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cannot feel, as they do, the force or charm of that which touches others, and these our betters as often as our equals, so nearly; if we cannot, for example-as I may regretfully confess that I never could-feel adequately, or in full, the bitter sweetness that so many thousands, and most notably among them all a better man by far and a far worthier judge than I, have tasted in these pages of Dickens which hold the story of Little Nell, a story in which all the elaborate accumulation of pathetic incident and interest, so tenderly and studiously built up, has never, to speak truth, given me one passing thrill-in the exquisitely fit and faithful phrase of a great living poet, "one sweet, possessive pang" of the tender delight and pity requickened well nigh to tears at every fresh perusal or chance recollection of that one siniple passage in "Bleak House" which describes the baby household tended by the little sister, who leaves her lesser charges locked up while she goes charing; a page which I can imagine that many a man unused to the melting mood would not undertake to read out aloud without a break.Note on Charlotte Brontë, pp. 64-65.

Now for MRS. GAMP.

To think as I should see beneath this blessed ouse which well I know it Miss Pecksniff my sweet young lady to be a ouse as there is not a many like-and worse luck, and wishin' it were not so, which then this tearful walley would be changed into a flowerin' guardian Mrs. Chuffy; to think as I should see identically comin' Mrs. Pinch-I take the liberty though almost unbeknown-and so assure you of it Sir, the smilinest and sweetest face as ever Mrs. Chuzzlewit, I see exceptin' your own, my dear good lady, and your good lady's too Sir Mrs. Moddle, if I may make so bold as speak so plain of what is plain enough to them as need'nt look through millstones Mrs. Todgers to find out what is wrote upon the wall behind which no offence is meant ladies and gentlemen none being took I hope to think as I should see that smilinest and sweetest face which me and another friend of mine took notige of among the packages down London Bridge in this promiscuous place is a surprise indeed !

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SIX OF ONE AND HALF-A-DOZEN OF THE OTHER. (Some little way after the late Mortimer Collins. )

OH, Summer said to Winter,

"Earth lovers love me best;

For I flush the mead, and I fill the rill,

And the violet and the daffodil,

And the red, red rose o'er the world I spill;

And my dawns are cool, and my eves are chill;
And don't I run up the doctor's bill

For bronchitis and all the rest!"

But Winter said to Summer :

"Earth-lovers best love me :

For I now bring slop instead of snow,
(Which comes in June, or mostly so ;)
And roses and noses at Christmas blow,
And the birds their nesting-time don't know,
But lay in December-a pretty go!

And your azure skies, and your sunny glow
Are silly legends of long ago;

Whilst as to the Doctor's Bills, oho!
We are equally good at them I trow.
Fact is, the difference 'twixt us two
Is the purest fiddle-de-dee!

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Several humorous parodies written by the late Mr. Mortimer Collins have already appeared in this collection, but his lines to Chloe, with her supposed burlesque reply to them, deserve to be quoted :—

AD CHLOEN M. A.

(Fresh from her Cambridge Examination.)

LADY, very fair are you,
And your eyes are very blue,
And your hose;

And your brow is like the snow,
And the various things you know,

Goodness knows.

And the rose-flush on your cheek,
And your Algebra and Greek
Perfect are:

And that loving lustrous eye
Recognises in the sky
Every Star.

You have pouting piquant lips, You can doubtless an eclipse

Calculate;

But for your cerulean hue, I had certainly from you Met my fate.

If by some arrangement dual

I were Adams minced with Whewell,
Then some day

I, as wooer, perhaps might come,
To so sweet an Artium
Magistra.

CHLOE, M.A.

Ad Amantem Suam. CARELESS rhymer, it is true, That my favourite colour's blue: But am I

To be made a victim, Sir;
If to puddings I prefer
Cambridge pie?

If with giddier girls I play
Croquet through the summer day
On the turf,

Then at night ('tis no great boon)
Let me study how the moon
Sways the turf.

Tennyson's idyllic verse
Surely suits me none the worse
If I seek

Old Sicilian birds and bees-
Music of sweet Sophocles-
Golden Greek.

