Chapter I: DU believe in Freedom’s cause, (2)

These simple words made Peter as delighted as could be;
Old chummies at the Charterhouse were Robinson and he.
He walked straight up to Somers, then he turned extremely red,
Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and
said:

“I beg your pardon--pray forgive me if I seem too bold,
But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old.
You spoke aloud of Robinson--I happened to be by.
You know him?” “Yes, extremely well.” “Allow me, so do I.”

It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on,
For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew Robinson!
And Mr. Somers’ turtle was at Peter’s service quite,
And Mr. Somers punished Peter’s oyster-beds all night.

They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs;
They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs;
They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives;
On several occasions, too, they saved each other’s lives.

They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night,
And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light;
Each other’s pleasant company they reckoned so upon,
And all because it happened that they both knew Robinson!

They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore,
And day by day they learned to love each other more and more.
At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day,
They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay.

To Peter an idea occurred. “Suppose we cross the main?
So good an opportunity may not be found again.”
And Somers thought a minute, then ejaculated, “Done!
I wonder how my business in the City’s getting on?”

“But stay,” said Mr. Peter; “when in England, as you know,
I earned a living tasting teas for Baker, Croop, and Co.,
I may be superseded--my employers think me dead!”
“Then come with me,” said Somers, “and taste indigo instead.”

But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they found
The vessel was a convict ship from Portland outward bound;
When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind,
To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.

As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke,
They recognized a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke:
’Twas Robinson--a convict, in an unbecoming frock!
Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!

They laughed no more, for Somers thought he had been rather rash
In knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash;
And Peter thought a foolish tack he must have gone upon
In making the acquaintance of a friend of Robinson.

At first they didn’t quarrel very openly, I’ve heard;
They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word:
The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head,
And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead.

To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth,
And Peter takes the north again, and Somers takes the south;
And Peter has the oysters, which he hates, in layers thick,
And Somers has the turtle--turtle always makes him sick.
_W. S. Gilbert._

THE ÆSTHETE

IF you’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line, as a man
of culture rare,
You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and
plant them everywhere;
You must lie upon the daisies, and discourse in novel phrases of
your complicated state of mind
(The meaning doesn’t matter, if it’s only idle chatter of a
transcendental kind).
And every one will say,
As you walk your mystic way,
“If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me,
Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man
must be!”

Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long
since passed away,
And convince ’em, if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne
was Culture’s palmiest day.
Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever’s fresh and new, and declare
it’s crude and mean,
And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress
Josephine.
And every one will say,
As you walk your mystic way,
“If that’s not good enough for him which is good enough for me,
Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must
be!”

Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your
languid spleen,
An attachment _à la Plato_ for a bashful young potato, or a
not-too-French French bean.
Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in
the high æsthetic band,
If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval
hand.
And every one will say,
As you walk your flowery way,
“If he’s content with a vegetable love, which would certainly not
suit me,
Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man
must be!”
_W. S. Gilbert._

TOO LATE!

“Ah! si la jeunesse savait,--si la vieillesse pouvait!”

THERE sat an old man on a rock,
And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,
That concern where we all must take stock,
Though our vote has no hearing or weight;
And the old man sang him an old, old song--
Never sang voice so clear and strong
That it could drown the old man’s for long,
For he sang the song, “Too late! too late!”

When we want, we have for our pains
The promise that if we but wait
Till the want has burned out of our brains,
Every means shall be present to state;
While we send for the napkins, the soup gets cold;
While the bonnet is trimming, the face grows old;
When we’ve matched our buttons, the pattern is sold,
And everything comes too late--too late!

“When strawberries seemed like red heavens,
Terrapin stew a wild dream,
When my brain was at sixes and sevens,
If my mother had ‘folks’ and ice-cream,
Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger
At the restaurant-man and fruit-monger--
But oh! how I wished I were younger,
When the goodies all came in a stream--in a stream!

“I’ve a splendid blood-horse, and--a liver
That it jars into torture to trot;
My row-boat’s the gem of the river--
Gout makes every knuckle a knot!
I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome,
But no palate for _ménus_, no eyes for a dome--
_Those_ belonged to the youth who must tarry at home,
When no home but an attic he’d got--he’d got!

“How I longed, in that lonest of garrets,
Where the tiles baked my brains all July,
For ground to grow two pecks of carrots,
Two pigs of my own in a sty,
A rosebush, a little thatched cottage,
Two spoons, love, a basin of pottage!
Now in freestone I sit, and my dotage,
With a woman’s chair empty close by--close by!

“Ah, now, though I sit on a rock,
I have shared one seat with the great;
I have sat--knowing naught of the clock--
On love’s high throne of state;
But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed,
To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed,
And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed,
Had they only not come too late--too late!”
_Fitz-Hugh Ludlow._

LIFE IN LACONICS

GIVEN a roof, and a taste for rations,
And you have the key to the “wealth of nations.”

Given a boy, a tree, and a hatchet,
And virtue strives in vain to match it.

Given a pair, a snake, and an apple,
You make the whole world need a chapel.

Given “no cards,” broad views, and a hovel,
You have a realistic novel.

Given symptoms and doctors with potion and pill,
And your heirs will ere long be contesting your will.

