Chapter IV: Part 4

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,
And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills,
Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun,
As they’d see me start, with a leap and a run,
From the broad of my back to the points of my toes,
When a pellet of paper hit my nose,
Teasingly, sneezingly!

Then I’d fling them bunches of garden flowers,
And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers;
And I’d challenge them all to come down to me,
And I’d kiss them all till they kissed me,
Laughingly, laughingly.

Oh, would not that be a merry life,
Apart from care and apart from strife,
With the Laureate’s wine, and the Laureate’s pay,
And no deductions at quarter-day?
Oh, that would be the post for me!
With plenty to get and nothing to do,
But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,
And whistle a tune to the Queen’s cockatoo,
And scribble of verses remarkably few,
And empty at evening a bottle or two,
Quaffingly, quaffingly!

’Tis I would be
The Laureate bold,
With my butt of sherry
To keep me merry,
And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!
_William Aytoun._

THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN

COMRADES, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair,
I shall leave you for a little, for I’d like to take the air.

Whether ’twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer,
Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, ’pon my soul, this is too bad!
When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I’m to be had.

Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock;
Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes—
Bless my heart, how very odd! Why surely there’s a brace of moons!

See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare,
Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it,
I must wear the mournful willow,—all around my heart I’ve bound it!

Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shining glove,
Puppet to a father’s anger, minion to a nabob’s love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever
Stoop to marry half a heart, and a little more than half a liver?

Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay.

As the husband is, the wife is,—he is stomach-plagued and old;
And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color of his gold.

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then
Something lower than his hookah,—something less than his cayenne.

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was ’t the claret? Oh, no, no,—
Bless your soul! it was the salmon,—salmon always makes him so.

Take him to thy dainty chamber—soothe him with thy lightest fancies;
He will understand thee, won’t he?—pay thee with a lover’s glances?

Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide,
Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.

Sweet repose, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge,
Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge.

Better thou wert dead before me,—better, better that I stood,
Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!

Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead,
With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!

Cursed be the Bank of England’s notes, that tempt the soul to sin!
Cursed be the wants of acres,—doubly cursed the want of tin!

Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed!
Cursed be the sallow lawyer that prepared and drew the deed!

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn!
Cursed be the clerk and parson,—cursed be the whole concern!

Oh, ’tis well that I should bluster,—much I’m like to make of that;
Better comfort have I found in singing “All Around my Hat.”

But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears.
’Twill not do to pine for ever,—I am getting up in years.

Can’t I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press,
And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?

Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood’s dawn I knew,
When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two!

When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide,
With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;

When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come;
Coffee-milling care and sorrow with a nose-adapted thumb;

Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh, heavens!
Brandies at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking hot at Evans’!

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,
Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years!

Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again,
Snapping Newgate’s bars of iron, like an infant’s daisy chain.

Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe,
Were despised, and priggings prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law.

In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion’s edge was rusted,
And my cousin’s cold refusal left me very much disgusted!

Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse
Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.

Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum;
They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before ’em.

Womankind shall no more vex me, such at least as go arrayed
In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.

I’ll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields
Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spitalfields.

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit’s self aside
I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind’s primeval pride;

Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,
Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.

Never comes the trader thither, never o’er the purple main
Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent of Cockaigne.

There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents;
Sink the Steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, oh, rot the Three per
Cents!

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe,
my cousin!
I will wed some savage woman—nay, I’ll wed at least a dozen.

There I’ll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are
reared;
They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard—

Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon,
Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon.

I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard’s blood will daily quaff,
Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.

Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he
crosses,
Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.

Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad,
For I hold the gray barbarian lower than the Christian cad.

I the swell—the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,—
I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces.

I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed—very near—
To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!

Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away;
Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.

_Morning Post_ (_The Times_ won’t trust me) help me, as I know you
can;
I will pen an advertisement,—that’s a never failing plan.

“Wanted—by a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman;
Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!

“Hymen’s chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters;
Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N. B.—You must pay the letters.”

That’s the sort of thing to do it. Now I’ll go and taste the balmy,—
Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy!
_William Aytoun._

IN IMMEMORIAM

WE seek to know, and knowing seek;
We seek, we know, and every sense
Is trembling with the great Intense
And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft,
We know enough, and should no more;
And yet we skim through Fancy’s lore
And look to earth and not aloft.

A something comes from out the gloom;
I know it not, nor seek to know;
I only see it swell and grow,
And more than this world would presume.

Meseems, a circling void I fill,
And I, unchanged where all is changed;
It seems unreal; I own it strange,
Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.

I hear the ocean’s surging tide,
Raise quiring on its carol-tune;
I watch the golden-sickled moon,
And clearer voices call besides.

O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie
On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;
O Moon! whose golden sickle’s gone;
O Voices all! like ye I die!
_Cuthbert Bede._

SIR EGGNOGG

FORTH from the purple battlements he fared,
Sir Eggnogg of the Rampant Lily, named
From that embrasure of his argent shield
Given by a thousand leagues of heraldry
On snuffy parchments drawn. So forth he fared,
By bosky boles and autumn leaves he fared,
Where grew the juniper with berries black,
The sphery mansions of the future gin.
But naught of this decoyed his mind, so bent
On fair Miasma, Saxon-blooded girl,
Who laughed his loving lullabies to scorn,
And would have snatched his hero-sword to deck
Her haughty brow, or warm her hands withal,
So scornful she; and thence Sir Eggnogg cursed
Between his teeth, and chewed his iron boots
In spleen of love. But ere the morn was high
In the robustious heaven, the postern-tower
Clang to the harsh, discordant, slivering scream
Of the tire-woman, at the window bent
To dress her crispéd hair. She saw, ah, woe!
The fair Miasma, overbalanced, hurled
O’er the flamboyant parapet which ridged
The muffled coping of the castle’s peak,
Prone on the ivory pavement of the court,
Which caught and cleft her fairest skull, and sent
Her rosy brains to fleck the Orient floor.
This saw Sir Eggnogg, in his stirrups poised.
Saw he and cursed, with many a deep-mouthed oath,
And, finding nothing more could reunite
The splintered form of fair Miasma, rode
On his careering palfrey to the wars,
And there found death, another death than hers.
_Bayard Taylor._

