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THE POETRY OF STEAM.

-THE world's ruled by Steam,

And all the men and women are its subjects:
It guides their movements and their whereabouts;
And this steam, in its time, plays many parts,
Its acts being Seven Ages. At first, the kettle,
Hissing and sputtering on a kitchen hob,
And then NEWCOMEN'S Engine, to its piston,
By atmospheric pressure, giving force
Imperfectly to pump: Then WATT'S condenser ;
More economic, with its stuffing box

And double acting movement: Then a steam-boat,
Full of strange smells, and cramm'd like NOAH's ark,
(It, on high pressure, sudden and quick to explode)
Raising up FULTON's reputation

In every body's mouth: Then the steam horse,
By STEPHENSON devised, on Wall's End fed,
With boiler grimed and-wheels of clumsy cut,
Spurning brass knobs, and copper ornaments-
And so he plays his part. The Sixth age shifts
Into the war of broad and narrow gauge;
BRUNEL on one, HUDSON on t' other side-
Their several lines stretching a world too wide
For the Committees, and Steam's manly voice,
That, in the kettle's childish treble piped,

Now whistles o'er the world. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is general brotherhood, and mere oblivion

Of troops, of wars, of blood, and all such things. Punch, July 25, 1846.

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E'en in the cannon's mouth; then CAVAIGNAC,

In power despotic and a state of siege,
With frown severe, and beard of Algiers cut,
O'er-riding Law with a soldier's insolence-
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shows
Poor Liberty, with Constitution weak,
Halting 'twixt Anarchy and Despotism,
Her youthful bonnet rouge a world too wide

For her shrunk brains, and the big boastful voice,
Turning again to the old treble, pipes
LOUIS NAPOLEON in. Last scene of all
That ends this strange, eventful history,

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans trade, sans tin, sans press, sans everything.

[This Parody appeared in Punch, November 25, 1848, at which time the form of government in France was nominally Republican, though very unsettled. King Louis Philippe had been forced to abdicate in February, 1848, and a republic was proclaimed, of which Louis Napoleon (afterwards Emperor) was elected President. Around the Parody were seven illustrations, drawn by the

The

celebrated Richard Doyle, representing "Young France mewling and puking in the Nurse's arms; Ouvrier creeping like snail unwillingly to school;' "Lamartine inditing a sonnet to Liberty's Eyebrow;" "The Garde Mobile seeking the Bubble reputation in the Cannon's mouth;" "The Justice with eyes severe," a portrait of General Cavaignac; and, last scene of all, poor France with her feet in Hot Water, and Louis Napoleon in the back ground carrying the fatal Idées Napoliennes, which finally brought him, and his country, to defeat and ruin.]

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ALL THE TOWN'S A SLIDE.
(A Parody for the Frost.)
-ALL the town's a slide,

And all the men and women merely skaters.
They have their slippings and their flounderings,
And one man in his life has many falls:

His fate having seven stages. At first, the infant,
Shivering and shaking in his nurse's arms;
And then the shuffling school-boy, with his highlows
And hobnailed sole and heel, cutting-out slides
Instead of going to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, till with woeful tumble
He and his mistress lie low. Then a soldier,
Wearing odd skates, and bearding all the park;
Jealous of others, sudden and quick in turning,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the deepest holes. And then the iceman
In fair round hat, with a good cape on, lined
With oilskin clear, and coat of formal cut,
Full of ice-saws and modern instruments;
And so he plays his part. The sixth stage slips
Into the lean and slippery pantaloon,

With icicle on nose, and stick in hand,
His India-rubber shoes a world too large

For his shrunk feet; and his poor trembling knees
Straggling apart like childish helplessness,

He tumbles on the ground! Last scene of all
That ends this cold and frosty history

Is a sharp wind-upsetting everyone,

Sans stick, sans cloak, sans hat, sans everything. Punch 1850.