You have said my eyes are blue : There may be a fairer hue,

Perhaps and yet

It is surely not a sin
If I keep my Secrets in
Violet.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

THE COMIC HISTORY OF ENGLAND.

The following song was written by Mr. Collins in the days when George the Third was King. It was published, with music, by T. Broome, 15 Holborn Bars, London.

THE Romans in England they once did sway,
And the Saxons they after them led the way,
And they tugg'd with the Danes 'till an Overthrow,
They both of them got by the Norman Bow,
Yet barring all Pother, the one and the other,
Were all of them Kings in their turn.

Little Willy the Conqueror long did reign,
But Billy his Son by an Arrow was slain :
And Harry the first was a scholar bright,
But Stephy was forc'd for his Crown to fight.
Yet barring &c.

Second Harry, Plantagenet's name did bear,
And Cœur de Lion was his Son and Heir;
But Magna Charta we gain'd from John,
Which Harry the Third put his Seal upon.
Yet barring &c.

There was Teddy the first like a Tyger bold,
But the Second by Rebels was bought and sold
And Teddy the third was his Subject's pride,
Tho his Grandson Dicky was popp'd aside.
Yet barring &c.

There was Harry the fourth a warlike wight,
And Harry the Fifth like a cock would fight
Tho Henry his son like a chick did pout,
When Teddy his Cousin had kick'd him out.
Yet barring &c.

Poor Teddy the fifth he was kill'd in bed,
By butchering Dick who was knock'd in head;
Then Harry the Seventh in fame grew big;
And Harry the Eighth was as fat as a Pig.
Yet barring &c.

With Teddy the Sixth we had tranquil days,
Tho' Mary made Fire and Faggot blaze;
But good Queen Bess was a glorious Dame,
And bonnie King Jamie from Scotland came.
Yet barring &c.

Pocr Charley the First was a Martyr made,
But Charley his Son was a comicle blade;
And Jemmy the Second when hotly spurr'd,
Run away, do ye see me, from Willy the Third.
Yet barring &c.

Queen Ann was victorious by Land and Sea,
And Georgey the First did with glory sway,
And as Georgey the Second has long been dead,
Long life to the Georgey we have in his stead,
And may his son's sons to the end of the Chapter
All come to be Kings in their turn.

Prose Parodies.

In the following pages a selection, as nearly representative as it can be made, will be given from the parodies of the works of our greatest prose writers. Although the axiom le style c'est l'homme does not apply to prose with quite the same force as to poetry, yet there are many amusing prose burlesques, the originals of which will at once be recognised.

Unfortunately most prose parodies are very long, in dealing with these merely brief extracts can be given, and in some cases it will only be necessary to indicate the names of the works in which they occur.

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The secrets of the rouge pot are as safe with me as with my lady's own woman: and when I have found a lover in the closet of a dame of quality, I have taken no more notice, than her husband himself would have done of a like accident. Our Queen, Proserpine, being, as everybody knows, obliged entirely to the poets for her throne and title, and taking likewise, in her capacity of moon, no little share in their inspiration, hath ever distinguished the whole brotherhood of us with her singular grace: and from time to time, by her intercession with her grim spouse, one or other of us hath the liberty of paying a visit to the upper sphere.

All the condition set upon us is only this; that on our return, we shall make such corrections in our most popular works, as modern men and things may appear to need.

For the sake of mutual help in these our reforms, a few of us have united of late into a Society, of which I have been appointed (together with Dr. Samuel Johnson) to be the joint secretary, or Recorder. And it may be convenient, if, by way of introduction to the pieces now revised and put forth, I prefix a short catalogue of their authors, persons who, though born in different ages, do nevertheless marvellously harmonise and agree, insomuch, that a sincerer friendship is hardly to be met with at Court, or even among beauties themselves.

(Here follow descriptions of the principal authors whose works are imitated in " Posthumous Parodies.")

However, it were almost too much to expect in either of us the perfection of later judges, who have carried the art of criticism to such a pitch of excellence, as that no mixture whatsoever of commendation is any longer let in, to weaken its spirit and effect.