GODIVA

“I waited for the Train at Coventry,”
The Train was several hundred years too late
(It had not been invented yet, you see);
Such is the Cold Cast Irony of Fate.
At last the Train arrived, and with it too
Your Book—a Precious Package marked “collect.”
Raptured I read it through and through, and through,
And then I paused in sadness to reflect—
How that same Book had been a priceless boon,
But for a little accident of Date;
If only I had not been born so soon,
Or if you had not gone to press so late.
O Book, if only you had come to me
Ere I rode forth upon that morning sad!
In naught but Faith and Hope and Charity,
And other Vague Abstractions thinly clad;
In whole Editions I would have invested
(I hope you get good Royalties therefrom),
To keep the naughty townfolk interested
And most Particularly, Peeping Tom.
_Oliver Herford._

A LAUREATE’S LOG

(_Rough-weather notes from the New Birthday-Book_)

MONDAY

IF you’re waking, please don’t call me, please don’t call me, Currie
dear,
For they tell me that to-morrow toward the open we’re to steer!
No doubt, for you and those aloft, the maddest merriest way,—
But I always feel best in a bay, Currie,
I always feel best in a bay.

TUESDAY

Take, take, take?
What will I take for tea?
The thinnest slice—no butter,
And that’s quite enough for me.

WEDNESDAY

It is the little roll within the berth
That, by and by, will put an end to mirth,
And, never ceasing, slowly prostrate all.

THURSDAY

Let me alone! What pleasure can you have
In chaffing evil? Tell me what’s the fun
Of ever climbing up the climbing wave?

All you, the rest, you know how to behave
In roughish weather! I, for one
Ask for the shore—or death, dark death,—
I am so done.

FRIDAY

Twelve knots an hour! But what am I?
A poet with no land in sight,
Insisting that he feels “all right,”
With half a smile and half a sigh.

SATURDAY

Comfort? Comfort scorned of lubbers! Hear this truth the Poet roar,
That a sorrow’s crown of sorrows is remembering days on shore.
Drug his soda lest he learn it when the foreland gleams a speck
In the dead unhappy night, when he can’t sit up on deck!

SUNDAY

Ah! you’ve called me nice and early, nice and early, Currie dear!
What? Really in? Well, come, the news I’m precious glad to hear;
For though in such good company I willingly would stay—
I’m glad to be back in the bay, Currie,
I’m glad to be back in the bay.
_Punch._

THE RECOGNITION

HOME they brought her sailor son,
Grown a man across the sea,
Tall and broad and black of beard,
And hoarse of voice as man may be.

Hand to shake and mouth to kiss,
Both he offered ere he spoke;
But she said—“What man is this
Comes to play a sorry joke?”

Then they praised him—call’d him “smart,”
“Tightest lad that ever stept;”
But her son she did not know,
And she neither smiled nor wept.

Rose, a nurse of ninety years,
Set a pigeon-pie in sight;
She saw him eat—“’Tis he! ’tis he!”
She knew him—by his appetite!
_William Sawyer._

THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL

ONE, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is;
Surely this is not that: but that is assuredly this.

What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under;
If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without
thunder.

Doubt is faith in the main: but faith, on the whole, is doubt;
We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without?

Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover;
Neither are straight lines curves: yet over is under and over.

Two and two may be four: but four and four are not eight;
Fate and God may be twain: but God is the same thing as fate.

Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man what he feels;
God, once caught in the fact, shews you a fair pair of heels.

Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which;
The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker drunk in a ditch.

One and two are not one: but one and nothing is two;
Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.

Once the mastodon was: pterodactyls were common as cocks;
Then the mammoth was God: now is He a prize ox.

Parallels all things are: yet many of these are askew.
You are certainly I: but certainly I am not you.

Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock;
Cocks exist for the hen: but hens exist for the cock.

God, whom we see not, is: and God, who is not, we see;
Fiddle, we know, is diddle: and diddle, we take it, is dee.
_Algernon Charles Swinburne._

TIMBUCTOO.—PART I.

_The situation._

IN Africa (a Quarter of the World), 1
Men’s skins are black, their hair is crisp and curl’d,
And somewhere there, unknown to public view,
A mighty city lies, called Timbuctoo.

_The natural history._

There stalks the tiger,—there the lion roars, 5
Who sometimes eats the luckless blackamoors;
All that he leaves of them the monster throws
To jackals, vultures, dogs, cats, kites, and crows;
His hunger thus the forest monster gluts,
And then lies down ’neath trees called cocoa-nuts. 10

_The lion hunt._

Quick issue out, with musket, torch, and brand,
The sturdy blackamoors, a dusky band!
The beast is found—pop goes the musketoons—
The lion falls covered with horrid wounds.

_Their lives at home._

At home their lives in pleasure always flow, 15
But many have a different lot to know!

_Abroad._

They’re often caught and sold as slaves, alas!