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THE SEVEN AGES OF A PUBLIC MAN.
-PUBLIC Life's a stage,

And all the men in office merely players:
They have their characters and salaries
And one man in his course plays many parts,
And acts through seven ages. First the infant,
High born, inheriting a coat of arms,

And then the Public School-boy, with his satchel,
And shining lot of fag, going by rail,
Uncaringly to school; then the Collegian
Boating and driving, with a comic ballad,
And supercilious eyebrow. Then the Patriot

Full of strong oaths, and moustached like the pard,
Anxious for honour, not disposed to quarrel

With any decent situation,

Suffice that can one's mouth. And then the Member,
Quoting old saws and modern instances,

In fair round paunch, with public dinners lined;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered Minister;

With spectacles, and prose, and votes on side,
His youthful views renounced, a world too wide
For his shrunk wits and his once manly voice,

Trying in vain to hoax the people, pipes
A miserable sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this sad disgraceful history,

Is childish Red-tapism, and mere routine:

Sans beart, sans brains, sans pluck, sans everything.

Punch, May, 1855.

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CATALOGUE OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

-ALL the thing's a farce,

And all the time and labour merely wasted.
It has its entries and its indexes,

And one man with his time plays but the fool
In poring o'er the pages. First the Volume,
Bulky and ponderous in the porter's arms,
And then the heavy binding, with its edges
And greasy leather backs, letting it slide
Gradually to the ground. And then the titles,
Mixed up like hodge-podge-here a book of ballads
Publish'd by BEALE or BOOSEY. Then a quarto,
Full of strange types, and letter'd all in black,
Printed on vellum-ancient in type and paper,
Cramming the author's reputation

Right down the student's mouth. And then the law-book
In pale brown calfskin, with gross humbug lined,

With rules severe, and forms of rigid cut,
Full of strange laws and musty precedents:
And so this forms a part. The volume shifts
Like change to clown or slipper'd pantaloon,
To subjects no one knows-from side to side
The eye may roll-the topics are too wide
To be embraced-and the loud public voice,
Turning again to childish treble, pipes

And whistles for its wants. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange mysterious catalogue,
Is perfect uselessness and mere oblivion,
Sans head-sans tail-in fact, sans everything.

[In these lines, which appeared a good many years ago, Mr. Punch was unduly severe on the Catalogue of the British Museum, which is a marvel of industry, and accuracy. By the system adopted it is only necessary to know the name of an author to be able to procure any of his works, and should any difficulty arise the courteous Librarians and attendants are ever ready to render the most valuable assistance.]

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THE SEVEN AGES.

By Mincing Lane Esq.,
-MINCING-LANE's a stage,

And all the workers there are merely players :
Each plays the part his manager may choose,
And in his part must mind his P.'s and Q.'s-
His acts being seven ages. At first the boy,
Untimely breeched in galling corduroy ;
His eyes wide opened, and his lower jaw
Meekly depressed in reverential awe-
Bound for three miserable years to do
A shopboy's drudgery without his screw,
Then the meek junior, with a moonlike face,
Creeping like snail unwilling to his place,
Sleepy from last night's going to the play
And youthful soakings of convivial clay.
And then the lover, in resplendent scarf
And gorgeous pin, and boots too tight by half,
Spending with her he loves in lanes-away
From town-his one brief blissful holiday,
Seated in cosy arbour with his lass,

Pledging his love in cups of sparkling Bass.
And then the Volunteer, with gun in hand,
Scaring invaders from his native land,
Seeking, good man, the bubble reputation
In hebdomadal perambulation

In quiet spots-his partner by his side
Taking his youthful progeny for a ride.
And then the market clerk-rotund is he;
A man of substance; knowing to a T
What shares are discount, premium, or par-
What "mule twist" was, and what "grey shirtings"

are:

And so he plays his part. The next age shifts
Into the book-keeper who seldom lifts

His eyes from off his book-who measures time
Not by the grass covered with glist'ning rime,
Nor song of blackbirds, nor the budding May,
Nor scent of meadows filled with new-mown hay,
Nor falling dew of autumn time—yet stay,
He notes the falling due of quarter-day.
Last scene of all that ends this strange career
Is utter friendlessness. Not one kind tear

On his account philanthropists can wring;
He dies sans home, sans friends, sans everything.

The Hornet, January 1, 1868.

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THE POLITICIAN'S SEVEN AGES.

