expose the harsh manner in which the tenants were treated on the rack-rented estates of Lord Lansdowne in Ireland. Mobs of rioters attacked Mr. O'Brien, who was nearly killed, and the Canadian police proved utterly inefficient to cope with the disorder.

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LOVE AT TWO SCORE. Ho! pretty page, with dimpled chin, That never has known the barber's shear, All your aim is woman to win. This is the way that boys begin.

Wait till you've come to forty year! Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,

Billing and cooing is all your cheer, Sighing and singing of midnight strains Under Bonnybell's window panes.

Wait till you've come to forty year!

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,

Once you have come to forty year.
Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,

All good fellows whose beards are grey : Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome, ere

Ever a month was past away?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be missed,
Ere yet ever a month was gone.
Gillian's dead, Heaven rest her bier,
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian's married, but I sit here,
Alive and merry at forty year,

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

This poem first appeared in Thackeray's burlesque of Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhoe, entitled "Rebecca and Rowena."

LOVE AT SIXTEEN.

In answer to W. M. Thackeray, Esq. By a Pretty Page.
THE affections, when young, are more prone to unite,
As the flowers of the forest together entwine,
Than when age with her vigour has frozen our might,
And manhood has gone past the bounds of its prime.

Forty years-ah! why wait for enjoyment so long,
For a home with the heart and the hand of the fair?
Why cheat expectation while time circles on,
And marry a girl, in your fortieth year?
With no one to share life's troubles and crosses,
Or cheer you with smiles when sickness is near,
Or console you amidst your privations and losses,
Would you wait for a bride till your fortieth year?
Why not taste of the fountain of pleasure while beauty,
Lends grace to the features now withered and sere?
Oh! lose not the chance, for numbers will suit ye,
Unless they're put off to the fortieth year.

To sweeten the cup of the bitter we're drinking,
And mourn o'er the corpse when the spirit has gone,

To soften our fears when hope is fast sinking,
Are to woman allotted, sad tasks! to be done.
Oh! give me a home with a fair English maiden,
Who'll beguile the dull days of my sojourning here;
While blest with a wife and two rosy young children,
I'll leave others to wed in their fortieth year.

Cheltenham. January, 1850.

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THE SNOB'S VERSION OF THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. (It is said that the Prince of Wales, being late for Church on the day of his arrival at Cannes, slipped in among the footmen and ladies' maids. One of the latter marked the chair he occupied, and after evening service, her mistress, the wife of a Liverpool cotton-broker, was much disappointed at not being able to buy it from the sexton.)

WAS ever a woman so wretched as I,

To long for a treasure that wealth cannot buy!
That sexton has surely the heart of a bear,
Or else he would sell me that cane-bottom'd chair.

Thackeray's translations, or imitations, of some of Beranger's songs are well known, it is interesting to compare them with the versions written by Father Prout (the Rev. Francis Mahony), who has not only followed the originals more closely, but seems also to have preserved more of their light-hearted gaiety, than did Thackeray. When Thackeray projected "The Cornhill Magazine" Father Prout sent an "Inaugurative Ode to the author of Vanity Fair.” Thackeray was too fastidious to allow it to appear exactly in the form in which it was written, but having considerably altered it, and added two stanzas, it was printed in the first number of the Cornhill, January, 1860. The two versions will be found in the appendix to The Maclise Portrait Gallery by William Bates, B. A. (London Chatto and Windus, 1883.) The version given in The Works of Father Prout, published by Messrs. Routledge, London, is simply a reprint of the Ode as it appeared after it had been altered, and cut about, by Thackeray.

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In his "Memoirs of C. Jeames de la Pluche, Esq.," and "The Ballads of Policeman X" Thackeray allowed his fondness for eccentric orthography to become somewhat tedious, but they contain many gems of humour, such as the of the love sick Jeames :song

WHEN moonlike ore the hazure seas
In soft effulgence swells,
When silver jews and balmy breaze
Bend down the Lily's bells;
When calm and deap, the rosy sleap
Has lapt your soal in dreems,
R Hangeline! R lady mine!
Dost thou remember Jeames?