That good leads to evil there’s no denying:
If it were not for _truth_ there would be no _lying_.

“I’m nobody!” should have a hearse;
But then, “I’m somebody!” is worse.

“Folks say,” _et cetera_! Well, they shouldn’t,
And if they knew you well, they wouldn’t.

When you coddle your life, all its vigor and grace
Shrink away with the whisper, “We’re in the wrong place.”
_Mary Mapes Dodge._

DISTICHES

WISELY a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her.
This one may love her some day; some day the lover will not.

There are three species of creatures who, when they seem coming,
are going;
When they seem going, they come: Diplomats, women, and crabs.

As the meek beasts in the Garden came flocking for Adam to name
them,
Men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king.

What is a first love worth except to prepare for a second?
What does the second love bring? Only regret for the first.
_John Hay._

THE POET AND THE CRITICS

IF those who wield the rod forget,
’Tis truly, _Quis custodiet_?

A certain bard (as bards will do)
Dressed up his poems for review.
His type was plain, his title clear,
His frontispiece by Fourdrinier.
Moreover, he had on the back
A sort of sheepskin zodiac--
A mask, a harp, an owl--in fine,
A neat and “classical” design.
But the _in_-side? Well, good or bad,
The inside was the best he had.
Much memory, more imitation,
Some accidents of inspiration,
Some essays in that finer fashion
Where fancy takes the place of passion;
And some (of course) more roughly wrought
To catch the advocates of thought.

In the less-crowded age of Anne,
Our bard had been a favoured man;
Fortune, more chary with the sickle,
Had ranked him next to Garth or Tickell;
He might have even dared to hope
A line’s malignity from Pope!
But now, when folks are hard to please,
And poets are as thick as--peas,
The Fates are not so prone to flatter,
Unless, indeed, a friend.... No matter.

The book, then, had a minor credit.
The critics took, and doubtless read it.
Said A.: “These little songs display
No lyric gift, but still a ray,
A promise. They will do no harm.”
’Twas kindly, if not _very_ warm.
Said B.: “The author may, in time,
Acquire the rudiments of rhyme;
His efforts now are scarcely verse.”
This, certainly, could not be worse.

Sorely discomfited, our bard
Worked for another ten years--hard.
Meanwhile the world, unmoved, went on;
New stars shot up, shone out, were gone;
Before his second volume came,
His critics had forgot his name:
And who, forsooth, is bound to know
Each laureate _in embryo_!
They tried and tested him, no less,
The pure assayers of the Press.
Said A.: “_The author may, in time...._”
Or much what B. had said of rhyme.
Then B.: “_These little songs display...._”
And so forth, in the sense of A.
Over the bard I throw a veil.

There is no moral to this tale.
_Austin Dobson._

THE LOVE-LETTER

“J’ai vu les mœurs de mon temps, et j’ai publié cette
lettre.”--_La Nouvelle Héloise_.

IF this should fail, why, then I scarcely know
What could succeed. Here’s brilliancy (and banter),
Byron _ad lib._, a chapter of Rousseau;
If this should fail, then _tempora mutantur_;
Style’s out of date, and love, as a profession,
Acquires no aid from beauty of expression.

“The men who think as I, I fear, are few”
(Cynics would say ’twere well if they were fewer);
“I am not what I seem”--(indeed, ’tis true;
Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer);
“Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lie
More deep than words”--(as these exemplify).

“I will not say when first your beauty’s sun
Illumed my life”--(it needs imagination);
“For me to see you and to love were one”--
(This will account for some precipitation);
“Let it suffice that worship more devoted
Ne’er throbbed,” _et cetera_. The rest is quoted.

“If Love can look with all-prophetic eye”--
(Ah, if he could, how many would be single!)
“If truly spirit unto spirit cry”--
(The ears of some most terribly must tingle!)
“Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face.”
This next, I think, is more than commonplace.

“Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting,
Forestall the speech with favour found before?
Why should we plead? it were an idle thing,
If Love himself be Love’s ambassador!”
Blot, as I live! Shall we erase it? No;
’Twill show we write _currente calamo_.

“My fate, my fortune, I commit to you”--
(In point of fact, the latter’s not extensive);
“Without you I am poor indeed” (strike through--
’Tis true, but crude; ’twould make her apprehensive);
“My life is yours--I lay it at your feet”
(Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet).

“Give me the right to stand within the shrine
Where never yet my faltering feet intruded;
Give me the right to call you wholly mine”--
(That is, consols and three-per-cents. included);
“To guard your rest from every care that cankers--
To keep your life”--(and balance at your banker’s).

“Compel me not to long for your reply;
Suspense makes havoc with the mind”--(and muscles);
“Winged Hope takes flight” (which means that I must fly,
Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels);
“I cannot wait! My own, my queen--Priscilla!
Write by return.” And _now_ for a manilla!

“Miss Blank,” at “Blank.” Jemima, let it go;
And I, meanwhile, will idle with “Sir Walter.”
Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though--
’Twill serve again. There’s but the name to alter,
And Love, that starves, must knock at every portal,
_In forma pauperis_. We are but mortal!
_Austin Dobson._

FAME

ALL over the world we sing of Fame,
Bright as a bubble, and hollow;
With a breath men make it and give it a name;
All over the world they sing the same,
And the beautiful bubble follow.

