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The Banquet, a Political Satire, by Mr. George Cotterell, was published in 1885 by William Blackwood & Sons. Like most political squibs its interest was somewhat ephemeral, but it contained several amusing parodies of Tennyson, and of Swinburne. Some of those on Tennyson have already been quoted, the following extracts are taken from a parody of Swinburne's "Dolores," entitled

THE RADICAL PROGRAMME.
(After the Franchise Bill.)

THE days of the dunces are over,
The wiles of the Whigs are undone,
They shall lie nevermore in the clover,
And bask not again in the sun;

In hip and in thigh will we smite them,
Our rulers who ruled us of old,

And nothing shall raise them or right them,
Nor acres, nor gold.

They sought us with sweet condescension,
They pledged us, a hand for a hand-
We were snobs, it is needless to mention,
And they the best blood in the land:
They bartered for place and we gave it,
We staked for high game and we won,
But their place goes and nothing can save it-
Our day has begun.

When this beggarly bill they conceded

They thought we should ask for no more;
Poor fools! it was all that we needed

To make us more fierce than before:
Now the game is our own and we'll make it,
Not a hand will we yield, not a trick;
Here's a notice to all who will take t
To clear away quick.

To the Lords shall the mandate he spoken,
The people's behest and decree;

For the bonds that have bound us are broken,
We are mighty at last, we are free!
Look, my lords, where the writing is written,
On the walls of your House, on the door,
You are weighed and found wanting, and smitten
Behind and before.

Then hurrah for the bill that we carried, For the Caucus that carried the bill!

The Lords would have tampered and tarried,
But we swept them along with a will;
We swept them and sweep them before us,
The prize of our prowess to-day,
While we march to the lilt of the chorus
That bids us not stay.

It was time for another beginning,

So we started the world with a spin And while it goes spinning and spinning We will gather the spoils that we win; For it spins out the Whigs and the Tories,

The Lords and the Church and the Crown And it spins us this glory of gloriesTo tread them all down.

-:0:

HYMN TO GLADSTONIAN LIberals.

Is not this the First Lord of your choice?
Sure its time that you put him to bed,
For the kingdom is seared by his fires, O tools;
He was Lord, and is dead.

You will hear not again his fine speaking,
His sophistry now as before
And the tone of his wonderful lying will
Humbug your senses no more;
By the party he ruled as his slave, is he
Slain who was mighty to slay;
And the stigma that rests on his name
He can raise not, nor roll it away.
He is choked by his raiment of lies,
Now the wane of his power is come;
Truth hears he, and heeds not; and facts,
And he sees not; and taunts, and is dumb.

Power and will hath he none of it left him Nor truth in his breath;

Till his name be struck out of the lists

Will ye know not the truth of his death! Surely, ye say, he is strong, but the Times Is 'gainst him and Parnell ; Wait a little, ye say-nay too long

He has made our fair island a hell; Let him then die, as all must die, that Use treason thus as a rod;

Let him fade from the ranks of his Party

Take his foot from the neck that he trod.

They cry out, his elect, his seekers for
Office, who cling to his shame,
They call him sweet light of his Party;
They call him their Lord, by his name;
The name that is written in Egypt,

And in Africa stained by retreat,
That name by our enemies loved, but
Scorned by our army and fleet.
He answers them not-he is fallen,
Political death his reward.

He is smitten! behold, he is smitten!
As though by the stroke of a sword.
The Conservative cause is triumphant,
And peace and prosperity brings
So glory to that in the highest,
The healer and mender of things.

The St. Stephen's Review, May 28, 1887.

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Prophet, what of the fight?

What is the vision you see? England the stubbornly free, Erect, 'midst the whirl of her waves. Harbours she traitors and slaves, Harpies, of gold-worship bred, Who grope for their gain amongst graves That hide the hosts of her dead?

(Four verses omitted.)

Vultures, what of the fight?-
Ah! but ye crowd for gain.
Little care ye for the slain.
Only your maws to cram.
There they be in the night,

Sold for your sakes to death.
System? A scoundrel sham

That leaves ye with wings and breath!

England, what of that fight?—

Rouse you, and raise a hand.

These Vultures swarm in the land, Incompetence, traitrous greed. Scourge them to headlong flight, Vermin of office and mart, Ere the harpies batten indeed,

Their beaks in the nation's heart.

"According to a certain critic," said the Daily News in August, 1888, Mr. Swinburne "makes services' rhyme to 'berries.' How in the world does he manage that? Can it be in a poem on Lawn Tennis?

