolished. As it was, great damage was done to it on several occasions, but it still stands, a costly monument of toadyism, folly, and bad taste. :0: PIGEON SHOOTING AT HURLINGHAM. In this Sport every element of manly courage and skill is brought into play. The poor caged birds are generally so bewildered on being released that they can scarcely fly, and the skilled marksmen often wound them, so that they flutter about for hours with broken legs and wings. This affords excellent entertainment to the tender-hearted ladies of fashion who witness the sports, and bet on the results. Occasionally a bird is killed at once, others escape from the grounds and are either captured, or tortured to death by that respectable class of the community which usually congregates around fairs, race meetings, and prize fights. Altogether, Pigeon-shooting is the sport which, for the sake of our National reputation, should be encouraged. When we have persuaded the Spaniards to abolish their Bull fights as cruel and unmanly, we may bring them to the innocent delights of battue shooting, hare coursing, fox hunting, or even to Pigeon Shooting, and so realise Poet Wordsworth's noble ideal :— "One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught by what nature shows and what conceals, With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." The subject is treated from the Pigeon's point of view, in the following imitation of Barham's style. (The pigeon is in its trap, awaiting its turn to be shot at by kind-hearted, sensible men.) WELL, here I am, and precious hot I find it, I wish I were a Fantail not to mind it ; Ten to the foot's too warm for any sinner, I'd quite as soon be in a pie for dinner; So, this is Hurlingham! Accursed place! With jealous hearts, intent to shed the blood To give the birds some innocent amusement, As murdering barn-door pheasants in a wood. "You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things." If we are only slaughter for the larder, I wish they'd miss us clean or hit us harder. "You ladies! You whose gentle hearts do fear Hence fair ones, hence! nor, like Herodias' daughter Bring by your charms the guiltless to the slaughter. My turn at last! I wish he'd leave off squeezing; I think I've scratched him! Serve him right for teasing! Alas! the middle trap he lays his hand on, "Ye (birds) who enter here all hope abandon." And now he's pulled my tail out by the roots, I feel as helpless as a Puss-in-Boots. (Ah! our poor tails, they won't believe we need 'em Or else they're fitting us for endless freedom.) They say it's to prevent my being hit. (It's very good of them to mention it.) It's very sad to die-to die-to sleep- And there he stands, the fatal swell of Hurlingham : A moment more I wish he'd use a hundred pound torpedo, Well, come what will, "This Rock," at least, shall make I make him think I mean "to have his nose. 66 I fear the story goes on, unde altior esset It's quite enough to make one "shed the briny." Would that like Milton's demons I could clime "Part on the earth, and part in air sublime !" He'd not know which to fire at, and the puzzle Might make him put his shoulder to the muzzle. By Jove, I have it! Plan untried by "Rocks," I'll light (like Bryant's matches) on the box i The line "In medio tutissimus ibis," Perhaps as truthful of the Pigeon tribe is. He might not like to shoot me till I stir; "And thus far will I trust thee, gentle sir," I'll sit on top, and try how long I can sit, Time's precious! "Ready? Pull !" chance it! Here goes; I'll 'Tis done 'tis done! Down swept the leaden trail; And must have killed me had I had a tail; Behind the trap there was "such scanty room, It missed my (absent) helm but razed a plume." Even as it was, so closely came each pellet So far so good, but doubtless he has reckoned He hesitates, uncertain which to let off, And playfully resolves to help him out; AS I SATE A-DRYNKYNge. THE LAST WORDS OF JONAS JINGOLDSBY. As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, Of a "daily," nothynge shorter, As I sate a-drynkynge, to have a lyttel more. As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, "Here you are." This longing after immortality? From The Jingoldsby Legends. By Jonas Jingoldsby, Esq. The Latest Edition. This little anonymous sixpenny pamphlet was published at 84, Fleet Street, London, about 1882. In addition to the above parody, and A Lay of St. Dunstan's which appears a few pages back, it contained "The Inspector a' Trapping 'em," Sir Wilfrid the Beerless," "The Night and the Ladies," and other imitations of the Ingoldsby Legends, both in prose and verse. There are two imitations of The Ingoldsby Legends in The Corkscrew Papers, published anonymously in 1876 by W. H. Guest, 9, Paternoster Row, London. One is styled "Tamborini, the Poet," the other "Pygmalion and His Statue," they are long, and of no particular interest. Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Eternity! Thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! (And that there is, all nature cries aloud But when, or where ?-This world was made for Cæsar. Thus am I doubly armed-My death and life, My bane and antidote are both before me. This in a moment brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point: The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. Humbly inscribed to the Right Honourable MITCHELL, solus, sitting in a thoughtful posture: In his hand his tailor's bill, with an expostulatory letter: pen, ink, and paper on the table by him. IT must be so-Tailor, thou reason'st well! - Through what new scenes and changes must we pass? Here will I hold. If a Macenas be, (And that there is, Fame publishes abroad Our civil fury, and our foreign wars. What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? This lethargy that creeps thro' all my senses? Nature, oppress'd and harrass'd out with care, Sinks down to dulness.-Let me drink a Bottle, That my awaken'd Muse may wing her flight, Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life, An off'ring fit for STAIR. 'Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest: Mitchell knows neither of them, Indifferent in his choice to live or die, If he, great Lord! vouchsafe me not his favor. CELESTINA, solus, in a thoughtful posture-a Domino, with Hat and Feather, and a Purse of Gold lying on the table. IT must be so-smart plume thou reason'st well 'Tis scenes of polished life which prompt our longings, Thro' what bright scenes and changes may we pass ; Here will I hold-if there's a Queen of Fashion, (Laying her hand on the Purse.) Thus am I doubly arm'd; my cash and trappings, But this informs me I shan't be much spoke to. From Poems, by John Peter Roberdeau. 1803. LADY TOWNLEY'S SOLILOQUY. Chichester. IT must be so-great Hoyle, thou counsell'st well; Of staking all I'm worth? Why shrinks my soul? Thus am I doubly arm'd; jewels and gold, The stars shall fade away, the tapers waste, Morning appear, my husband wake alone; But I shall flourish heroine at play, Unhurt by fears of war with France or Spain, Prussia's defeat, or Brunswick's overthrow. But oh! how altered was its sprightly tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder fiung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Fawn and Dryad known; The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste eyed Queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leaped up and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempe's Vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing: While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round, Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. About 1800 a satirical parody on this Ode was published anonymously, of which unfortunately no copy can now be traced. It contained the following lines: ODE TO THE PASSIONS. "REVENGE impatient rose ; He threw his boxing gloves in haste away, A set of Scottish bagpipes took, And blew a strain so full of fears, The very Passions melt in tears. (Tears such as you've heard Shakespeare say, A Bagpipe's drone WILL bring away.) And ever and anon he'd hum The Giant's Song of Fe Fa Fum. The most complete parody is however to be found in Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces, published anonymously in London in 1814. Unfortunately it deals with the politics and politicians of the day, and many of the allusions are of no general interest at the present time, so that only a few extracts need be quoted : THE ASPIRANTS: An Ode for Music. WHEN George our Prince, first sway'd the land, From a music room beyond They snatch'd the instruments of sound; First fiddle Grenville needs must try, And strain'd the chords, to make them sure: Then back recoil'd, he knew not why, From the unfinish'd overture. Next, Brougham came pushing from behind, In one rude roar he forced the wind, The organ fell to Byron's share, Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd: A solemn, strange, and mingled air! 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild But thou, O Croker, bard of flame, What was thy prophetic story? And Croker smil'd, well pleas'd, and Britain boasts his fame. Sheridan came last to trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd; But soon he saw the soul-awak'ning viol, Whose tone his nobler judgment loved the best: While, as his skilful fingers kiss'd the strings, Wisdom and mirth framed a harmonious round: Then wisdom gracious smiled, with zone unbound, And mirth, amid his frolic play, Beating brisk measure to the jocund lay, Waved in the Sun his gaily burnished wings. R. B. Sheridan's attachment to the bottle was notorious. |