Its rounded, splendid, gossamer walls
Hide more than our fairy fancies:
For here, in the vaulted, antique halls,
’Mid oriel splendours, a light foot falls,
And a fairy figure dances.

And men will do for a glancing eye,
And foot that tarries never,
More, far more than look and sigh;
For men will fight, and man will die,
But follow it on for ever.
_James Herbert Morse._

FIVE LIVES

FIVE mites of monads dwelt in a round drop
That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun.
To the naked eye they lived invisible;
Specks, for a world of whom the empty shell
Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky.

One was a meditative monad, called a sage;
And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought:
“Tradition, handed down for hours and hours,
Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world,
Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence
When I am very old, yon shimmering doom
Comes drawing down and down, till all things end?”
Then with a wizen smirk he proudly felt
No other mote of God had ever gained
Such giant grasp of universal truth.

One was a transcendental monad; thin
And long and slim of mind; and thus he mused:
“Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls!
Made in the image”--a horse frog croaks from the pool,
“Hark! ’twas some god, voicing his glorious thought
In thunder-music. Yea, we hear their voice,
And we may guess their minds from ours, their work.
Some taste they have like ours, some tendency
To wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum.”
He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas,
That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone.

One was a barren-minded monad, called
A positivist, and he knew positively:
“There was no world beyond this certain drop.
Prove me another! Let the dreamers dream
Of their faint gleams, and noises from without,
And higher and lower; life is life enough.”
Then swaggering half a hair’s-breath hungrily,
He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed.

One was a tattered monad, called a poet,
And with a shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang:
“Oh, little female monad’s lips!
Oh, little female monad’s eyes!
Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!”
The last was a strong-minded monadess,
Who dashed amid the infusoria,
Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove,
Till the dizzy others held their breath to see.

But while they led their wondrous little lives,
Æonian moments had gone wheeling by,
The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed;
A glistening film--’twas gone; the leaf was dry.
The little ghost of an inaudible squeak
Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone;
Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful ox
Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged,
Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still.
_Edward Rowland Sill._

HE AND SHE

WHEN I am dead you’ll find it hard,
Said he,
To ever find another man
Like me.

What makes you think, as I suppose
You do,
I’d ever want another man
Like you?
_Eugene Fitch Ware._

WHAT WILL WE DO?

WHAT will we do when the good days come--
When the prima donna’s lips are dumb,
And the man who reads us his “little things”
Has lost his voice like the girl who sings;
When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man,
And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan;
When our neighbours’ children have lost their drums--
Oh, what will we do when the good time comes?
Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time,
When the tramp will work--oh, thing sublime!
And the scornful dame who stands on your feet
Will “Thank you, sir,” for the proffered seat;
And the man you hire to work by the day,
Will allow you to do his work your way;
And the cook who trieth your appetite
Will steal no more than she thinks is right;
When the boy you hire will call you “Sir,”
Instead of “Say” and “Guverner”;
When the funny man is humorsome--
How can we stand the millennium?
_Robert J. Burdette._

THE TOOL

THE man of brains, of fair repute and birth,
Who loves high place above all else of earth--
Who loves it so, he’ll go without the power,
If he may hold the semblance but an hour;
Willing to be some sordid creature’s tool,
So he but seem a little while to rule--
On him even moral pigmies would look down;
Were prizes given for shame, he’d wear the crown.
_Richard Watson Gilder._

GIVE ME A THEME

“GIVE me a theme,” the little poet cried,
“And I will do my part.”
“’Tis not a theme you need,” the world replied;
“You need a heart.”
_Richard Watson Gilder._

THE POEM, TO THE CRITIC

WEIGH me, if you’re fain;
Measure me, if it is your plan;
Know your little thimble-brain
Hold me never can.
_Richard Watson Gilder._

BALLADE OF LITERARY FAME

“All these for fourpence.”

OH, where are the endless romances
Our grandmothers used to adore?
The knights with their helms and their lances,
Their shields and the favours they wore?
And the monks with their magical lore?
They have passed to oblivion and _Nox_;
They have fled to the shadowy shore--
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And where the poetical fancies
Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore?
The lyric’s melodious expanses,
The epics in cantos a score.
They have been, and are not. No more
Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,
Nor the ladies their languors deplore--
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And the music! The songs and the dances?
The tunes that time may not restore?
And the tomes where divinity prances?
And the pamphlets where heretics roar?
They have ceased to be even a bore,--
The divine, and the sceptic who mocks;
They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core,
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

ENVOI

Suns beat on them; tempests downpour,
On the chest without cover or locks,
Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door--
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
_Andrew Lang._

CHORUS OF ANGLOMANIACS

IT is positively false to call us frantic,
For the soundness of our mental state is sure,
Yet we look upon this side of the Atlantic
As a tract of earth unpleasant to endure.

We consider dear old England as the fountain
Of all institutions reputably sane;
We abominate and loathe a Rocky Mountain;
We regard a rolling prairie with disdain.

We assiduously imitate the polish
That we notice round the English nabob hang;
We unfailingly endeavour to abolish
From our voices any trace of nasal twang.

Every patriotic duty we leave undone,
With aversion such as Hebrews hold for pork,
Since we venerate the very name of London
In proportion to our hatred of New York.