[The seven ages of a politician might be enumerated some
what as follows. It may be necessary to premise that
Cranbourne Alley was the name given by the profane to
the followers of Lord Salisbury, then Lord Cranbourne,
when he voted against the Ministerial Reform Bill.]
At first the Tory,

Pompous and prosing in his elbow chair;
And then the doubtful Dizzyite, with suffrage,
And firm belief in rates, -sneaking, like lamb,
Quite patiently, to "school."

Then Cranbourne Alley,
Sighing for novelty, with woeful back-glance
Made at the Tory benches.

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THE SEVEN AGES OF LOVE.

MAN in his day loves many times and oft,
For Nature's made him uncontent with one;
He breathes a hundred vows in accents soft
Ere on the earth his pilgrimage is run.
First comes the baby, in his nurse's arms,
With button mouth stretched wide for pap-filled spoon ;
Or else with clutching fingers, eager palms,
Waiting and weeping for his love-the moon.
The schoolboy next, with hungry, longing gaze
Fixed on the face of one of thirty years;
Unversed, as yet, in guileful worldly ways,
Bemoaning youth with bitter sobs and tears.
Later the man, all furious in Love's pains,
Yet humbly sighing soft on bended knee;
Swearing his heart out that the globe contains
But one adorable and perfect she.

And then the soldier, fierce in love as fight,
With twirled moustache and rugged, sun-browned cheek,
Claiming young Beauty as the warrior's right,
Then scorning conquest as a passing freak.

The Justice next, with pockets golden lined,
With money bags to lure and satyr leer;

Resolved at fifty years a maid to find,

As wife for two and nurse for twenty years.
Sixth stage, the pantaloon, wan, shrunk, and thin,
With limbs half paralysed and senses numb,
Chucking the nurs'ry maid beneath the chin
And mumbling nonsense with a toothless gum.
Last scene of all. Blear-eyed, with shrivelled neck,
Laid by, for Death to claim, upon the shelf;
A fretful, peevish, crabbed, and cross-grained wreck,
Loving but one thing, and that one thing-self.
So wags the world! From life's first blush of light,
Through happy morning to bright afternoon,
Till falling shades of evening lead to night-
And love? The last is self, the first the moon!

Judy, January 19, 1881.

THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.

By a Cantankerous Old Curmudgeon.

-ALL the world's a Wardrobe,
And all the girls and women merely wearers:
They have their fashions and their fantasies,
And one she in her time wears many garments
Throughout her Seven Stages. First, the baby,
Befrilled and broidered, in her nurse's arms.
And then the trim-hosed schoolgirl, with her flounces
And small-boy scorning face, tripping skirt-waggling,
Coquettishly to school. And then the flirt,
Ogling like Circe, with a business aillade
Kept on her low-cut corset. Then a bride
Full of strange finery, vestured like an angel,
Veiled vaporously, yet vigilant of glance,
Seeking the Woman's heaven, Admiration,
Even at the Altar's steps. And then the matron,

In fair rich velvet with suave satin lined,
With eyes severe, and skirts of youthful cut
Full of dress-saws and modish instances,

To teach her girls their part. The sixth age shifts
Into the grey yet gorgeous grandmamma,
With gold pince-nez on nose and fan at side,

Her youthful tastes still strong, and worldly wise

In sumptuary law, her quavering voice

Prosing of Fashion and Le Follet, pipes

Of robes and bargains rare. Last scene of all,

That ends the Sex's Mode-swayed history,

Is second childishness and sheer oblivion

Of youth, taste, passion, all-save love of Dress! Punch, May 20, 1882.

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There are many other parodies of this speech. One was contained in a burlesque operatic tragedy performed at the Lyceum Theatre in July, 1812, entitled "Highgate Tunnel, or the Secret Arch,” of which the argument was that "All the world's a stable." Unfortunately this play is not to be found in the Library of the British Museum, consequently the parody cannot be reproduced, but the following, on the subject of Carriages, is of a somewhat kindred nature. It is taken from The Sporting Times of April 18, 1885, but is here given without the illustrations which embellished it, when it first appeared, in that sportive, and very facetious journal:

THE SEVEN CARRIAGES OF MAN.

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A fortnight later the same paper contained another parody, on the same speech, entitled The Seven Drinks of Man, and fortunately for the readers of "Parodies" the Editor of "The Sporting Times" has kindly lent the wood engravings which accompanied it. These distantly remind one, in their effects of light and shade, of some of the best works of Rembrandt, and whilst it may perhaps be said that they lack in execution, in conception they are immense.