I mark thee in the Marble All,

Where England's lovliest shine

I say the fairest of them hall

Is Lady Hangeline.

My soul, in desolate eclipse,

With recollection teems

And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames?

Burlesque verses, such as these, may be imitated, but they cannot be parodied, and, indeed it must be admitted that few of the imitations are really humorous.

THE ARCANA OF CABINET-MAKING.

(An Epistle from James de la Pluche, Jun., Esq.) "Lady Frederick Cavendish's house, Carlton Houseterrace, and Devonshire House, the town residence of the Marquis of Hartington, were the centres of interest on the Opposition side. Mr. Gladstone, who is at present the guest of Lady Frederick, at half-past ten received a visit from Mr. Godley, a former private secretary. Lord Granville walked across from his residence about eleven o'clock, and had a long interview with Mr. Gladstone, Sir Henry James, ex-Attorney-General, also called on Mr. Gladstone, and remained with him for about half an hour. He was followed by Lord Hartington, who walked to Carlton House-terrace from the Reform Club. He and Mr. Gladstone remained in conversation for over an hour. At the close of the interview his lordship crossed the street to Lord Granville's residence, and in a few minutes they came out together in earnest conversation. Lord Hartington left the leader of the House of Lords at the corner by the Athenæum, and strolled back in the direction of the Duke of York's Steps, where he was shortly joined by Lord Rosebery, who had called on Mr. Gladstone in the meantime. Later in the afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone went for a drive in the Park, after which the former was again visited by Lord Granville and Lord Derby."-Times. January 28, 1886.

You scribblin' fellers makes a show
Of bein' reg'lar "in the know,"
On pollytix an' pollytishns
Haffectin' habsoloot homnishns-
But wen there comes a cryziss, who's
The whery fust as knows the knoos?
Who's hex hoffisho on the spot

To let you press-chaps know wot's wot?
Who's plaist by Fête in sich a stashn
As quite commands the sitiwashn?
Who tells you penyalinin' lyres
The hins an' houts of wot perspires?
In short, who knows the time of day,
Is hup to snough, hall there, ho fay?
Who 'olds the pulse of Isterry?
I hansers ortily, Y, ME!—
Me, an' a few kongfrares as well
Wot waits upon the Front Door Bell.

The wuld is pantin' for to know The goins on of WEG. an' Co.His bedtime an' the time he riz, His hegsits an' his hentrances, His hax each minnit of the day, Who cawld on 'im, who stade awhey, Wen Herbert wisited the Guv, An' wen he wawkt, an' wen he druv, An', most of hall, wot lucky feller He last took hunder his humbreller,

Did Granwill pop across the streat?
Did 'im an' Wernon Arkrt meat?
Were it at arf past twelve or wun
The Gee Ho Hem sor 'Artington?
He stayed 'ow long? An' who come nex?
Wot other bigwhigs paid respex?
Who were it wrang the hairey bell
An' slipt in privit ?-Not P-rn-11?
Wen came the darlin' of the Corcus.
His butnole gorjus with a horchus ?
Wile he enjyd a tateytate,

Were Rowsberry ablidjed to wate?
Who was eggscited? Who was carm?
An' who with who went harm-in-harm?
For tips on sich pints Kings an' Doox
An' Hurls is on the tenteroox-
From Galway to Hafganistan
Hall Ize is on the Grand Old Man ;
The Zar's gone oph his sleap at night,
Prints Bizmark's lost his happytight,
The Greax for hinfamashn long-
An' who, pray, keaps 'em ho koorong?
Who plays, in langwitch mettyforacle,
The mitey roll of Yewrup's Horacle?
Who lets you scribblers suck his branes
An' gits a quid, praps, for his panes ?
R! Sich the lot ('ow 'ard it seams!)
The loly, lophty lot of JEAMES.

The Pall Mall Gazette. January 30, 1886.

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THE BALLAD OF A RURAL PLECEMAN.
66
BY WHACKERY."