No treaty could in any manner soften
Our contempt for native tailors when we dress;
If we bet, we “lay a guinea,” rather often,
And we always say “I farncy” for “I guess.”

We esteem the Revolution as illegal;
If you mention Bunker Hill to us, we sigh;
We particularly execrate an eagle,
And we languish on the fourth day of July.

We are not prepared in any foolish manner
The vulgarities of Uncle Sam to screen;
We dislike to hear that dull “Star-Spangled Banner,”
But we thoroughly respect “God save the Queen.”

We revere the Prince of Wales, though he should prick us
With a sneer at the republic we obey!
We would rather let his Royal Highness kick us
Than have been the bosom friend of Henry Clay!

_Edgar Fawcett._

From “The Buntling Ball.”

THE NET OF LAW

THE net of law is spread so wide,
No sinner from its sweep may hide.

Its meshes are so fine and strong,
They take in every child of wrong.

O wondrous web of mystery!
Big fish alone escape from thee!
_James Jeffrey Roche._

A BOSTON LULLABY

BABY’S brain is tired of thinking
On the Wherefore and the Whence;
Baby’s precious eyes are blinking
With incipient somnolence.

Little hands are weary turning
Heavy leaves of lexicon;
Little nose is fretted learning
How to keep its glasses on.

Baby knows the laws of nature
Are beneficent and wise;
His medulla oblongata
Bids my darling close his eyes

And his pneumogastrics tell him
Quietude is always best
When his little cerebellum
Needs recuperative rest.

Baby must have relaxation,
Let the world go wrong or right.
Sleep, my darling--leave Creation
To its chances for the night.
_James Jeffrey Roche._

THE V-A-S-E

FROM the madding crowd they stand apart,
The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone
In which had culture ripest grown--

The Gotham Millions fair to see,
The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,
Or the Soulful Soul from Kalamazoo;

For all loved Art in a seemly way.
With an earnest soul and a capital A.

* * * * *

Long they worshipped; but no one broke
The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place,
Who, blushing, said, “What a lovely vace!”

Over three faces a sad smile flew,
And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham’s haughty soul was stirred
To crush the stranger with one small word;

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,
She cries, “’Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!”

But brief her unworthy triumph, when
The lofty one from the home of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas,
Exclaims, “It is quite a lovely vahs!”

And glances round with an anxious thrill,
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,
And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me!

“I did not catch your remark, because
I was so entranced with that charming vaws!”

_Dies erit prægelida
Sinistra quum Bostonia._
_James Jeffrey Roche._

THURSDAY

THE sun was setting, and vespers done;
From chapel the monks came one by one,
And down they went thro’ the garden trim,
In cassock and cowl, to the river’s brim.
Ev’ry brother his rod he took;
Ev’ry rod had a line and a hook;
Ev’ry hook had a bait so fine,
And thus they sang in the even shine:
“Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll fish the stream to-day!
Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll fish the stream to-day!
Benedicite!”

So down they sate by the river’s brim,
And fish’d till the light was growing dim;
They fish’d the stream till the moon was high,
But never a fish came wand’ring by.
They fish’d the stream in the bright moonshine,
But not one fish would he come to dine.
And the Abbot said, “It seems to me
These rascally fish are all gone to sea.
And to-morrow will be Friday, but we’ve caught no fish to-day;
Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, but we’ve caught no fish to-day!
Maledicite!”

So back they went to the convent gate,
Abbot and monks disconsolate;
For they thought of the morrow with faces white,
Saying, “Oh, we must curb our appetite!
But down in the depths of the vault below
There’s Malvoisie for a world of woe!”
So they quaff their wine, and all declare
That fish, after all, is but gruesome fare.
“Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll warm our souls to-day!
Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll warm our souls to-day!
Benedicite!”
_Frederick Edward Weatherly._

A BIRD IN THE HAND

THERE were three young maids of Lee;
They were fair as fair can be,
And they had lovers three times three,
For they were fair as fair can be,
These three young maids of Lee.
But these young maids they cannot find
A lover each to suit her mind;
The plain-spoke lad is far too rough,
The rich young lord is not rich enough,
The one is too poor, and one is too tall,
And one just an inch too short for them all.
“Others pick and choose, and why not we?
We can very well wait,” said the maids of Lee.
There were three young maids of Lee;
They were fair as fair can be,
And they had lovers three times three
For they were fair as fair can be,
These three young maids of Lee.

There are three old maids of Lee,
And they are old as old can be,
And one is deaf, and one cannot see,
And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree,
These three old maids of Lee.
Now, if any one chanced--’tis a chance remote--
One single charm in these maids to note,
He need not a poet nor handsome be,
For one is deaf and one cannot see;
He need not woo on his bended knee,
For they all are willing as willing can be.
He may take the one, or the two, or the three,
If he’ll only take them away from Lee.
There are three old maids at Lee;
They are cross as cross can be;
And there they are, and there they’ll be
To the end of the chapter, one, two, three,
These three old maids of Lee.
_Frederick Edward Weatherly._

