A Parody Anthology :: AFTER BRET HARTE THE HEATHEN PASS-EE

AFTER BRET HARTE THE HEATHEN PASS-EE

Carolyn Wells

By Bred Hard

WHICH I wish to remark,

And my language is plain,

That for plots that are dark

And not always in vain

The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,

And the same I would rise to explain.

I would also premise

That the term of Pass-ee

Most fitly applies,

As you probably see,

To one whose vocation is passing

The ordinary B. A. degree.

Tom Crib was his name,

And I shall not deny

In regard to the same

What that name might imply;

But his face it was trustful and childlike,

And he had a most innocent eye.

Upon April the First

The Little-Go fell,

And that was the worst

Of the gentleman's sell,

For he fooled the Examining Body

In a way I'm reluctant to tell.

The candidates came,

And Tom Crib soon appeared;

It was Euclid. The same

Was "the subject he feared;"

But he smiled as he sat by the table,

With a smile that was wary and weird.

Yet he did what he could,

And the papers he showed

Were remarkably good,

And his countenance glowed

With pride when I met him soon after

As he walked down the Trumpington Road.

We did not find him out,

Which I bitterly grieve,

For I've not the least doubt

That he'd placed up his sleeve

Mr. Todhunter's excellent Euclid,

The same with intent to deceive.

But I shall not forget

How the next day at two

A stiff paper was set

By Examiner U.,

On Euripides' tragedy, Bacchae,

A subject Tom partially knew.

But the knowledge displayed

By that heathen Pass-ee,

And the answers he made,

Were quite frightful to see,

For he rapidly floored the whole paper

By about twenty minutes to three.

Then I looked up at U.,

And he gazed upon me;

I observed "This won't do;"

He replied, "Goodness me;

We are fooled by this artless young person,"

And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee.

The scene that ensued

Was disgraceful to view,

For the floor it was strewed

With a tolerable few

Of the "tips" that Tom Crib had been hiding

For the subject he "partially knew."

On the cuff of his shirt

He had managed to get

What we hoped had been dirt,

But which proved, I regret,

To be notes on the rise of the Drama,

A question invariably set.

In his various coats

We proceeded to seek,

Where we found sundry notes

And—with sorrow I speak speak—

One of Bohn's publications, so useful

To the student in Latin or Greek.

In the crown of his cap

Were the Furies and Fates,

And a delicate map

Of the Dorian States;

And we found in his palms, which were hollow,

What are frequent in palms,—that is dates.

Which I wish to remark,

And my language is plain,

That for plots that are dark

And not always in vain

The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,

Which the same I am free to maintain.

A. C. Hilton.

DE TEA FABULA

Plain Language from Truthful James

DO I sleep? Do I dream?

Am I hoaxed by a scout?

Are things what they seem,

Or is Sophists about?

Is our t? t? ?? e??a? a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?

Which expressions like these

May be fairly applied

By a party who sees

A Society skied

Upon tea that the Warden of Keble had biled with legitimate pride.

'Twas November the third,

And I says to Bill Nye,

"Which it's true what I've heard:

If you're, so to speak, fly,

There's a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort recommended as High."

Which I mentioned its name,

And he ups and remarks:

"If dress-coats is the game

And pow-wow in the Parks,

Then I'm nuts on Sordello and Hohenstiel-Schwangau and similar Snarks."

Now the pride of Bill Nye

Cannot well be express'd;

For he wore a white tie

And a cut-away vest:

Says I, "Solomon's lilies ain't in it, and they was reputed well dress'd."

But not far did we wend,

When we saw Pippa pass

On the arm of a friend

—Dr. Furnivall 'twas,

And he wore in his hat two half-tickets for London, return, second-class.

"Well," I thought, "this is odd."

But we came pretty quick

To a sort of a quad

That was all of red brick,

And I says to the porter,—"R. Browning: free passes; and kindly look slick."

But says he, dripping tears

In his check handkerchief,

"That symposium's career's

Been regrettably brief,

For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on gunpowder leaf!"

Then we tucked up the sleeves

Of our shirts (that were biled),

Which the reader perceives

That our feelings were riled,

And we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits of her child.

Which emotions like these

Must be freely indulged

By a party who sees

A Society bulged

On a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never divulged.

But I ask,—Do I dream?

Has it gone up the spout?

Are things what they seem,

Or is Sophists about?

Is our t? t? ?? e??a? a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?

A. T. Quiller-Couch.

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