He gave to rinking all the cash he had,

And gain'd, his friends said "Serve him right," a fall.

No father had he to direct his course,

Nor e'en from such a dismal fate to save, For skaters own with pensive face, perforce, The paths of rinking lead but to the grave.

From Idyls of the Rink, by A. W. Mackenzie. Second Edition. London. Hardwicke and Bogue, 1877.

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CREMORNE: AN ELEGY.

[An application being made for the renewal of the license, it was stated that the proprietor had decided to have the ground built on. The counsel then said nothing remained but to put up a tombstone, and write the epitaph of Cremorne Gardens.]

THE builder tolls the knell of Cremorne's day

The navvy's spade uproots each flower and tree,
Dumb waiters from their tables slink away,
And leave the spot to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glittering rocket from the sight,
And every nook a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the hodman climbs the scaffold's height,
Or tinkling trowel the dabby mortar moulds.

The waltz and galop on the breezes borne From orchestra with blazing lamps o'erhead, The cornet, fiddle, flute, and echoing horn

No more will keep the Cockney from his bed.

For him no more will sparkling firework burn, Or busy waiter ply his evening care,

No acrobat a somersault will turn,

Or from the trapeze leap into the air,

Let not North Woolwich mock while they despoil
Cremorne's quaint temples, grots, and glades obscure,
Some day the builder, with disdainful smile,
Will, too, its leafy avenues secure.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to Baum the fault,
If Chelsea triumphs while Cremorne decays;
And tipplers elsewhere seek their grog and malt,
And Canon Cromwell swells the note of praise.

Can photograph or picture from the dust
The glories of a Ranelagh bequeath?
Like Highbury and Vauxhall, Cremorne must
The auctioneer's dread hammer fall beneath.

Oft have stern magistrates, in angry tone,
Its garish gaiety and "larks" maligned,
Forbade its reckless frolics with a groan,
And shut the gates of Cremorne on mankind.
For oft the madding crowd, in midnight strife,
From sober wisdom straying, hither came,
Threading the fevered paths of modern "life,"
While sleepy Chelseaites were loud to blame.

Alas! to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

Cremorne will to the builder be resigned; The bard who sees it rudely swept away

Yet casts one longing, lingering look behind.

THE EPITAPH.

HERE lies a garden, famous in its birth,
And once among the festive haunts of town;
But magistrates have frowned upon its mirth,
And Speculation marked it for her own.
From Funny Folks. 1878.

Cremorne Gardens were closed in 1877: These gardens had had a long and chequered career, and the ground they stood on has since been entirely built over. Elderly people can remember that fifty years ago a certain Count de Berenger started an Institution called " The Stadium," or British National Arena, in the grounds of Lord Cremorne. Here archery, riding, swimming, and gymnastics were taught, but the venture did not succeed. The lighter, and more frolicsome, entertainments of Cremorne Gardens were tried instead.

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CIRCUIT ELEGY.

By the late Lord Chelmsford.

On the occasion of a dinner given by the Bar Mess to Lord Justice Bramwell and Mr. Justice Denman, at Maidstone, on July 12, 1881, Mr. Justice Denman rose and remarked that amongst some old papers he had found a MS. by the late Lord Chelmsford, being a parody on Gray's Elegy; he then read it, and afterwards offered it to the Mess.

Mr. Day, Q.C., moved that it be accepted and entered in the Minute Book, and that copies should be printed and sent to the members of the Bar Mess.

The motion was carried unanimously.

THE trumpets sound the coming of the Judge; The anxious crowd rush wildly o'er the way: The bustling clerks, well-laden, courtward budge And leave the streets to dulness for the day.

Now eager necks are straining for a sight,

And all the Court a solemn stillness holds, Save when the crier bawls with all his might Or drowsy pleadings some dull voice unfolds.

Save that from yonder silky mantled seat
Some solemn owl does to the Judge complain
Of such as, wandering in with noisy feet,
Disturb the home-spun labours of his brain.

Beneath those rugged wigs, uncomely shade,
Where books and bags lay strewed in many a heap,
Each in a narrow space on elbow laid,
The lazy Juniors of the Circuit sleep.

A breeze between the Council and my Lord, The tittering laugh at something idly said; The voice of many attuning sweet accord, Can scarcely raise a single heavy head.

For their approach no heated suitors burn,
Nor briefs delivered task their evening care;
No! children run indeed where'er they turn,
Or scrambling climb at wig and gown to stare.