AN ADVANCED THINKER

THIS modern scientist--a word uncouth--
Who calls himself a seeker after truth,
And traces man through monkey back to frog,
Seeing a Plato in each pollywog,
Ascribes all things unto the power of Matter.
The woman’s anguish, and the baby’s chatter--
The soldier’s glory, and his country’s need--
Self-sacrificing love--self-seeking greed--
The false religion some vain bigots prize,
Which seeks to win a soul by telling lies--
And even pseudo-scientific clatter--
All these, he says, are but the work of Matter.
Thus, self-made science, like a self-made man,
Deems naught uncomprehended in its plan;
Sees naught he can’t explain by his own laws.
The time has come, at length, to bid him pause,
Before he strive to leap the unknown chasm
Reft wide ’twixt awful God and protoplasm.
_Brander Matthews._

A THOUGHT

IF all the harm that women have done
Were put in a bundle and rolled into one,
Earth would not hold it,
The sky could not enfold it,
It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun;
Such masses of evil
Would puzzle the devil,
And keep him in fuel while Time’s wheels run.

But if all the harm that’s been done by men
Were doubled, and doubled, and doubled again,
And melted and fused into vapour, and then
Were squared and raised to the power of ten,
There wouldn’t be nearly enough, not near,
To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.
_J. K. Stephen._

A SONNET

TWO voices are there: one is of the deep;
It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody,
Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,
Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:
And one is of an old, half-witted sheep,
Which bleats articulate monotony,
And indicates that two and one are three,
That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep;
And, Wordsworth, both are thine. At certain times
Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,
The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst;
At other times--good Lord! I’d rather be
Quite unacquainted with the A B C,
Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.
_J. K. Stephen._

THEY SAID

BECAUSE thy prayer hath never fed
Dark Atë with the food she craves;
Because thou dost not hate, they said,
Nor joy to step on foemen’s graves;
Because thou canst not hate, as we,
How poor a creature thou must be!
Thy veins as pale as ours are red!
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Because by thee no snare was spread
To baffle Love--if Love should stray;
Because thou dost not watch, they said,
To strictly compass Love each way;
Because thou dost not watch, as we,
Nor jealous Care hath lodged with thee,
To strew with thorns a restless bed--
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Because thy feet were not misled
To jocund ground, yet all infirm;
Because thou art not fond, they said,
Nor dost exact thine heyday term;
Because thou art not fond, as we,
How dull a creature thou must be!
Thy pulse how slow, yet shrewd thy head!
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Because thou hast not roved to wed
With those to Love averse or strange;
Because thou hast not roved, they said,
Nor ever studied artful change;
Because thou hast not roved, as we,
Love paid no ransom rich for thee,
Nor, seeking thee, unwearied sped.
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Aye, so! because thou thought’st to tread
Love’s ways, and all his bidding do;
Because thou hast not tired, they said,
Nor ever wert to Love untrue;
Because thou hast not tired, as we,
How tedious must thy service be;
Love with thy zeal is surfeited!
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Because thou hast not wanton shed
On every hand thy heritage;
Because thou art not flush, they said,
But hast regard to meagre age;
Because thou art not flush, as we,
How strait thy cautious soul must be!
How well thy thrift stands thee in stead!
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

And therefore look thou not for bread--
For wine and bread from Love’s deep store,
Because thou hast no need, they said;
But us he’ll feast forevermore!
Because thou hast no need, as we,
Sit in his purlieus, thou, and see
How with Love’s bounty we are fed.
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
_Edith M. Thomas._

TO R. K.

As long I dwell on some stupendous
And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)
Monstr’inform’-ingens-horrendous
Demoniaco-seraphic Penman’s latest piece of
graphic.--_Browning._

WILL there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason,
And an unmelodious verse?--
When the world shall cease to wonder
At the genius of an Ass,
And a boy’s eccentric blunder
Shall not bring success to pass?--

When mankind shall be delivered
From the clash of magazines,
And the inkstand shall be shivered
Into countless smithereens?--
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore?--
When the Rudyards cease from Kipling,
And the Haggards Ride no more?
_J. K. Stephen._

TO MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA

A BLUEBIRD lives in yonder tree,
Likewise a little chickadee,
In two woodpeckers’ nests, rent free.

There, where the weeping willow weeps,
A dainty house-wren sweetly cheeps;
From an old oriole’s nest she peeps.

I see the English sparrow tilt
Upon a limb with sun begilt;
Her nest an ancient swallow built.

So it was one of your old jests,
Eh, Mig. Cervantes, that attests
“There are no birds in last year’s nests?”
_Richard Kendall Munkittrick._

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

IN letters large upon the frame,
That visitors might see,
The painter placed his humble name:
O’Callaghan McGee.

And from Beersheba unto Dan,
The critics, with a nod,
Exclaimed: “This painting Irishman
Adores his native sod.

“His stout heart’s patriotic flame
There’s naught on earth can quell;
He takes no wild romantic name
To make his pictures sell.”

Then poets praise, in sonnets neat,
His stroke so bold and free;
No parlor wall was thought complete
That hadn’t a McGee.

All patriots before McGee
Threw lavishly their gold;
His works in the Academy
Were very quickly sold.

His “Digging Clams at Barnegat,”
His “When the Morning Smiled,”
His “Seven Miles from Ararat,”
His “Portrait of a Child,”
Were purchased in a single day,
And lauded as divine.