For my own part, I am wonderfully pleased with thi improvement; for it helps the main end of criticism, to wit, to make the public laugh.

And what author can be so blind to his own real interests, as not to discern, how much more truly those are his friends who point out his errors, than who puff up his vanity?

I know not how it hath happened, that in an assembly so

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notable for ingenious persons as ours is, there is yet no mixture of the fairer sort. Their absence is always a subject of regret with me, the most unworthy of their admirers and it is so now in a more especial manner, forasmuch as I foresee that many small wags will take occasion to draw therefrom a conclusion not a little disparaging to the sex's wit, and so make themselves mighty merry, as little people are ever willing, at their better's expence. C.

From Posthumous Parodies. London. J. Miller. 1814.

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DR. JOHNSON'S GHOST.

On the re-opening of Drury Lane Theatre.

THAT which was organised by the moral ability of one has been executed by the physical efforts of many, and DRURY LANE THEATRE is now complete. Of that part behind the curtain, which has not yet been destined to glow beneath the brush of the varnisher, or vibrate to the hammer of the carpenter, little is thought by the public, and little need be said by the committee. Truth, however, is not to be sacrificed for the accommodation of either; and he who should pronounce that our edifice has received its final embellishment would be disseminating falsehood without incurring favour, and risking the disgrace of detection without participating the advantage of success.

Professions lavishly effused and parsimoniously verified are alike inconsistent with the precepts of innate rectitude and the practice of external policy: let it not then be conjectured, that because we are unassuming, we are imbecile; that forbearance is any indication of despondency, or humility of demerit. He that is the most assured of success will make the fewest appeals to favour, and where nothing is claimed that is undue, nothing that is due will be withheld. A swelling opening is too often succeeded by an insignificant conclusion. Parturient mountains have ere now produced muscipular abortions; and the auditor who compares incipient grandeur with final vulgarity is reminded of the pious hawkers of Constantinople, who solemnly perambulate her streets, exclaiming, "In the name of the Prophet-figs!"

Of many who think themselves wise, and of some who are thought wise by others, the exertions are directed to the revival of mouldering and obscure dramas; to endeavours to exalt that which is now rare only because it was always worthless, and whose deterioration, while it condemned it to living obscurity, by a strange obliquity of moral perception, constitutes its title to posthumous renown. To embody the flying colours of folly, to arrest evanescence, to give to bubbles the globular consistency as well as form, to exhibit on the stage the piebald denizen of the stable, and the halfreasoning parent of combs, to display the brisk locomotion of Columbine, or the tortuous attitudinising of Punch ;these are the occupations of others, whose ambition, limited to the applause of unintellectual fatuity, is too innocuous for the application of satire, and too humble for the incitement of jealousy.

Our refectory will be found to contain every species of fruit, from the cooling nectarine and luscious peach to the puny pippin and the noxious nut. There Indolence may repose, and Inebriety revel; and the spruce apprentice, rushing in at second account, may there chatter with impunity; debarred, by a barrier of brick and mortar, from marring that scenic interest in others, which nature and education have disqualified him from comprehending himself.

Permanent stage-doors we have none. That which is

permanent cannot be removed, for, if removed, it soon ceases to be permanent. What stationary absurdity can vie with that ligneous barricado, which, decorated with frappant and tintinnabulant appendages, now serves as the entrance of the lowly cottage, and now as the exit of a lady's bed-chamber; at one time, insinuating plastic Harlequin into a butcher's shop, and, at another, yawning, as a floodgate, to precipitate the Cyprians of St. Giles's into the embraces of Macheath. To elude this glaring absurdity, to give to each respective mansion the door which the carpenter would doubtless have given, we vary our portal with the varying scene, passing from deal to mahogany, and from mahogany to oak, as the opposite claims of cottage, palace, or castle, may appear to require.