_Reflections on the foregoing._

Thus men from highest joy to sorrow pass;
Yet though thy monarch and thy nobles boil
Rack and molasses in Jamaica’s isle, 20
Desolate Africa! thou art lovely yet!
One heart yet beats which ne’er thee shall forget.

What though thy maidens are a blackish brown,
Does virtue dwell in whiter breasts alone?
Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no! 25
It shall not, must not, cannot, e’er be so.
The day shall come when Albion’s self shall feel
Stern Afric’s wrath, and writhe ’neath Afric’s steel.

I see her tribes the hill of glory mount,
And sell their sugars on their own account; 30
While round her throne the prostrate nations come,
Sue for her rice, and barter for her rum!

Notes.—Lines 1 and 2.—See Guthrie’s Geography. The
site of Timbuctoo is doubtful; the author has neatly
expressed this in the poem, at the same time giving us
some slight hints relative to its situation.

Line 5.—So Horace: leonum arida nutrix.

Line 13.—“Pop goes the musketoons.” A learned friend
suggested “Bang” as a stronger expression, but as
African gunpowder is notoriously bad, the author
thought “Pop” the better word.

Lines 15-18.—A concise but affecting description is
here given of the domestic habits of the people. The
infamous manner in which they are entrapped and sold
as slaves is described, and the whole ends with an
appropriate moral sentiment. The enthusiasm the author
feels is beautifully expressed in lines 25 and 26.

_W. M. Thackeray._

AFTER TUPPER

OF FRIENDSHIP

CHOOSE judiciously thy friends; for to discard them is undesirable,
Yet it is better to drop thy friends, O my daughter, than to drop
thy H’s.
Dost thou know a wise woman? yea, wiser than the children of light?
Hath she a position? and a title? and are her parties in the _Morning
Post_?
If thou dost, cleave unto her, and give up unto her thy body and
mind;
Think with her ideas, and distribute thy smiles at her bidding:
So shalt thou become like unto her; and thy manners shall be
“formed,”
And thy name shall be a Sesame, at which the doors of the great shall
fly open:
Thou shalt know every Peer, his arms, and the date of his creation,
His pedigree and their intermarriages, and cousins to the sixth
remove:
Thou shalt kiss the hand of Royalty, and lo! in next morning’s
papers,
Side by side with rumors of wars, and stories of shipwrecks and
sieges,
Shall appear thy name, and the minutiæ of thy head-dress and
petticoat,
For an enraptured public to muse upon over their matutinal muffin.
_Charles S. Calverley._

OF READING

READ not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shakespeare, for he wrote of
common life;
Nor Scott, for his romances, though fascinating, are yet
intelligible;
Nor Thackeray, for he is a Hogarth, a photographer who flattereth
not;
Nor Kingsley, for he shall teach thee that thou shouldest not dream,
but do.
Read incessantly thy Burke; that Burke who, nobler than he of old,
Treateth of the Peer and Peeress, the truly Sublime and Beautiful;
Likewise study the “creations” of “the Prince of modern Romance;”
Sigh over Leonard the Martyr, and smile on Pelham the puppy;
Learn how “love is the dram-drinking of existence;”
And how we “invoke, in the Gadara of our still closets,
The beautiful ghost of the Ideal, with the simple wand of the pen.”
Listen how Maltravers and the orphan “forgot all but love,”
And how Devereux’s family chaplain “made and unmade kings;”
How Eugene Aram, though a thief, a liar, and a murderer,
Yet, being intellectual, was amongst the noblest of mankind;
So shalt thou live in a world peopled with heroes and master spirits
And if thou canst not realize the Ideal, thou shalt at least
idealize the Real.
_Charles S. Calverley._

AFTER THACKERAY

THE WILLOW-TREE

(_Another version_)

LONG by the willow-trees
Vainly they sought her,
Wild rang the mother’s screams
O’er the gray water:
“Where is my lovely one?
Where is my daughter?

“Rouse thee, Sir Constable—
Rouse thee and look;
Fisherman, bring your net,
Boatman, your hook.
Beat in the lily-beds,
Dive in the brook!”

Vainly the constable
Shouted and called her;
Vainly the fisherman
Beat the green alder;
Vainly he flung the net,
Never it hauled her!

Mother beside the fire
Sat, her nightcap in;
Father, in easy chair,
Gloomily napping,
When at the window-sill
Came a light tapping!

And a pale countenance
Looked through the casement,
Loud beat the mother’s heart,
Sick with amazement,
And at the vision which
Came to surprise her,
Shrieked in an agony—
“Lor’! it’s Elizar!”

Yes, ’twas Elizabeth—
Yes, ’twas their girl;
Pale was her cheek, and her
Hair out of curl.
“Mother,” the loving one,
Blushing exclaimed,
“Let not your innocent
Lizzy be blamed.

“Yesterday, going to Aunt
Jones’s to tea,
Mother, dear mother, I
Forgot the door-key!
And as the night was cold
And the way steep,
Mrs. Jones kept me to
Breakfast and sleep.”

Whether her Pa and Ma
Fully believed her,
That we shall never know,
Stern they received her;
And for the work of that
Cruel, though short, night
Sent her to bed without
Tea for a fortnight.

MORAL

Hey diddle diddlety,
Cat and the fiddlety,
Maidens of England, take caution by she!
Let love and suicide
Never tempt you aside,
And always remember to take the door-key.
_W. M. Thackeray._

AFTER CHARLES DICKENS

MAN’S PLACE IN NATURE

(_Dedicated to Darwin and Huxley_)

THEY told him gently he was made
Of nicely tempered mud,
That man no lengthened part had played
Anterior to the Flood.
’Twas all in vain; he heeded not,
Referring plant and worm,
Fish, reptile, ape, and Hottentot,
To one primordial germ.