* * * * *

That night as in his _atelier_
The artist sipped his wine,

And looked upon his gilded frames,
He grinned from ear to ear:
“They little think my real name’s
V. Stuyvesant De Vere!”
_Richard Kendall Munkittrick._

WED.

FOR these white arms about my neck--
For the dainty room, with its ordered grace--
For my snowy linen without a fleck--
For the tender charm of this uplift face--

For the softened light and the homelike air--
The low, luxurious cannel fire--
The padded ease of my chosen chair--
The devoted love that discounts desire--

I sometimes think, when twelve is struck
By the clock on the mantel, tinkling clear,
I would take--and thank the gods for the luck--
One single hour with the boys and the beer,

Where the sawdust-scent of a cheap saloon
Is mingled with malt; where each man smokes;
Where they sing the street-songs out of tune,
Talk Art, and bandy ephemeral jokes.

By Jove, I do! And all the time
I know not a man that is there to-night,
But would barter his brains to be where I’m--
And I’m well aware that the beggars are right.

_H. C. Bunner._

ATLANTIC CITY

O CITY that is not a city, unworthy the prefix Atlantic,
Forlornest of watering-places, and thoroughly Philadelphian!
In thy despite I sing, with a bitter and deep detestation--
A detestation born of a direful and dinnerless evening,
Spent in thy precincts unhallowed--an evening, I trust, may recur
not.
Never till then did I know what was meant by the word God-forsaken:
Thou its betokening hast taught me, being the chiefest example.
Thou art the scorned of the gods; thy sand from their sandals is
shaken;
Thee have they left in their wrath to thy uninteresting
extensiveness,
Barren, and bleak, and big; a wild aggregation of barracks,
Miscalled hotels, and of dovecotes denominate cottages;
A confusion of ugly girls, of sand, and of health-bearing breezes,
With one unending plank-walk for a true Philadelphia “attraction.”
City ambitiously named, why, with inducements delusive,
Is the un-Philadelphian stranger lured to thy desert pretentious?
’Tis not alone that thy avenues, broad and unpaved and unending,
Reecho yet with the obsolete music of “Pinafore,”
Whistled in various keys by the rather too numerous negro;
’Tis not alone that Propriety--Propriety too Philadelphian--
Over thee stretches an ægis of wholly superfluous virtue;
That thou art utterly good; hast no single vice to redeem thee;
’Tis not alone that thou art provincial in all things, and petty;
And that the dulness of death is gay, compared to thy dulness--
’Tis not alone for these things that my curse is to rest upon thee,
But for a sin that crowns thee with perfect and eminent badness,
Sets thee alone in thy shame, the unworthiest town on the
sea-coast;
This: That thou dinest at noon, and then in a manner barbarian,
Soupless, and wineless, and coffeeless, untimely and wholly
indecent,
As is the custom, I learn, in Philadelphia proper.
I rose, and I fled from thy supper. I said, “I will get me a
dinner!”
Vainly I wandered thy streets. Thy eating-places ungodly
Knew not the holiness of dinner. In all that evening I dined not;
But in a strange, low lair, infested of native mechanics,
Bolted a fried beefsteak for the physical need of my stomach.
And for them that have fried that steak, in Aïdes’ lowest
back-kitchen,
May they eternally broil, by way of a warning to others.
During my wanderings, I met and hailed with delight one Italian,
A man with a name from “Pasquale”--the chap sung by Tagliapietra;
He knew what it was to dine; he comprehended my yearnings;
But the spell was also on him, the somnolent spell Philadelphian,
And his hostelry would not be open till Saturday next; and I cursed
him.
Now this is not too much to ask--God knows!--that a mortal should
want a
Pint of Bordeaux to his dinner, and a small cigarette for a climax;
But these things being denied him, where, then, is your
civilization?
O Coney Island! of old I have reviled and blasphemed thee,
For that thou dousest thy glim at an hour that is unmetropolitan;
That thy frequenters’ feet turn townwards ere striketh eleven,
When the returning cars are filled with young men and maidens,
Most of the maidens asleep on the young men’s cindery shoulders--
Yea, but I spake as a fool, insensate, disgruntled, ungrateful:
Thee will I worship henceforth in appreciative humility;
Luxurious and splendid and urban, glorious and gaslit and gracious,
Gathering from every land thy gay and ephemeral tenantry,
From the Greek who hails thee “Thalatta!” to the rustic who murmurs
“My golly!”
From the Bowery youth who requests his sweetheart to “Look at them
billers!”
To the Gaul whom thy laughing waves almost persuade to immersion.
O Coney Island, thou art the weary citizen’s heaven--
A heaven to dine, not die in, joyful and restful and clamful.
Better one hour of thee than an age of Atlantic City!
_H. C. Bunner._

THE FONT IN THE FOREST

THERE’S a prim little pond
At the back of Beyond,
And its waters are over your ears;
It’s a sort of a tarn
Behind Robin Hood’s barn,
Where the fish live a million years.

And the mortals who drink
At its pebbly brink
Are immediately changed into mullets,
Whose heads grow immense
At their bodies’ expense,
And whose eyes become bulbous as bullets.