THE SEVEN DRINKS OF MAN.

"ALL the world's a bar,

And all the men and women merely drinkers."

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Showers bouquets on Rosalind;
Gallery is not behind

In its praise of Rosalind;

Common "pro's" for years may grind,

Not so gentle Rosalind.

Beauty and high birth combin'd

Must produce a Rosalind!

Where can we an equal find

To our latest Rosalind?
Critics sour and critics kind
Battle over Rosalind.

To the charms who can be blind
Of this pretty Rosalind?
Streets with carriages are lined,
Audiences for Rosalind,
Braving chill September's wind
For the sake of Rosalind;
Rank and fashion, lately dined,
Flock to feast on Rosalind.
But I can't make up my mind,
To accept this Rosalind!

Judy, October 4, 1882.

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POETRY and snow do not blend well. Sleet extinguishes all feu sacré in the bard. Early one morning last week, when a few gentle flakes were falling, I thought of the song of my friend Amiens in "As you Like It," and laughing at the elements, attempted a rough parody of the first verse. It was as follows:

Blow, blow thou Winter wind;

Snow, too, if so inclined:

I cannot change your mood.

I'll order Toddy hot

And drink of it a lot-

The strongest can be brewed.

Heigh ho! Sing heigh ho! Away with melancholy.
To grumble at the weather is nought but folly.
Then heigh ho! The holly!

This life is most jolly.

(An interval of six hours is supposed to elapse.)

Freeze! Freeze! The wind does blow!
I'm "Boycotted" by the snow,

I search and search in vain

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ROMEO AND JULIET.

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A BACHELOR.

(After Romeo's description of an apothecary. Act v. Scene i.)

I DO remember an old BACHELOR,

And hereabouts he dwells-whom late I noted
In suit of sables, with care worn brow,

Conning his books-and meagre were his looks:
Celibacy had worn him to the bone;
And in his silent parlour hung a coat,

The which the moth had used not less than he.
Four chairs, one table, and an old hair trunk,
Made up its furniture; and on his shelves
A grease-clad candlestick, a broken mug,
Two tablets, and a box of old cigars;
Remnants of volumes, once in some repute,
Were thinly scattered round, to tell the eye
Of prying stranger-this man had no wife.
His tatter'd elbow gap'd most piteously;
And ever as he turned him round, his skin
Did through his stockings peep upon the day.
Noting his gloom, unto myself I said,
"And if a man did covet single life,
Reckless of joys that matrimony gives,
Here lives a gloomy wretch would show it him
In such most dismal colours, that the shrew,
Or slut, or idiot, or the gossip spouse,

Were each a heaven compared with such a life."
The Maids, Wives, and Widows Penny Magazine,
October 27, 1832.

I DO remember a cook's shop

And here about it stands-him late I noted

In tuck'd up sleeves, with night cap o'er his brows,
Cutting up joints-pleas'd were his looks,

The fatt'ning trade had cover'd well his bones,

And in his reeky shop a sirloin hung,

A buttock stuff'd; nice tripe, and other strings

Of well spic'd sausages-and upon his board

A sovereign remedy for empty stomachs,

Green peas and ducks, pork, steaks, and mutton chops, Remnant of goose, pigeon-pye and plates of ham,

Were amply set out to make up a show,

Noting this plenty to myself I said;
An' if a man did need a dinner now,
Whose dainty smell is present appetite,
Here lives a greasy rogue would cater one.
If I may trust the flattering truth of nose,
This should be Porridge Island-

Being twelve o'th'clock-the knives and forks are laid.

I DO remember a young pleader,

And hereabouts he dwells; whom late I noted
In coat once black, with overwhelming brow,
Pondering o'er cases-sallow were his looks,
And midnight thought had worn him to the bone;
And in his sombre chambers lay confused,
Black dusty papers, "general issues" here,
"Demurrers special" there-matter apt to teach
That, to our noble law, justice and form

Alike are dear-and o'er his shelves

A beggarly account of dusty volumes

Wentworth, and Coke, and Saunders-old editions all, With a few numbers of the late reports,

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