They asked him whether he could bear
To think his kind allied
To all those brutal forms which were
In structure Pithecoid;
Whether he thought the apes and us
Homologous in form;
He said, “Homo and Pithecus
Came from one common germ.”

They called him “atheistical,”
“Sceptic,” and “infidel.”
They swore his doctrines without fail
Would plunge him into hell.
But he with proofs in no way lame.
Made this deduction firm,
That all organic beings came
From one primordial germ.

That as for the Noachian flood,
’Twas long ago disproved,
That as for man being made of mud,
All by whom truth is loved
Accept as fact what, _malgré_ strife,
Research tends to confirm—
That man, and everything with life,
Came from one common germ.
_Anonymous._

AFTER ROBERT BROWNING

HOME TRUTHS FROM ABROAD

I

“OH! to be in England
Now that April’s there.
And whoever wakes in England
Sees some morning” in despair;
There’s a horrible fog i’ the heart o’ the town,
And the greasy pavement is damp and brown,
While the rain-drop falls from the laden bough
In England——now!

II

“And after April when May follows,”
How foolish seem the returning swallows.
Hark! how the east wind sweeps along the street,
And how we give one universal sneeze!
The hapless lambs at thought of mint-sauce bleat,
And ducks are conscious of the coming peas.
Lest you should think the Spring is really present,
A biting frost will come to make things pleasant;
And though the reckless flowers begin to blow,
They’d better far have nestled down below;
An English Spring sets men and women frowning,
Despite the rhapsodies of Robert Browning.
_Anonymous._

AFTER BROWNING

NOT that I care for ceremonies—no;
But still there are occasions, as you see
(Observe the costumes—gallantly they show
To my poor judgment!) which, twixt you and me,
Not to come forth, one’s few remaining hairs,
Or wig,—it matters little,—bravely brushed
And oiled, dress-coated, sprucely-clad, the tears
And tweaks and wrenches, people overflushed
With—well, not wine—oh, no, we’ll rather say
Anticipation, the delight of seeing
No matter what! inflict upon you (pray
Remove your elbow, friend!) in spite of being
Not quite the man one used to be, and not
So young as once one was, would argue one
Churlish, indifferent, hipped, rheumatic, what
You please to say.

So, not to spoil the fun—
Comprenez-vous?—observe that lady there,
In native worth! Aha! you see the jest?
Not bad, I think. My own, too! Woman’s fair.
Or not—the odds so long as she is dressed?
They’re coming! Soh! Ha, Bennett’s Barcarole—
A poor thing, but mine own! That minor third
Is not so bad now! Mum, sirs! (Bless my soul,
I wonder what her veil cost!) Mum’s the word!
_Anonymous._

THE COCK AND THE BULL

YOU see this pebble-stone? It’s a thing I bought
Off a bit of a chit of a boy i’ the mid o’ the day.
I like to dock the smaller parts o’ speech,
As we curtail the already cur-tail’d cur—
(You catch the paronomasia, play ’po’ words?)
Did, rather, i’ the pre-Landseerian days.
Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern,
And clapt it i’ my poke, having given for same
By way o’ chop, swop, barter or exchange—
“Chop” was my snickering dandiprat’s own term—
One shilling and fourpence, current coin o’ the realm.
O-n-e one, and f-o-u-r four
Pence, one and fourpence—you are with me, sir?—
What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o’ the clock,
One day (and what a roaring day it was
Go shop or sight-see—bar a spit o’ rain!)
In February, eighteen sixty-nine,
Alexandria Victoria, Fidei—
Hm—hm—how runs the jargon? being on the throne.

Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put,
The basis or substratum—what you will will—
Of the impending eighty thousand lines.
“Not much in ’em either,” quoth perhaps simple Hodge.
But there’s a superstructure. Wait a bit.
Mark first the rationale of the thing:
Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed.
That shilling—and for matter o’ that, the pence—
I had o’ course upo’ me—wi’ me say—
(_Mecum_’s the Latin, make a note o’ that)
When I popp’d pen i’ stand, scratch’d ear, wiped snout,
(Let everybody wipe his own himself)
Sniff’d—tch!—at snuff-box; tumbled up, ne-heed,
Haw-haw’d (not hee-haw’d, that’s another guess thing),
Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door.
I shoved the timber ope wi’ my omoplat;
And _in vestibulo_, i’ the lobby to wit
(Iacobi Facciolati’s rendering, sir),
Donn’d galligaskins, antigropeloes,
And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves,
One on and one a-dangle i’ my hand,
And ombrifuge (Lord love you!), case o’ rain,
I flopp’d forth, ’sbuddikins! on my own ten toes
(I do assure you there be ten of them),
And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale
To find myself o’ the sudden i’ front o’ the boy.
But case I hadn’t ’em on me, could I ha’ bought
This sort-o’-kind-o’-what-you-might-call toy,
This pebble thing, o’ the boy-thing? Q. E. D.
That’s proven without aid from mumping Pope,
Sleek porporate or bloated Cardinal.
(Isn’t it, old Fatchaps? You’re in Euclid now.)
So, having the shilling—having i’ fact a lot—
And pence and halfpence, ever so many o’ them,
I purchased, as I think I said before,
The pebble (_lapis_, _lapidis_, _-di_, _-dem_, _-de_—
What nouns ’crease short i’ the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?)
O’ the boy, a bare-legg’d beggarly son of a gun,
for one and fourpence. Here we are again.