But they willingly stay
Who have once found the way,
And they crave neither credit nor blame;
For to wiggle their tails,
And to practise their scales,
Is enough in the Fountain of Fame.
_Herman Knickerbocker Vielé._

THE ORIGIN OF SIN

HE talked about the origin
Of sin;
But present sin, I must confess,
He never tried to render less;
But used to add, so people talk,
His share unto the general stock--
But grieved about the origin
Of sin.

He mourned about the origin
Of sin;
But never struggled very long
To rout contemporaneous wrong,
And never lost his sleep, they say,
About the evils of to-day--
But wept about the origin
Of sin.

He sighed about the origin
Of sin;
But showed no fear you could detect
About its ultimate effect;
He deemed it best to use no force,
But let it run its natural course--
But moaned about the origin
Of sin.
_Samuel Walter Foss._

A PHILOSOPHER

ZACK BUMSTEAD useter flosserfize
About the ocean an’ the skies;
An’ gab an’ gas f’um morn till noon
About the other side the moon;
An’ ’bout the natur of the place
Ten miles beyend the end of space.
An’ if his wife she’d ask the crank
Ef he wouldn’t kinder try to yank
Hisself out-doors an’ git some wood
To make her kitchen fire good,
So she c’d bake her beans an’ pies,
He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize
About the natur an’ the size
Of angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp,
An’ wonder how they make ’em flop.
He’d calkerlate how long a skid
’Twould take to move the sun, he did;
An’ if the skid was strong an’ prime,
It couldn’t be moved to supper-time.
An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the lout
Ef he wouldn’t kinder waltz about
An’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies,
He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize
’Bout schemes for fencing in the skies,
Then lettin’ out the lots to rent,
So’s he could make an honest cent.
An’ if he’d find it pooty tough
To borry cash fer fencin’-stuff?
An’ if ’twere best to take his wealth
An’ go to Europe for his health,
Or save his cash till he’d enough
To buy some more of fencin’-stuff;
Then, ef his wife she’d ask the gump
Ef he wouldn’t kinder try to hump
Hisself to t’other side the door,
So she c’d come an’ sweep the floor,
He’d look at her with mournful eyes,
An’ say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize
’Bout what it wuz held up the skies,
An’ how God made this earthly ball
Jest simply out er nawthin’ ’tall,
An’ ’bout the natur, shape, an’ form
Of nawthin’ that he made it from.
Then, ef his wife sh’d ask the freak
Ef he wouldn’t kinder try to sneak
Out to the barn an’ find some aigs,
He’d never move, nor lift his laigs;
He’d never stir, nor try to rise,
But say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize
About the earth, an’ sea, an’ skies,
An’ scratch his head, an’ ask the cause
Of w’at there wuz before time wuz,
An’ w’at the universe ’d do
Bimeby w’en time hed all got through;
An’ jest how fur we’d have to climb
Ef we sh’d travel out er time;
An’ ef we’d need, w’en we got there,
To keep our watches in repair.
Then, ef his wife she’d ask the gawk
Ef he wouldn’t kinder try to walk
To where she had the table spread,
An’ kinder git his stomach fed,
He’d leap for that ar kitchen door,
An’ say, “W’y didn’t you speak afore?”
An’ when he’d got his supper et,
He’d set, an’ set, an’ set, an’ set,
An’ fold his arms, an’ shet his eyes,
An’ set, an’ set, an’ flosserfize.
_Samuel Walter Foss._

THE FATE OF PIOUS DAN

“RUN down and get the doctor--quick!”
Cried Jack Bean with a whoop;
“Run, Dan; for mercy’s sake, be quick!
Our baby’s got the croup.”
But Daniel shook his solemn head,
His sanctimonious brow,
And said: “I cannot go, for I
Must read my Bible now;
For I have regular hours to read
The Scripture for my spirit’s need.”

Said Silas Gove to Pious Dan,
“Our neighbour, ’Rastus Wright,
Is very sick; will you come down
And watch with him to-night?”
“He has my sympathy,” says Dan,
“And I would sure be there,
Did I not feel an inward call
To spend the night in prayer.
Some other man with Wright must stay;
Excuse me, while I go and pray.”

“Old Briggs has fallen in the pond!”
Cried little ’Bijah Brown;
“Run, Pious Dan, and help him out,
Or else he sure will drown!”
“I trust he’ll swim ashore,” said Dan,
“But now my soul is awed,
And I must meditate upon
The goodness of the Lord;
And nothing merely temporal ought
To interrupt my holy thought.”

So Daniel lived a pious life,
As Daniel understood,
But all his neighbours thought he was
Too pious to be good;
And Daniel died, and then his soul,
On wings of hope elate,
In glad expectancy flew up
To Peter’s golden gate.
“Now let your gate wide open fly;
Come, hasten, Peter! Here am I.”

“I’m sorry, Pious Dan,” said he,
“That time will not allow;
But you must wait a space, for I
Must read my Bible now.”
So Daniel waited long and long,
And Peter read all day.
“Now, Peter, let me in,” he cried.
Said Peter, “I must pray;
And no mean temporal affairs
Must ever interrupt my prayers.”