Oft to their sophistry the sessions yield Their labours oft have set at large a thief;

How jocund do they drive to such a field,

Ilow bow eir heads, when they receive a brief.

Let not their seniors mock this humble toil,

Which some regret that they can share no more;
Nor fain to treat with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple cases of the poor.

The boast of sergeantry the leaders' power,
And all that purple, all that silk e'er gave,
Alike at sessions wait but for that hour

When profits path is opened-to the grave!

Nor you, ye crowd, impute to these the fault,
If none in aught but stuff his form displays,
While o'er the long-drawn ranks incessant vault,

Some whom mere chance, and some whom hugging raise.

Can well-stored mind, and animated face

Call to their lodgings one attorney's Clerk? Can honor's course advance a silent race, Or flattering prospects open in the dark?

Perhaps neglected in this Court is laid
Some, who with fluent art a speech could fire
Many whose talent, were it only paid,

Might wake to emulate each living liar.

But none before their eyes that ample page,

Rich with its strong marked fees did e'er unrol. Briefless they come-repressed their noble rage, And frozen all their energy of soul.

Full many a mind of purest ray serene

To distant climes th' unfathomed ocean bears; Full many a man is born to live unseen

And eat his fingers-up three pair of stairs.

Some village lawyer, who, with dauntless breast
The Squire or Parson manfully withstood,

Might, perhaps, have drawn one from the inglorious rest,
And flushed his talent with a client's blood.

The applause of listening juries to command,
The threats of angry judges to despise,
To scatter humour through a smiling band
And give their speeches to the public eyes

Their fates forbid; nor yet alone restrain Their growing genius: but their dulness find, Forbid to some to show their want of brain,

And shut their mouths in mercy to mankind.

The struggling pangs of still-born speech to bear,
To find no thought will come, and wonder when ;
To load a cause, which prudence asks and care,
With nonseuse borrowed from the Attorney's pen.

Far from the hope of sharing in the strife,
Their wearied minds to other objects stray
To that glad moment when with fork and knife,
They keep their eager jaws at last in play.

Yet e'en in court, some slight relief to gain,
Small slips of paper, torn from foolscap nigh,
Which wretched rhymes and pointless puns contain,
From hand to hand across the table fly.

In the original this word is written "Atty."

A name a verse unsanctioned by the muse,
The place of wit and poetry supply,

And jingling jests which sound with sense confuse,
Will make the wags almost with laughter die.

For who to dumb attentiveness a prey,

This pleasing power of folly e'er resigned, Kept the warm precincts of the court all day, Nor cast one lagging, lingering joke behind?

In some fond jest the weary soul relies,
Some tinkling thought, the closing eyes require
E'en labouring dulness against nature tries,
And rakes the ashes of its brain for fire.

For thee who mindful of the briefless crew
Dost in these lines their hopeless cause relate,
If one perchance with nothing else to do
Should feel disposed to ask thy after fate.

Haply, some stuff-clad rusty sage may say,
"Oft have we seen his tall and lanky form
Brushing with hasty steps to court away

To take his place where all the idle swarm.

Then, in the midst of some dull nodding speech,
While Gurney all their mirth to hush would try;
His listless mind in verse and puns he'd stretch,
And pour them on the crew which babbled by,
Unchecked his aim by gravity, or scorn,
Mustering his scattered forces he would sit,
Now drooping woeful at a jest still-born,
Now worn with care in trying for a hit.

One circuit missed him ('twas the one in Lent)
From all the places where he used to be;
Another came, nor yet in Hertford, Kent,
In Essex, Sussex, Surrey, e'en was he.

The next we heard his country he had fled,
And died an exile under distant skies;
Approach and read-for it may well be read
This Epitaph which Bolland's muse supplied."

ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ.

HERE rests his body in Australia's land,

A youth to naval glory not unknown; But e'er promotion shook him by the hand, The Palace Court had marked him for its own.

Large was his practice, as his age could reach,
And large his recompense, as well could be ;
He gave to juries all he had-a speech,
He gained from clients all he wished-a fee.

No longer seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his blunders from this prison dark; Where cheek by jowl, they lovingly repose, The bosoms of the Attorney and his clerk.

·:0:

ELEGY.

On a favourite Washerwoman, Mrs. Bridget Mulligan. FAREWELL old friend and memory ever dear,

Thy earnest labour at the tub is o'er,

Let every friend to merit, shed a tear,

For Biddy Mulligan is now no more.