TORY gents of Lincoln county,
Lincoln famed for minster grand,
Whence a "party," as is nameless,
Looks they say across the land.
I'm a bold and rural Pleceman
Keepin', as in duty boun',
Hi's on all them poachin' raskles
As infestes Spaldin' town.
And my hobject is remonstransh
(Which I feel I'm to it drove)
With that ere 'Ome Secertary,
A most harbetary cove.

In this hex'lent town of Spaldin'
Lives a gent of whom I speak,
Most respectful,— -as a Rev'rent,-
And a most intel'gent Beak.

And this Rev'rent Beak afore him
Had a gal-of crackter rum,
Caught most flagrant in the hact like
Priggin' a Geraneum.

And her prevus hantecedants

(Which the law they couldn't reach)
Bad they was,-I'd o'mmost warrent
She'd not heerd that Rev'rent preach.
Niver been to Skool and sich like,
Niver curtsy'd, I'll be boun',
When she met that Rev'rent party
Walkin' meek in Spaldin' town.

So his Rev'rent Washup hearin'
All the fax to which I speaks,
Sent that most owdacious huzzy
Into quod for several weeks.

When that wicked gal was quodded
(I wish more was, on my sowl)
All them penny Radikle papers
Made a most in funnil 'oul.

And they said as this ere Rev'rent,-
(Bless his gentle 'art-for years
I have heeard 'im for them 'ethens
Preach till every hi was tears).

Yes, they said this pious gen'lm
(Which I knows the coals he give)
Was a cruel 'artless tyrant,

O'mmost 'ardly fit to live;

When they know as 'e's as kind like As his little boys wot sings,

Allus gettin' good old ladies

To be givin' of 'im things.

Now no word was too revileful
'Cos o' this gals "tender years

(As they called 'em), and 'cos mostly Of her Corkodilish tears.

Then this ere 'Ome Secertary

(Which of this I now complain) Spoke quite stern-like to this Rev'rent, And released that gal again.

And what's wus,-another Conviction
Of this hex'lent J. P.,
Though not 'arf what I'd 'a given,
Was just squashed like, d'ye see.
And this Radikle 'Ome Secertary,
Speakin' in a public place,
Hinted as this Rev'rent party
Worn't quite fitted for his place.
This I call a most etroceous,

And a hins'lent thing to speak;
Who is 'e I'd like to know now,

To hinsult a Rev'rent Beak?

I on'y wish that Rev'rent had 'im
Afore him with a fairish tale,

I don't think that cheeky party
Would too easily get bale.

And I call on all them ladies

Which his church and sich-like give,
All them gents upon his Boards like,
And them lawyers, as must live,
Now to jine in this remonstransh
At the truth which now I told,
And in gen'ral hindignation,
With a rural Pleceman bold.

From Grins and Groans, 1882.

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OLD FASHIONED FUN. WHEN that old joke was new, It was not hard to joke, And puns we now pooh-pooh, Great laughter would provoke

True wit was seldom heard,

And humour shown by few,

When reign'd King George the Third,
And that old joke was new.

It passed indeed for wit,
Did this achievement rare,
When down your friend would sit,

To steal away his chair;

You brought him to the floor,

You bruised him black and blue, And this would cause a roar, When your old joke was new.

W. M. THACKERAY.

The original of this parody will be found on p. 167 vol. iv., with two imitations.

In the fourth volume of this collection several parodies, written by Thackeray, were given, amongst them being two upon Wapping Old Stairs "Untrue to my Ulric I never could be" and "The Almack's Adieu," also one, on page 173, commencing :

Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill," and "Larry O'Toole" on page 250.

In a future volume, devoted to prose parodies and burlesques, those written by Thackeray will be fully described.

Edward Bulwer Lytton.

BORN, May 25, 1805. DIED, January 18, 1873.

Lord Lytton's poetry does not appear to have offered much temptation to the parodists, probably because none of it became truly popular. Many years ago the late Professor Aytoun wrote some satirical verses on Lytton, entitled A Midnight Meditation, but this, and Tennyson's attack upon him in Punch, are the only important burlesques on his poetry.