Now Law steps in, bigwigg’d, voluminous-jaw’d;
Investigates and re-investigates.
Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head
Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.

At first the coin was mine, the chattel his.
But now (by virtue of the said exchange
And barter) _vice versa_ all the coin,
_Per juris operationem_, vests
I’ the boy and his assigns till ding o’ doom;
(_In sæcula sæculo-o-o-rum_;
I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.)
To have and hold the same to him and them.
_Confer_ some idiot on Conveyancing.

Whereas the pebble and every part thereof,
And all that appertaineth thereunto,
_Quodcunque pertinet ad eam rem_
(I fancy, sir, my Latin’s rather pat),
Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would or should
(_Subaudi cætera_—clap we to the close—
For what’s the good of Law in a case o’ the kind),
Is mine to all intents and purposes.
This settled, I resume the thread o’ the tale.
Now for a touch o’ the vendor’s quality.
He says a gen’lman bought a pebble of him
(This pebble i’ sooth, sir, which I hold i’ my hand),
And paid for’t, _like_ a gen’lman, on the nail.
“Did I o’ercharge him a ha’penny? Devil a bit.
Fiddlepin’s end! Get out, you blazing ass!
Gabble o’ the goose. Don’t bugaboo-baby _me_!
Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what’s the odds?”
There’s the transaction view’d i’ the vendor’s light.

Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by,
With her three frowsy blowsy brats o’ babes,
The scum o’ the kennel, cream o’ the filth-heap—Faugh!
Aie, aie, aie, aie! οτοτοτοτοτοἱ
(’Stead which we blurt out Hoighty toighty now),
And the baker and candlestickmaker, and Jack and Jill,
Blear’d Goody this and queasy Gaffer that.
Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first.

He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad
A stone, and pay for it _rite_, on the square,
And carry it off _per saltum_, jauntily,
_Propria quae maribus_, gentleman’s property now
(Agreeably to the law explain’d above),
_In proprium usum_, for his private ends,
The boy he chuck’d a brown i’ the air, and bit
I’ the face the shilling; heaved a thumping stone
At a lean hen that ran cluck clucking by
(And hit her, dead as nail i’ post o’ door),
Then _abiit_—what’s the Ciceronian phrase?—
_Excessit, evasit, erupit_—off slogs boy;
Off like bird, _avi similis_—(you observed
The dative? Pretty i’ the Mantuan!)—_Anglice_
Off in three flea skips. _Hactenus_, so far,
So good, _tam bene_. _Bene, satis, male_,—
Where was I with my trope ’bout one in a quag?
I did once hitch the syntax into verse:
_Verbum personale_, a verb personal,
_Concordat_—ay, “agrees,” old Fatchaps—_cum
Nominativo_, with its nominative,
_Genere_, i’ point o’ gender, _numero_,
O’ number, _et persona_, and person. _Ut_,
Instance: _Sol ruit_, down flops sun, _et_, and,
_Montes umbrantur_, out flounce mountains. Pah!
Excuse me, sir, I think I’m going mad.
You see the trick on’t though, and can yourself
Continue the discourse _ad libitum_.
It takes up about eighty thousand lines,
A thing imagination boggles at;
And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands,
Extend from here to Mesopotamy.
_Charles S. Calverley._

A STACCATO TO O LE LUPE

O LE LUPE, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find;
In the _Bookman_ for September, in a manner most unkind,
There appears a half-page picture, makes me think
I’ve lost my mind.

They have reproduced a window,—Doxey’s window (I dare say
In your rambles you have seen it, passed it twenty times a day),—
As “A Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay.”

There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine we all adore,
And a little book of verses with its betters by the score,
With three faces on the cover I believe I’ve seen before.

Well, here’s matter for reflection, makes me wonder where I am.
Here is Ibsen the gray lion, linked to Beardsley the black lamb.
I was never out of Boston; all that I can say is, “Damn!”

Who could think, in two short summers we should cause so much remark,
With no purpose but our pastime, and to make the public hark,
When I soloed on THE CHAP-BOOK, and you answered with THE LARK!

Do young people take much pleasure when they read that sort of thing?
“Well, they buy it,” answered Doxey, “and I take what it will bring.
Publishers may dread extinction—not with such fads on the string.

“There is always sale for something, and demand for what is new.
These young people who are restless, and have nothing else to do,
Like to think there is ‘a movement,’ just to keep themselves in view.

“There is nothing in Decadence but the magic of a name.
People talk and papers drivel, scent a vice, and hint a shame;
And all that is good for business, helps to boom my little game.”

But when I sit down to reason, think to stand upon my nerve,
Meditate on portly leisure with a balance in reserve,
In he comes with his “Decadence!” like a fly in my preserve.

I can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from now,
Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken toy somehow;
All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with your “Purple Cow.”

But I will return some morning, though I know it will be hard,
To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some minor bard;
Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures we discard.

I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when his back is turned:
“Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey spent what Doxey earned;
Poems doubtless are immortal where a poem can be discerned!”

How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse!
How he’ll wish his vogue were greater,—plume himself it is no worse;
Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse!

Don’t I know how he will pose it, patronize our larger time:
“Poor old Browning; little Kipling; what attempts they made to rhyme!”
Just let me have half an hour with that nincompoop sublime!

I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear;
When he least expects my presence, I’ll be mumbling in his ear:
“O Le Lupe lived in Frisco, and I lived in Boston here.

