Tempora Mutantur

LETTERS, letters, letters, letters! Some that please and some that bore, Some that threaten prison fetters (Metaphorically, fetters Such as bind insolvent debtors)— Invitations by the score.

One from COGSON, WILES, and RAILER, My attorneys, off the Strand; One from COPPERBLOCK, my tailor— My unreasonable tailor— One in FLAGG’S disgusting hand.

One from EPHRAIM and MOSES, Wanting coin without a doubt, I should like to pull their noses— Their uncompromising noses; One from ALICE with the roses— Ah, I know what that’s about!

Time was when I waited, waited For the missives that she wrote, Humble postmen execrated— Loudly, deeply execrated— When I heard I wasn’t fated To be gladdened with a note!

Time was when I’d not have bartered Of her little pen a dip For a peerage duly gartered— For a peerage starred and gartered— With a palace-office chartered, Or a Secretaryship.

But the time for that is over, And I wish we’d never met. I’m afraid I’ve proved a rover— I’m afraid a heartless rover— Quarters in a place like Dover Tend to make a man forget.

Bills for carriages and horses, Bills for wine and light cigar, Matters that concern the Forces— News that may affect the Forces— News affecting my resources, Much more interesting are!

And the tiny little paper, With the words that seem to run From her little fingers taper (They are very small and taper), By the tailor and the draper Are in interest outdone.

And unopened it’s remaining! I can read her gentle hope— Her entreaties, uncomplaining (She was always uncomplaining), Her devotion never waning— Through the little envelope!

AT A PANTOMIME. BY A BILIOUS ONE

AN Actor sits in doubtful gloom, His stock-in-trade unfurled, In a damp funereal dressing-room In the Theatre Royal, World.

He comes to town at Christmas-time, And braves its icy breath, To play in that favourite pantomime, Harlequin Life and Death.

A hoary flowing wig his weird Unearthly cranium caps, He hangs a long benevolent beard On a pair of empty chaps.

To smooth his ghastly features down The actor’s art he cribs,— A long and a flowing padded gown. Bedecks his rattling ribs.

He cries, “Go on—begin, begin! Turn on the light of lime— I’m dressed for jolly Old Christmas, in A favourite pantomime!”

The curtain’s up—the stage all black— Time and the year nigh sped— Time as an advertising quack— The Old Year nearly dead.

The wand of Time is waved, and lo! Revealed Old Christmas stands, And little children chuckle and crow, And laugh and clap their hands.

The cruel old scoundrel brightens up At the death of the Olden Year, And he waves a gorgeous golden cup, And bids the world good cheer.

The little ones hail the festive King,— No thought can make them sad. Their laughter comes with a sounding ring, They clap and crow like mad!

They only see in the humbug old A holiday every year, And handsome gifts, and joys untold, And unaccustomed cheer.

The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar, Their breasts in anguish beat— They’ve seen him seventy times before, How well they know the cheat!

They’ve seen that ghastly pantomime, They’ve felt its blighting breath, They know that rollicking Christmas-time Meant Cold and Want and Death,—

Starvation—Poor Law Union fare— And deadly cramps and chills, And illness—illness everywhere, And crime, and Christmas bills.

They know Old Christmas well, I ween, Those men of ripened age; They’ve often, often, often seen That Actor off the stage!

They see in his gay rotundity A clumsy stuffed-out dress— They see in the cup he waves on high A tinselled emptiness.

Those aged men so lean and wan, They’ve seen it all before, They know they’ll see the charlatan But twice or three times more.

And so they bear with dance and song, And crimson foil and green, They wearily sit, and grimly long For the Transformation Scene.