Punch (102.1892)

268

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[June 4, 1892.

STUDIES IN THE NEW
POETRY.

The world is of course
aware by this time that a
New Poetry has arisen
and has asserted itself by
the mouths of many loud-
voiced "boomers." It
has been Mr. Punch's
good fortune to secure
several specimens of this
new product, not through
the intervention of middle
men, but from the manu-
facturers themselves. He
proposes to publish them
for the benefit and en-
lightenment of his
readers. Butfirstaword
of warning. There _ are
perhaps some who believe
that a poem should not
only express high and
noble thoughts, or recount
great deeds, but that it
should do so in verse
that is musical, cadenced,
rhythmical, instinct with
grace, and reserved rather
than boisterous. If any
such there be, let them
know at once that they
are hopelessly old-
fashioned. The New
Poetry in its highest ex-
pression banishes form,
regularity and rhythm,
and treats rhyme with
unexampled barbarity.
Here and there, it is true,
rhymes get paired off
quite happily in the con-
ventional manner, but
directly afterwards you
may come upon a poor
weak little rhyme who
will cry in vain for his
mate through half a dozen
interloping lines. Indeed,
cases have been known of
rhymes that have been
left on a sort of desert
island of a verse, and
have never been fetched
away. And sometimes
when the lines have got
chopped very short, the
rhymes have tumbled
overboard altogether.
That is really what is
meant by "impressionism " in poetry carried
to its highest excellence. There are, of
course, other forms of the New Poetry.
There is the "blustering, hob-nailed " variety
which clatters up and down with immense
noise, elbows you here, and kicks you there,
and if it finds a pardonable weakness strolling
about in the middle of the street, immediately
knocks it down and tramples upon it. Then
too _ there is the "coarse, but manly" kind
which swears by the great god, Jingo, and
keeps a large stock of spread eagles always
ready to_ swoop and tear without the least
provocation.

However, Mr. Punch may as well let his
specimens speak for themselves. Here, then, is
No. I.-A GRAVESEND GREGORIAN.

By W. E. H-nl-y. (Con Brio.)
Deep in a murky hole,
Cavernous, untransparent, fetid, dank,
The demiurgus of the servants' hall,
The scuttle-bearing buttons, boon and blank
And grimy loads his evening load of coals,

And gigs-ling fair, nor
counts his labour lost.
Then, beer, beer. beer.

Spume - headed, bitter,
golden like the gold

Buried by cutlassed pi-
rates tempest-tossed,

Red-capped, immitigable,
over-bold

With blood and rapine,
spreaders of fire and
fear.

The kitchen table
Is figured with the an-
cient, circular stains
Of the pint-pot's bot-
tom ; beer is all the go.
And every soul in the

servants' hall is able
To drink his pint or hers

until they grow
Glorious with golden beer,

and count as gains
The glowing draughts
that presage morning
pains.

QUITE UNANSWERABLE.

Ethel. "Mammy dear ! "Why do you powder your Face, and why does Thomas
powder his Hair ? I don't do either ! "

Episcopacy in Dan-
ger.—Mr. Punch con-
gratulates Dr. Perowne,
Bishop of "Worcester, on
his narrow fire - escape
some days ago, Avhen his
lawn sleeves (a costume
more appropriate for a
garden-party than a pul-
pit) caught fire. It was
extinguished by a bold
Churchwarden. In future
let Churchwardens be pre-
pared with hose whenever
a prelate runs any chance
of ignition from his own
" burning eloquence."
If Mr. Punch's advice as
above is acted upon, a
Bishop if '' put out'' may
probably mutter, '' Darn
your hose." But this can
be easily explained away.

Lo, the round cook half fills the hot retreat,
Her kitchen, where the odours of the meat,
The cabbage and sweets all merge as in a
pall,

The stale unsavoury remnants of the feast.
Here, with abounding confluences of onion,
Whose vastitudes of perfume tear the soul
In wish of the not unpytatoed stew,
They float and fade and flutter like morning
dew.

And all the copper pots and pans in line,!
A burnished army of bright utensils, shine ;
And the stern butler heedless of his bunion
Looks happy, and the tabby-cat of the house
Forgets the elusive, but recurrent mouse
And purrs and dreams ;
And m his corner the black-beetle seems
A plumed Black Prince arrayed in gleaming
mail; [pale,
Whereat the shrinking scullery-maid grows
And flies for succour to Thomas of the calves,
Who, doing nought by halves,
Circles a gallant arm about her waist,
Filled with respect for the cook's and butler's ! And takes unflinching the cheek-slap of the

Better and Better.—
The Report last week
about Sir Arthur Sulli-
van was that '' he hopes
to go to the country
shortly." So do our po-
litical parties. Sir Ar-
thur cannot restrain him-
self from writing: new and
original music at a rapid pace. This, is a
consequence of his having taken so many
composing draughts.

rank, chaste

"Our Booking Office."—Not open this
week, as the Baron has been making a book.
Interesting subject, "On the Derby and
Oaks." Being in sporting mood, the Baron
adopts as his motto King Solomon's words
of wisdom, out of his (King Solomon's) own
mines of golden treasures,—"And of book-
making there is no end." He substitutes
"book-making" for "making of books,"
and with the poetic Campbell (Herbert of
that ilk) he sings, " it makes no difference."

After the Event.—Last Sunday week
was the one day in the year when ancient Joe
Millers were permissible. It was " Chestnut
Sunday." We didn't like to mention it before.

The Royal General Theatrical Fund
Dinner, held last Thursday, will be remem-
bered in the annals of the Stage as " Alex-
ander's Feast."