PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 1.
JULY 31, 1841.
POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE.
Let me earnestly implore you, good Mr. PUNCH, to give publicityto a new invention in the art of poetry, which I desire only toclaim the merit of having discovered. I am perfectly willing topermit others to improve upon it, and to bring it to thatperfection of which I am delightedly aware, it is susceptible.
It is sometimes lamented that the taste for poetry is on thedecline—that it is no longer relished—that the publicwill never again purchase it as a luxury. But it must be someconsolation to our modern poets to know (as no doubt they do, forit is by this time notorious) that their productions really do avast deal of service—that they are of a value for which theywere never designed. They—I mean many of them—havefound their way into the pharmacopoeia, and are constantlyprescribed by physicians as soporifics of rare potency. Forinstance—
“—— not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world.
Shall ever usher thee to that sweet sleep”
to which a man shall be conducted by a few doses of RobertMontgomery’s Devil’s Elixir, called“Satan,” or by a portion, or rather a potion, of“Oxford.” Apollo, we know, was the god of medicine aswell as of poetry. Behold, in this our bard, his two divinefunctions equally mingled!
But waiving this, of which it was not my intention to speak, letme remark, that the reason why poetry will no longer go down withthe public, as poetry, is, that the whole frame-work isworn out. No new rhymes can be got at. When we come to a“mountain,” we are tolerably sure that a“fountain” is not very far off; when we see“sadness,” it leads at once to“madness”—to “borrow” is sure to befollowed by “sorrow;” and although it is said,“when poverty comes in at the door, love flies outof the window,”—a saying which seems to imply thatpoverty may sometimes enter at the chimney orelsewhere—yet I assure you, in poetry, “the poor”always come in, and always go out at “thedoor.”
My new invention has closed the “door,” for thefuture, against the vulgar crew of versifiers. A man mustbe original. He must write common-sense too—hard exactions Iknow, but it cannot be helped.
I transmit you a specimen. Like all great discoveries, the chiefmerit of my invention is its simplicity. Lest, however, “themeanest capacity” (which cannot, by the way, be supposed tobe addicted to PUNCH) should boggle at it, it may be as well toexplain that every letter of the final word of each alternate linemust be pronounced as though Dilworth himself presided at theperusal; and that the last letter (or letters) placed initalics will be found to constitute the rhyme. Here, then,we have
A RENCONTRE WITH A TEA-TOTALLER.
On going forth last night, a friend to see,
I met a man by trade a s-n-o-b;
Reeling along the path he held his way.
“Ho! ho!” quoth I, “he’sd-r-u-n-k.”
Then thus to him—“Were it not better, far,
You were a little s-o-b-e-r?
’Twere happier for your family, I guess,
Than playing off such rum r-i-g-s.
Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see ’em,
Are taken up at once by t-h-e-m.”
“Me drunk!” the cobbler cried, “the deviltrouble you!
You want to kick up a blest r-o-w.
Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby,
If drain I’ve had!” (the lyings-n-o-b!)
I’ve just return’d from a tee-total party,<