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Amid the general hum of gratulation which flatters us in front, it is fit that some regard should be paid to the murmurs of despondence that assail us in the rear. They, as I have elsewhere expressed it, "who live to please, should not have their own pleasures entirely overlooked. The children of Thespis are general in their censures of the architect, in having placed the locality of exit at such a distance from the oily irradiators which now dazzle the eyes of him who addresses you, I am, cries the Queen of Terrors, robbed of my fair proportions. When the kingkilling Thane hints to the breathless auditory the murders he means to perpetrate in the castle of Macduff, "ere his purpose cool, so vast is the interval he has to travel before he can escape from the stage, that his purpose has even time to freeze. Your condition, cries the Muse of Smiles, is hard, but it is cygnet's down in comparison with mine. The peerless peer of capers and congees has laid it down as a rule, that the best good thing uttered by the morning visitor should conduct him rapidly to the doorway, last impressions vying in durability with first. But when, on this boarded elongation, it falls to my lot to say a good thing, to ejaculate "keep moving," or to chant hic hoc horum genitivo," many are the moments that must elapse ere I can hide myself from public vision in the recesses of O. P. or P. S.

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To objections like these, captiously urged and querulously maintained, it is time that equity should conclusively reply. Deviation from scenic propriety has only to vituperate itself for the consequences it generates. Let the actor consider the line of exit as that line beyond which he should not soar in quest of spurious applause: let him reflect, that in proportion as he advances to the lamps, he recedes from rature; that the truncheon of Hotspur acquires no additional charm from encountering the cheek of beauty in the stage-box, and that the bravura of Madame may produce effect, although the throat of her who warbles it should not overhang the orchestra. The Jove of the modern critical Olympus, Lord Mayor of the theatric sky + has, ex cathedrá, asserted, that a natural actor looks upon the audience part of the theatre as the third side of the chamber he inhabits. Surely, of the third wall thus fancifully erected, our actors should, by ridicule or reason, be withheld from knocking their heads against the stucco.

Time forcibly reminds me, that all things which have a limit must be brought to a conclusion. Let me, ere that conclusion arrives, recall to your recollection that the pillars which rise on either side of me, blooming in virid antiquity,

The celebrated Lord Chesterfield, whose Letters to his Son, according to Dr. Johnson, inculcate "the manners of a dancing master and the morals of a ―," &c.

"Lord Mayor of the theatric sky." This alludes to Leigh Hunt, who, in The Examiner, at this time kept the actors in hot water.

like two massy evergreens, had yet slumbered in their native quarry, but for the ardent exertions of the individual who called them into life: to his never-slumbering talents you are indebted for whatever pleasure this haunt of the Muses is calculated to afford. If, in defiance of chaotic malevolence, the destroyer of the temple of Diana yet survives in the name of Erostratus, surely we may confidently predict that the rebuilder of the temple of Apollo will stand recorded to distant posterity in that of-SAMUEL WHITBREAD.

From The Rejected Addresses, by James and Horace Smith. London, 1812.

There is a Prefatory Paper, in the style of Dr. Johnson, in "Posthumous Parodies," published by John Miller, London, 1814, but it is greatly inferior to that contained in "Rejected Addresses."

ON BOOKBINDERS.

(After Rasselas.)

YE who listen with credulity to the whispers of noodles, and pursue with eagerness the phantom "collection," who believe that binder's promises are-binding, and that an inch of margin to-day matters not on the morrow, attend to the wisdom of Bonnardot, Prince of Book-Restorers. "The greatest merit of a rare book is indisputably a margin uncut, or at least, little and regularly cut in every way." No hesitating words these; no room for doubt here. An uncut margin is the greatest merit a rare book can possess, and it is a merit which has a well ascertained commercial value. An eighth of an inch more or less of margin often makes a difference in value of hundreds of dollars. Now let the botcher-binder cut and slash as you will.

ANONYMOUS JOURNALISM.

ANONYMOUS.

(From an unpublished Essay by Dr. Johnson.)