Several of his plays have, however, been the subject of burlesques, and many prose parodies of his novels have been written.

A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION.

FILL me once more the foaming pewter up!
Another board of oysters, ladye mine!
To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup.
These mute inglorious Miltons are divine!
And as I here in slippered ease recline,
Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill,

I sigh not for the nymph of Aganippe's rill.

But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see-old Southey's dead!

They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair,
And drain the annual butt-and oh, what head
More fit with laurel to be garlanded

Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil,
Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?

They throng around me now, those things of air

That from my fancy took their being's stamp : There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; There pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is everything, and everything is nought.

Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won

The gentle ear of pensive Madeline !
How love and murder hand in hand may run,
Cemented by philosophy serene,

And kisses bless the spot where gore has been ! Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime !

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed

Obscure philosophy's enchanting light!

Until the public, 'wildered as they read,

Believed they saw that which was not in sight

Of course, 'twas not for me to set them right;

For in my nether heart convinced I am,
Philosophy's as good as any other bam.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed, Battered and broken are their early lyres,

Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past,

Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires,
And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires.
But these are things would suit me to the letter,
For though the stout is good, old sherry's greatly better.

A fico for your small poetic ravers,

Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! Shall they compete with him who wrote "Maltravers "? Prologue to "Alice, or the Mysteries "? No! even now my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about, What ho! within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!

(Several verses omitted.)

WILLIAM E. AYTOUN.

But this prophecy was not to be fulfilled, for on the death of Wordsworth, in 1850, Tennyson obtained the office and pension of Poet Laureate. Some years before that event Tennyson had also received a grant from the Government, which aroused the jealousy of his brother poets.

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In 1846 Mr. Henry Colburn, of London, published an anonymous satirical poem, entitled The New Timon, which soon became known as the work of Lytton. It contained the following passage:

"I seek no purfled prettiness of phrase,

A soul in earnest scorns the tricks for praise.

If to my verse denied the Poet's fame,
This merit, rare to verse that wins, I claim;
No tawdry grace shall womanize my pen!

Ev'n in a love-song, man should write for men !
Not mine, not mine, (O Muse forbid !) the boon

Of borrowed notes, the mock-bird's modish tune,
The Jingling medley of purloin'd conceits
Out babying Wordsworth, and outglittering Keates (sic)
Where all the airs of patchwork-pastoral chime
To drowsy ears in Tennysonian rhyme !
Am I enthrall'd but by the sterile rule,
The formal pupil of a frigid school,

If to old laws my Spartan tastes adhere,
If the old vigorous music charms my ear,

Where sense with sound, and ease with weight combine,
In the pure silver of Pope's ringing line;

Or where the pulse of man beats loud and strong

In the frank flow of Dryden's lusty song?

Let School-Miss Alfred vent her chaste delight
On "darling little rooms so warm and bright !"*
Chaunt, "I'm a-weary," in infectious strain,
And catch her "Blue fly singing i' the pane."
Tho' praised by Critics, tho' adored by Blues,
Tho' Peel with pudding plump the Puling Muse,
Tho' Theban taste the Saxon's purse controuls,
And pensions Tennyson, while starves a Knowles.

THE NEW TIMON, AND THE POETS.
We know him, out of Shakespeare's art,
And those fine curses which he spoke;
The old Timon, with his noble heart,
That, strongly loathing, greatly broke.
So died the Old: here comes the New,
Regard him a familiar face :
I thought we knew him.
The padded man-that wears the stays—
Who kill'd the girls and thrill'd the boys
With dandy pathos when you wrote,
A Lion, you, that made a noise,

What! it's you,

And shook a mane en papillotes.

And once you tried the Muses, too;
You fail'd Sir: therefore now you turn,
You fall on those who are to you,
As Captain is to Subaltern.

But men of long-enduring hopes,

And careless what this hour may bring, Can pardon little would-be Popes

And Brummels, when they try to sting.

An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art,
And waive a little of his claim,
To have the deep Poetic heart

Is more than all poetic fame.