'Oh, thy swift, subtle, slanting, services

That skim the net, and 'scape the racket of me,
Oh, thy rich, red, ripe, ruby raspberries,

Oh, thy straw hat, and dainty body of thee!' Nothing exactly like this occurs in the English edition of Mr. Swinburne's poems, but this, perhaps, shows how the thing could be done, if the poet were so inclined."

In the course of a singularly brilliant career it is not surprising that Mr. Swinburne should have been the subject of many fierce literary attacks. The history of these feuds must await the advent of another Isaac D'Israeli to add a Chapter to the "Calamities and Quarrels of Authors"; interesting as the topic most certainly is, it cannot be dealt with here. Suffice it to say that the principal grounds for adverse criticism have been the asserted voluptuousness and immoral tendency of his romantic poems, and the inconsistency of his political writings. As an instance of the latter failing The Daily News of May 2, 1887, reprinted a poem Mr. Swinburne wrote for The Morning Star (a Radical paper, now defunct) in November 1867 in favour of the Fenians then lying under sentence of death for the murder of Serjeant Brett. This poem Mr. Swinburne had also included in his volume, Songs before Sunrise, published in 1871, and it certainly presents a marked contrast to his recent utterances on the Irish question.

As to the alleged immoral tendency of his works much has been written, and by many pens, one of the bitterest of his assailants being Mr. Robert Williams Buchanan, whose own early writings were, most assuredly, open to adverse criticism on the same ground.

In his little work entitled, "The Fleshly School of Poetry," published in 1872, Mr. Buchanan not only

attacked Swinburne, but he was also most malignant in his criticisms of the poems of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, one of the kindest, gentlest, and purest of men. The controversy this aroused raged for some years, and the last word was only spoken when Mr. Edmund Yates published his article on "A Scrofulous Scotch Poet," severely castigating Mr. Buchanan, in The World, September 26, 1877. Long prior to this, the following verses relating to Swinburne, had been attributed to Buchanan. It is doubtful whether in 1866 Mr. Swinburne's name was sufficiently established to entitle him to a place in such distinguished company as is here mentioned."

THE SESSION OF THE POETS.

"Di magni, salaputium disertum !--CAT. LIB. LIII. "AT the Session of Poets held lately in London, The Bard of Freshwater was voted the chair: With his tresses unbrush'd, and his shirt-collar undone, He loll'd at his ease like a good-humour'd Bear; 'Come, boys!' he exclaimed, we'll be merry together!' And lit up his pipe with a smile on his cheek; While with eye like a skipper's cock'd up at the weather, Sat the Vice-Chairman Browning, thinking in Greek.

The company gather'd embraced great and small bards, Both strong bards and weak bards, funny and grave, Fat bards and lean bards, little and tall bards,

Bards who wear whiskers, and others who shave. Of books, men, and things, was the bards' conversationSome praised Ecce Homo, some deemed it so-soAnd then there was talk of the state of the nation, And when the unwash'd would devour Mr. Lowe.

Right stately sat Arnold-his black gown adjusted
Genteely, his Rhine wine deliciously iced,-

With puddingish England serenely disgusted,
And looking in vain (in the mirror) for 'Geist ;'

He heark'd to the Chairman, with 'Surely!' and 'Really?'
Aghast at both collar and cutty of clay,-

Then felt in his pocket, and breath'd again freely,
On touching the leaves of his own classic play.

"Close at hand lingered Lytton, whose Icarus-winglets
Had often betrayed him in regions of rhyme-
How glitter'd the eye underneath his gray ringlets,
A hunger within it unlessened by time!
Remoter sat Bailey-satirical, surly-

Who studied the language of Goethe too soon,
Who sang himself hoarse to the stars very early,
And crack'd a weak voice with too lofty a tune.

"How name all that wonderful company over ?Prim Patmore, mild Alford-and Kingsley also? Among the small sparks who was realler than Lover? Among misses, who sweeter than Miss Ingelow? There sat, looking moony, conceited, and narrow, Buchanan,-who, finding when foolish and young, Apollo asleep on a coster-girl's barrow,

Straight dragged him away to see somebody hung.

"What was said? what was done? was there prosing or rhyming?

Was nothing noteworthy in deed or in word? Why, just as the hour for the supper was chiming, The only event of the evening occurred.

Up jumped, with his neck stretching out like a gander,

Master Swinburne, and squeal'd, glaring out through his hair,

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Although this collection is avowedly confined to Parodies which have previously appeared in print, it will be readily understood that numbers of original parodies are sent in, of which but a very small proportion can be inserted.