HE that asserts the annexation of a correct cognomen to each production to be imperative upon every author, either strays from veracity for the sake of disseminating falsehood, or circulates error through the possession of congenital imbecility. Let it not be surmised that this declaration is expressed through sensitive timidity or supported by vacuous generalizations, for a further perusal will speedily discover a clinching dialectic. The individual that appends his hereditary appellation to a composition of transcendant ability, does but seek to enervate his intellect by encomiastic excess, and whilst he panders to his ambition, exaggerates his energies. Such a course indeed, is too ephemeral for the attainment by an author of immortality, because too invidious for the approbation of his colleagues. Of the many who consider their cerebral progeny worthy of attentive investigation, but few have the right to predicate correctness of their hopeful conviction; and he that inscribes his signature on a piece of somniferous fatuity, involves his relatives in unmerited obloquy, whilst he exposes himself to dedecorating derision. Amid the multitude of periodical productions it is but reasonable that some should be devoted to the analysis of individual idiosyncracies, and the maxims previously unfolded may to these be pertinently applied.

An anonymous panegyric by an unknown friend is more acceptable than the cringing adulation of a patent parasite, whilst unsigned reproofs are more meritorious than personal vituperations.

He that panders to an inflamed irascibility by affording it an opportunity of illicit flagellation, does but incite an infuriated man to rebel against the legal institutions of his country.

To the contemptible criticisms of those whose opinions are in contrariety with the superscribed, we merely reply, that, whilst the procrastination of judgment is essential to the perfectibility of Truth, their future ratiocinations will still be treated with dignified derision by their magnanimous admonishers.

From The Shotover Papers, Oxford, 1874.

"Lexiphanes, a Dialogue, imitated from Lucian, and suited to the present times," (1767), was a malicious piece of drollery directed against Dr. Johnson; this has been attributed to Sir John Hawkins, the real author, however. was Archibald Campbell, the Purser of a Man-of-War.

A continuation of Rasselas, entitled Dinarbas, was published in 1793, it had little merit.

Rev. LAURENCE STERNE. BORN 1713. DIED March, 18, 1768.

A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY.

By a Sterne Shade.

CHAPTER I.

"I'LL be hanged if I do!"

I was standing at the verge of the pavement at the bottom of Ludgate-hill, with one foot on the kerb and the other in the kennel.

'Tis an attitude of irresolution and uncertainty, and throws a man off his level. And when a man is thrown off his level there's no telling what may be the end of it. I took my foot out of the kennel, and as I set it down beside its companion on the granite I repeated my exclamation

"I'll be hanged if I do!"

Now, 'tis an undertaking no man in the possession of his senses would make if he was not quite sure of avoiding the penalty. There are many inconveniences connected with being hanged, which would incline us to hesitate. A man of sentiment and refinement would shrink from it. The idea of engrossing the attention of so many people, from the Sheriff and the Ordinary down to the most ragged beggar in the crowd, is a shock to delicacy.

Besides, hanging entails early rising, and early rising is bad. Oh! great Sun! for what dost thou quit thy roseate couch at so unearthly an hour, but to air the world for us poor mortals?

Whip me the man who would rise before eleven, if he could help it. If he couldn't-well, 'tis different, and there's an end on't.

But early rising is a thing I never cared for or practised; and indeed I can think of no worse way of beginning a day than getting up at eight to be hanged.

And this brings me back to my first proposition. "I'll be hanged if I do!" said I.

As I uttered the words I brought down my cane with a smart rap on the stones-for if the intention and the deed

be the same thing, as learned legists tell us, it was on the stones that I brought it down. But between the deed and the intention a plaguy fellow must needs thrust the foot on which he wore his largest and tenderest corn.

Mine is a sensitive heart, and of a truth tenderness is a failing that is always leading me into difficulties.

I could not support the sight of his anguish; and as soon as he found the use of his voice-which was pretty soon-I thought it best to move away.

CHAPTER II.

I HAD not gone many steps ere I fell in with a donkey. Now an ass is an animal I can never pass without giving him the time of day. There is a gentle patience with which he listens to my discourses that wins my heart in spite of myself.

He was harnessed to a sort of barrow, laden with mackerel, and he was standing in Farringdon-street to allow the stream of traffic to pass up Ludgate-hill.