“Never heard of us? Good heavens, can you never have been told
Of the Larks we used to publish, and the Chap-Books that we sold?
Where are all our first editions?” I feel damp and full of mould.
_Bliss Carman._

BY THE SEA

_Mutatis Mutandis_

IS it life or is it death?
A whiff of the cool salt scum,
As the whole sea puffed its breath
Against you,—blind and dumb:
This way it answereth.

Nearer the sands it shows
Spotted and leprous tints;
But stay! yon fisher knows
Rock-tokens, which evince
How high the tide arose.

How high? In you and me
’Twas falling then, I think;
Open your heart’s eyes, see
From just so slight a chink
The chasm that now must be.

You sighed and shivered then.
Blue ecstasies of June
Around you, shouts of fishermen,
Sharp wings of sea gulls, soon
To dip—the clock struck ten!

Was it the cup too full,
To carry it you grew
Too faint, the wine’s hue dull
(Dulness, misjudged untrue!),
Love’s flower unfit to cull?

You should have held me fast
One moment, stopped my pace.
Crushed down the feeble, vast
Suggestions of embrace,
And so be crowned at last.

But now! Bare-legged and brown
Bait-diggers delve the sand,
Tramp i’ the sunshine down
Burnt-ochre vestured land,
And yonder stares the town.

A heron screams! I shut
This book of scurf and scum,
Its final pages uncut;
The sea-beast, blind and dumb,
Done with his bellowing? All but!
_Bayard Taylor._

ANGELO ORDERS HIS DINNER

I, ANGELO, obese, black-garmented,
Respectable, much in demand, well fed
With mine own larder’s dainties, where, indeed,
Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed,
Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o’ the top.
Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop
Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests
Which my recondite recipe invests
With cold conglomerate tidbits—ah, the bill!
(You say), but given it were mine to fill
My chests, the case so put were yours, we’ll say
(This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day),
And you’ve an eye to luxuries, what harm
In smoothing down your palate with the charm
Yourself concocted? There we issue take;
And see! as thus across the rim I break
This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake,
So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chaps
And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps;
But that’s my secret. Find me such a man
As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan
Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat
From his own giblet’s oils, an Ararat
Uplift o’er water, sucking rosy draughts
From Noah’s vineyard,—crisp, enticing wafts
Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense
Somewhat abate the fear of old events,
Qualms to the stomach,—I, you see, am slow
Unnecessary duties to forego,—
You understand? A venison haunch, _haut gout_.
Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew.
And sprigs of anise, might one’s teeth provoke
To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke
Just as it suits,—my liking, I confess,
More to receive, and to partake no less,
Still more obese, while through thick adipose
Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes
Far off, dim-conscious, at the body’s verge,
Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge
On the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seat
Is bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.
_Bayard Taylor._

THE FLIGHT OF THE BUCKET

_PRE-ADMONISHETH the writer_:
H’m, for a subject it is well enough!
Who wrote “Sordello” finds no subject tough.

Well, Jack and Jill—God knows the life they led
(The poet never told us, more’s the pity)
Pent up in some damp kennel of their own,
Beneath the hillside; but it once befell
That Jack and Jill, niece, cousin, uncle, aunt
(Some one of all the brood), would wash and scour,
Rinse out a cess-pit, swab the kennel floor,
And water (_liquor vitae_, Lawson calls,
But I—I hold by whisky. Never mind;
I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, sir,
And missed the scrap o’ blue at buttonhole),
Spring water was the needful at the time,
So they must climb the hill for ’t. Well and good.
We all climb hills, I take it, on some quest,
Maybe for less than stinking (I forgot!
I mean than wholesome) water.... Ferret out
The rotten bucket from the lumber shed,
Weave ropes and splice the handle—off they go
To where the cold spring bubbles up i’ the cleft,
And sink the bucket brimful in the spate.
Then downwards—hanging back? (You bet your life
The girl’s share fell upon Jack’s shoulders.) Down,
Down to the bottom—all but—trip, slip, squelch!
And guggle-guggle goes the bucketful
Back to the earth, and Jack’s a broken head,
And swears amid the heather does our Jack.
(A man would swear who watched both blood and bucket,

One dripping down his forehead, t’ other fled
_Clinkety-tinkle_, to the stones below,
A good half-hour’s trudge to get it back.)
Jack, therefore, as I said, exploded straight
In brimstone-flavored language. You, of course,
Maintain he bore it calmly—not a bit.
A good bucolic curse that rent the cliffs
And frightened for a moment quaking Jill
Out of the limp, unmeaning girl’s tee-hee
That womankind delight in.... Here we end
The first verse—there’s a deal to study in ’t.

So much for Jack—but here’s a fate above,
A cosmic force that blunders into right,
Just when the strained sense hints at revolution
Because the world’s great fly-wheel runs aslant—
And up go Jill’s red kibes. (You think I’m wrong;
And Fate was napping at the time; perhaps
You’re right.) We’ll call it Devil’s agency
That sent the shrieking sister on her head,
And knocked the tangled locks against the stones.
Well, down went Jill, but wasn’t hurt. Oh, no!
The Devil pads the world to suit his own,
And packs the cards according. Down went Jill
Unhurt. And Jack trots off to bed, poor brute,
Fist welted into eyeball, mouth agape
For yelling,—your bucolic always yells,
And out of his domestic pharmacy
Rips forth the cruet-stand, upsets the cat,
And ravages the store-room for his balm.
_Eureka!_—but he didn’t use that word—
A pound of candles, corpse-like, side by side,
Wrapped up in his medicament. Out, knife!
Cut string, and strip the shrouding from the lot!
Steep swift and jam it on the gaping cut;
Then bedward—cursing man and friends alike.