Some amusing incidents occur, thus a short time ago a gentlemen sent from Scotland the M. S. S. of new and original burlesques on Hamlet and Othello, the first containing about 850 lines, and the second about double that number. The author earnestly requested they should be inserted in Parodies, but whether he had succeeded in getting any "new and original" fun out of such fresh and lively topics as Hamlet and Othello, the world will never be able to judge through this medium.

Another, and almost equally humorous request was worded as follows:-"I enclose a parody on Mr. Algernon Swinburne's Dolores in the form of an encomium on 'Someone's Essence of Something' which is absurdly close to some cf the original verses. If you accept it please send proof and remuneration to me at above address." It so happened that this parody was not devoid of literary merit, but the author was presuming a little too much in expecting to get a puff inserted gratis, and to be paid for it in the bargain.

A verse or two will suffice to indicate the author's treatment of the topic :

ALL pale from the past we draw nigh thee,
And satiate with rollicking hours;
And we know thee how none can deny thee,
And we purchase the gift of new pow'rs,
The draught that allays and recovers,

The boons and the blessings that rain
On the livers and lungs of thy lovers,
Exorcist of Pain !

What care though disease be a fixture
Which for ages has baffled all skill,
Thou art more than the famous blood mixture,
Superior to Cockle's best pill;

Thou canst cast out disordered secretion,
Reduce the swelled kidney, revive

The victim of constant depletion,
And keep him alive!

Fruits fail, Autumn dies, and Time ranges, have perpetual breath,

The price of its bottles ne'er changes,

Two-and-ninepence can wrestle with Death

Our lives are rekindled and rallied,

Our systems made wholesome and clean,
Relieved of Dyspepsia, that pallid,
And poisonous Queen!

Sick-headache, and sudden affliction,
Carbuncles, and feverish skin,
Epidemics, severe mental friction,
Too much of a favourite bin ;
For these panacea thou devisest,
For these, and for all other bane,
O wise among chemists, and wisest,
Exorcist of Pain!

The remainder of this Poem will be inserted with full details as to price, and number of cures effected, on receipt of the customary advertisement fee.

Another correspondent kindly sent in a lengthy rhymed criticism of Swinburne's style, commencing as follows:PADDY BLAKE ON SWINBURNE.

DEAR Bailey, I will not deny

That of Swinburne's great merit I'm sensible,
But this one complaint I must cry-
"He's exceedingly incomprehensible ! "

He sings pretty songs about kisses,

He christens them "red," also "white"; I confess, in all lowliness, this is Beyond my intelligence quite.

It may well be that I'm very silly,

But some of his songs seem to me Like a mixture of very weak skilly

With ten times as much eau-de-vie.

His language is wrondrously charming,
And falls like a spell on the ear;

But there's one thing that's rather alarming-
Would it ever bring laughter or tear?

END of PARODIES ON A. C. SWINBURNE.

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George R. Sims.

Mr. George R. Sims was born in London on September 2nd, 1847. He was educated first, at Hanwell College, and subsequently at Bonn.

In 1874 Mr. Sims joined the staff of Fun, and about the same time he also became connected with the Weekly Dispatch, to which he communicated the humorous papers, entitled: "Mary Jane's Memoirs."

Since 1877 he has written much in The Referee, over the pseudonym of "Dagonet," and most of his Ballads, which have now a worldwide fame, first appeared in the colums of that journal.

As a dramatic author Mr. Sims has also been both prolific and successful. "Crutch and Toothpick " "Mother-in-Law," 66 The Member for Slocum," "The Gay City' ""The Half-Way House," "The Lights o' London," "The Romany Rye," and "The Merry Duchess," are titles well-known to every modern play-goer.

Judging by the vast amount of work in essays, dramas, and poems, produced by Mr. Sims, he must be possessed of extraordinary energy, powerful imagination, and of rapid composition. Some of his prose articles and ballads display an intimate knowledge of the inner life of the miserable, and the poor of London, such as could only have been acquired by one having keen powers of observation, after considerable time spent in the haunts of dirt, danger, and disease.

In short, since Dickens left us, no writer has been so successful in this difficult and trying branch of literature, and Dickens himself was never so popular, nor were his works so widely read by the people as are those of Mr. Sims.

Although there is much that is both droll and humorous in his prose writings, the principal feature in his Ballads is homely pathos, of which the following poem is one of the best known examples.

It is one of the Ballads of Babylon (London. John P. Fuller, 1880), and is given by Mr. Sims's kind permission :

OSTLER JOE.

I STOOD at eve, as the sun went down, by a grave where a woman lies,

Who lured men's souls to the shores of sin with the light of her wanton eyes,

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