"Tis ever so, Honesty!" said I; "thou and I must e'en wait to let our betters go by. See how you 'Bow and Stratford' rolls by-mark that Pickford's van-and thou'rt obliged to wait with thy fish, though they be perishable goods at best."

As I said this I had taken up one of the mackerel, and was moralizing over it.

"Come, I say, jest drop that 'ere?" said a voice. I looked up. It was Jack's master. "And this is thy tyrant, then!" I thought to myself. "Thine must be a hard lot, with one so suspicious of his kind-so devoid of sentiment." But I said nothing, and replaced the fish.

Just at this moment the tide of traffic was broken for an instant, and the ass's master hastened to take advantage of it. "Kim up!" said he to Jack; and before the poor animal could obey him, he seized him by the head and dragged him along, dealing him at the same time a score of heavy blows with a thick stick that he carried in his right hand.

I could have found it in my heart to have given the rascal a sound drubbing for his pains. But I refrained. I protest I am too soft-hearted. I feared I might by chance hurt him, or he me.

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Farewell, Honesty!" said I, as Jack shambled off with his load. And then I knew not what tender emotion stirred me, but I felt a tear trickling down my cheek. "Farewell, Honesty!" said I again, as I put my hand into my pocket for my kerchief.

It was gone!

CHAPTER III.

I HAVE come to the conclusion that 'tis not the best way to get through a story to begin at the end.

Tis an unprofitable way at best, and tends to lead one into digressions.

Now, digressions will be the ruin of me in this world and the next. I shall be so beset with digressions I shall never reach my destination.

'Tis a very butterfly-like temptation. Here was I set down to write you out my journey, and I've not got three steps from the bottom of Ludgate-hill.

And this because of my fatal failing for digression. I had proposed to write a chapter on Pickford's vans, and another on Public Executions; but here's the end of my letter, and I am still standing with one foot on the kerbstone and the other in the kennel

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"I can't get on! I can't get on!"
'Twas a little plaintive voice like a child's.

"I can't get on!" This time I traced it to its source. 'Twas nothing but a little squirrel in a revolving cage. As he ran, so his prison turned, and he still kept crying, "I can't get on!

Oh! great principle of Liberty! was I wrong to make the instant determination to set that poor little captive free? My heart assures me I was not. I fumbled at the wire-fastening. It resisted my efforts, but the squirrel bit my fingers all the same.

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Another digression. But it shall be the last. I have sworn it, and so there's an end of the matter. And 'tis no much matter either, for after all 'tis no more than this:

As I stood on the pavement at the bottom of Ludgatehill, with one foot on the kerb and the other in the kennel, I suddenly remembered that it was Lord Mayors Day. "Shall I go and see the show?" said I to myself. And myself answered

"I'll be hanged if I do!" And I didn't.

ANONYMOUS.

AFFECTING APPEAL.

Linton, a musician belonging to the orchestra of Covent Garden Theatre, was murdered by street robbers, who were afterwards discovered and executed. A play was given for the benefit of his widow and children; and the day preceding the performance the following appeared in one of the public prints.

"THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN.

"For the Benefit of Mrs. Linton, &c.

"The Widow," said Charity, whispering me in the ear. "must have your mite; wait upon her with a guinea, and purchase a box-ticket."

"You may have one for five shillings," observed Avarice, pulling me by the elbow.

My hand was in my pocket, and the guinea, which was between my finger and thumb, slipped out.

"Yes," said I," she shall have my five shillings,” "Good heaven!" exclaimed Justice, "what are you about! Five shillings? If you pay but five shillings for going into the Theatre, then you get value received for your money."

"And I shall owe him no thanks," added Charity, laying her hand upon my heart, and leading me on the way to the Widow's house.

Taking the knocker in my left hand, my whole frame trembled. Looking round, I saw Avarice turn the corner of the street, and I found all the money in my pocket grasped in my hand.

"Is your mother at home, my dear?" said I, to a child who conducted me into a parlour,

"Yes," answered the infant; "but my father has not been at home for a great while; that is his harpsichord, and that is his violin.-He used to play on them for me." "Shall I play you a tune, my boy ?" said I.

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