Now back to Jill. She wasn’t hurt, I said,
And all the woman’s spite was up in arms.
So Jack’s abed. She slips, peeks through the door,
And sees the split head like a luggage-label,
Halved, quartered, on the pillow. “Ee-ki-ree,
Tee-hee-hee-hee,” she giggles through the crack,
Much as the Roman ladies grinned—don’t smile—
To see the dabbled bodies in the sand,

Appealing to their benches for a sign.
Down thumbs, and giggle louder—so did Jill.
But mark now! Comes the mother round the door,
Red-hot from climbing up the hill herself,
And caught the graceless giggler. Whack! flack! whack!
Here’s Nemesis whichever way you like!
She didn’t stop to argue. Given a head
Broken, a woman chuckling at the door,
And here’s your circumstantial evidence complete.
Whack! while Jack sniffs and sniggers from the bed.
I like that horny-handed mother o’ Jill.
The world’s best women died, sir, long ago.
Well, Jack’s avenged; as for the other, gr-r-r-r!
_Rudyard Kipling._

THE JAM-POT

THE Jam-pot—tender thought!
I grabbed it—so did you.
“What wonder while we fought
Together that it flew
In shivers?” you retort.

You should have loosed your hold
One moment—checked your fist.
But, as it was, too bold
You grappled and you missed.
More plainly—you were sold.

“Well, neither of us shared
The dainty.” That your plea?
“Well, neither of us cared,”
I answer.... “Let me see.
How have your trousers fared?”
_Rudyard Kipling._

IMITATION OF ROBERT BROWNING

BIRTHDAYS? yes, in a general way;
For the most if not for the best of men.
You were born (I suppose) on a certain day,
So was I; or perhaps in the night, what then?

Only this: or at least, if more
You must know, not think it, and learn, not speak;
There is truth to be found on the unknown shore,
And many will find where few will seek.

For many are called and few are chosen,
And the few grow many as ages lapse.
But when will the many grow few; what dozen
Is fused into one by Time’s hammer-taps?

A bare brown stone in a babbling brook,—
It was wanton to hurl it there, you say,—
And the moss, which clung in the sheltered nook
(Yet the stream runs cooler) is washed away.

That begs the question; many a prater
Thinks such a suggestion a sound “stop thief!”
Which, may I ask, do you think the greater,
Sergeant-at-arms or a Robber Chief?

And if it were not so? Still you doubt?
Ah! yours is a birthday indeed, if so.
That were something to write a poem about,
If one thought a little. I only know.

_P. S._

There’s a Me Society down at Cambridge,
Where my works, _cum notis variorum_,
Are talked about; well, I require the same bridge
That Euclid took toll at as Asinorum.

And, as they have got through several ditties
I thought were as stiff as a brick-built wall,
I’ve composed the above, and a stiff one it is,
A bridge to stop asses at, once for all.
_J. K. Stephen._

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

(_From her Point of View_)

WHEN I had firmly answered “No,”
And he allowed that that was so,
I really thought I should be free
For good and all from Mr. B.,
And that he would soberly acquiesce.
I said that it would be discreet
That for awhile we should not meet;
I promised that I would always feel
A kindly interest in his weal;
I thanked him for his amorous zeal;
In short, I said all I could but “yes.”

I said what I’m accustomed to;
I acted as I always do.
I promised he should find in me
A friend,—a sister, if that might be;
But he was still dissatisfied.
He certainly was most polite;
He said exactly what was right,
He acted very properly,
Except indeed for this, that he
insisted on inviting me
To come with him for “one more last ride.”

A little while in doubt I stood:
A ride, no doubt, would do me good;
I had a habit and a hat
Extremely well worth looking at;
The weather was distinctly fine.
My horse, too, wanted exercise,
And time, when one is riding, flies;
Besides, it really seemed, you see,
The only way of ridding me
Of pertinacious Mr. B.;
So my head I graciously incline.

I won’t say much of what happened next;
I own I was extremely vexed.
Indeed I should have been aghast
If any one had seen what passed;
But nobody need ever know
That, as I leaned forward to stir the fire,
He advanced before I could well retire;
And I suddenly felt, to my great alarm,
The grasp of a warm, unlicensed arm,
An embrace in which I found no charm;
I was awfully glad when he let me go.

Then we began to ride; my steed
Was rather fresh, too fresh indeed,
And at first I thought of little, save
The way to escape an early grave,
As the dust rose up on either side.
My stern companion jogged along
On a brown old cob both broad and strong.
He looked as he does when he’s writing verse,
Or endeavoring not to swear and curse,
Or wondering where he has left his purse;
Indeed it was a sombre ride.

I spoke of the weather to Mr. B.,
But he neither listened nor spoke to me.
I praised his horse, and I smiled the smile
Which was wont to move him once in a while.
I said I was wearing his favorite flowers,
But I wasted my words on the desert air,
For he rode with a fixed and gloomy stare.
I wonder what he was thinking about.
As I don’t read verse, I shan’t find out.
It was something subtle and deep, no doubt,
A theme to detain a man for hours.

Ah! there was the corner where Mr. S.
So nearly induced me to whisper “yes;”
And here it was that the next but one
Proposed on horseback, or would have done,
Had his horse not most opportunely shied;
Which perhaps was due to the unseen flick
He received from my whip; ’t was a scurvy trick,
But I never could do with that young man,—
I hope his present young woman can.
Well, I must say, never, since time began,
Did I go for a duller or longer ride.

He never smiles and he never speaks;
He might go on like this for weeks;
He rolls a slightly frenzied eye
Towards the blue and burning sky,
And the cob bounds on with tireless stride.
If we aren’t home for lunch at two

I don’t know what papa will do;
But I know full well he will say to me,
“I never approved of Mr. B.;
It’s the very devil that you and he
Ride, ride together, forever ride.”
_J. K. Stephen._

UP THE SPOUT

I.

HI! Just you drop that! Stop, I say!
Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend’s wrist?
Where that spined sand’s lined band’s the bay—
Lined blind with true sea’s blue, as due—
Promising—not to pay?

II.

For the sea’s debt leaves wet the sand;
Burst worst fate’s weight’s in one burst gun?
A man’s own yacht, blown—What? off land?
Tack back, or veer round here, then—queer!
Reef points, though—understand?

III.

I’m blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed!
Love’s doves make break life’s ropes, eh? Tropes!
Faith’s brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road;
Hope’s gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged—
Clogged, water-logged, her load!

IV.

Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away.
No show now how best plough sea’s brow,
Wrinkling—breeze quick, tease thick, ere day,
Clear sheer wave’s sheen of green, I mean,
With twinkling wrinkles—eh?

V.

Sea sprinkles wrinkles, tinkles light
Shells’ bells—boy’s joys that hap to snap!
It’s just sea’s fun, breeze done, to spite
God’s rods that scourge her surge, I’d urge—
Not proper, is it—quite?

VI.

See, fore and aft, life’s craft undone!
Crank plank, split spritsail—mark, sea’s lark!
That gray cold sea’s old sprees, begun
When men lay dark i’ the ark, no spark,
All water—just God’s fun!

VII.

Not bright, at best, his jest to these
Seemed—screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin!
When for mirth’s yell earth’s knell seemed please
Some dumb new grim great whim in him
Made Jews take chalk for cheese.

VIII.

Could God’s rods bruise God’s Jews? Their jowls
Bobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped, the plaice in face!
None heard, ’tis odds, his—God’s—folk’s howls.
Now, how must I apply, to try
This hookiest-beaked of owls?

IX.

Well, I suppose God knows—I don’t.
Time’s crimes mark dark men’s types, in stripes
Broad as fen’s lands men’s hands were wont
Leave grieve unploughed, though proud and loud
With birds’ words—No! he won’t!

X.

One never should think good impossible.
Eh? say I’d hide this Jew’s oil’s cruse—
His shop might hold bright gold, engrossible
By spy—spring’s air takes there no care
To wave the heath-flower’s glossy bell!

XI.

But gold bells chime in time there, coined—
Gold! Old Sphinx winks there—‘Read my screed!’
Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined
(Through new craft’s stealth) with health and wealth—
At once all three purloined!

XII.

I rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt,
(Miss this chance, glance untried aside?)
John’s shirt, my—no! Ay, so—the lout!
Let yet the door gape, store on floor
And not a soul about?

XIII.

Such men lay traps, perhaps—and I’m
Weak—meek—mild—child of woe, you know!
But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime.
Shrink? Think! Love’s dawn in pawn—you spawn
Of Jewry! Just in time!
_Algernon Charles Swinburne._

AFTER WHITMAN

AN AMERICAN, ONE OF THE ROUGHS, A KOSMOS

NATURE, continuous Me!
Saltness, and vigorous, never torpi-yeast of Me!
Florid, unceasing, forever expansive;
Not Schooled, not dizened, not washed and powdered;
Strait-laced not at all; far otherwise than polite;
Not modest, nor immodest;
Divinely tanned and freckled; gloriously unkempt;
Ultimate yet unceasing; capricious though determined;
Speak as thou listeth, and tell the askers that which they seek to
know.
Thy speech to them will be not quite intelligible.
Never mind! utter thy wild commonplaces;
Yawp them loudly, shrilly;
Silence with shrill noise the lisps of the foo-foos.
Answer in precise terms of barbaric vagueness
The question that the Fun editor hath sparked through Atlantic cable
To W..T W..TM.N, the speaker of the pass-word primeval;
The signaller of the signal of democracy;
The seer and hearer of things in general;
The poet translucent; fleshy, disorderly, sensually inclined;
Each tag and part of whom is a miracle.
(Thirteen pages of MS. relating to Mr. W..t W..tm.n are here omitted.)
Rhapsodically state the fact that is and is not;
That is not, being past; that is, being eternal;
If indeed it ever was, which is exactly the point in question.
_Anonymous._

CAMERADOS

EVERYWHERE, everywhere, following me;
Taking me by the buttonhole, pulling off my boots, hustling me with
the elbows;
Sitting down with me to clams and the chowder-kettle;
Plunging naked at my side into the sleek, irascible surges;
Soothing me with the strain that I neither permit nor prohibit;
Flocking this way and that, reverent, eager, orotund, irrepressible;
Denser than sycamore leaves when the north-winds are scouring
Paumanok;
What can I do to restrain them? Nothing, verily nothing.
Everywhere, everywhere, crying aloud for me;
Crying, I hear; and I satisfy them out of my nature;
And he that comes at the end of the feast shall find something over.
Whatever they want I give; though it be something else, they shall
have it.
Drunkard, leper, Tammanyite, small-pox and cholera patient, shoddy
and codfish millionnaire,
And the beautiful young men, and the beautiful young women, all the
same,
Crowding, hundreds of thousands, cosmical multitudes,
Buss me and hang on my hips and lean up to my shoulders,
Everywhere listening to my yawp and glad whenever they hear it;
Everywhere saying, say it, Walt, we believe it:
Everywhere, everywhere.
_Bayard Taylor._

IMITATION OF WALT WHITMAN