Then Satan, who was passing by,
Saw Dan’s poor shivering form,
And said, “My man, it’s cold out here;
Come down where it is warm.”
The angel baby of Jack Bean,
The angel ’Rastus Wright,
And old Briggs, a white angel, too,
All chuckled with delight;
And Satan said, “Come, Pious Dan,
For you are just my style of man.”
_Samuel Walter Foss._

THE MEETING OF THE CLABBERHUSES

I

HE was the Chairman of the Guild
Of Early Pleiocene Patriarchs;
He was chief Mentor of the Lodge
Of the Oracular Oligarchs;
He was the Lord High Autocrat
And Vizier of the Sons of Light,
And Sultan and Grand Mandarin
Of the Millennial Men of Might.

He was Grand Totem and High Priest
Of the Independent Potentates;
Grand Mogul of the Galaxy
Of the Illustrious Stay-out-lates;
The President of the Dandydudes,
The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee;
The Leader of the Clubtown Band
And Architects of Melody.

II

She was Grand Worthy Prophetess
Of the Illustrious Maids of Mark;
Of Vestals of the Third Degree
She was Most Potent Matriarch;
She was High Priestess of the Shrine
Of Clubtown’s Culture Coterie,
And First Vice-President of the League
Of the Illustrious G. A. B.

She was the First Dame of the Club
For teaching Patagonians Greek,
She was Chief Clerk and Auditor
Of Clubtown’s Anti-Bachelor Clique;
She was High Treasurer of the Fund
For Borrioboolaghalians,
And the Fund for Sending Browning’s Poems
To Native-born Australians.

III

Once to a crowded social _fête_
Both these much-titled people came,
And each perceived, when introduced,
They had the self-same name.
Their hostess said, when first they met:
“Permit me now to introduce
My good friend Mr. Clabberhuse
To Mrs. Clabberhuse.”

“’Tis very strange,” said she to him,
“Such an unusual name!--
A name so very seldom heard,
That we should bear the same.”
“Indeed, ’tis wonderful,” said he,
“And I’m surprised the more,
Because I never heard the name
Outside my home before.

“But now I come to look at you,”
Said he, “upon my life,
If I am not indeed deceived,
You are--you are--my wife.”
She gazed into his searching face,
And seemed to look him through;
“Indeed,” said she, “it seems to me
You are my husband, too.

“I’ve been so busy with my clubs,
And in my various spheres,
I have not seen you now,” she said,
“For over fourteen years.”
“That’s just the way it’s been with me;
These clubs demand a sight”--
And then they both politely bowed,
And sweetly said “Good-night.”
_Sam Walter Foss._

WEDDED BLISS

“O COME and be my mate!” said the Eagle to the Hen;
“I love to soar, but then
I want my mate to rest
Forever in the nest!”
Said the Hen, “I cannot fly,
I have no wish to try,
But I joy to see my mate careering through the sky!”
They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”
And the Hen sat, the Eagle soared, alone.

“O come and be my mate!” said the Lion to the Sheep;
“My love for you is deep!
I slay--a Lion should,
But you are mild and good!”
Said the Sheep, “I do no ill--
Could not, had I the will;
But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour, and kill.”
They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”
And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone.

“O come and be my mate!” said the Salmon to the Clam;
“You are not wise, but I am.
I know sea and stream as well;
You know nothing but your shell.”
Said the Clam, “I’m slow of motion,
But my love is all devotion,
And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!”
They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”
And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone.
_Charlotte Perkins (Stetson) Gilman._

A CONSERVATIVE

THE garden beds I wandered by,
One bright and cheerful morn,
When I found a new-fledged butterfly
A-sitting on a thorn--
A black and crimson butterfly,
All doleful and forlorn.

I thought that life could have no sting
To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
With wonder and surprise,
While sadly with his waving wing
He wiped his weeping eyes.

Said I: “What can the matter be?
Why weepest thou so sore,
With garden fair and sunlight free,
And flowers in goodly store?”
But he only turned away from me,
And burst into a roar.

Cried he: “My legs are thin and few,
Where once I had a swarm;
Soft, fuzzy fur--a joy to view--
Once kept my body warm,
Before these flapping wing-things grew,
To hamper and deform.”

At that outrageous bug I shot
The fury of mine eye;
Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
In rage and anger high,
“You ignominious idiot!
Those wings are made to fly.”

“I do not want to fly,” said he;
“I only want to squirm.”
And he dropped his wings dejectedly,
But still his voice was firm:
“I do not want to be a fly;
I want to be a worm.”

O yesterday of unknown lack!
To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black,
The last I saw was this--
The creature madly climbing back
Into his chrysalis.
_Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman._

SAME OLD STORY

HISTORY, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say;
Men are only habit’s slaves; we see it every day.
Life has done its best for me--I find it tiresome still;
For nothing’s everything at all, and everything is nil.
Same old get-up, dress, and tub;
Same old breakfast; same old club;
Same old feeling; same old blue;
Same old story--nothing new!

Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health;
Woman? She’ll be true to you--as long as you have wealth;
Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could strike;
But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike.
Same old giggles, smiles, and eyes;
Same old kisses; same old sighs;
Same old chaff you; same adieu;
Same old story--nothing new!

Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays;
Same old plots I played with in my happy childhood’s days;
Hero, same; same villain; and same heroine in tears,
Starving, homeless, in the snow--with diamonds in her ears.
Same stern father making “bluffs”;
Leading man all teeth and cuffs;
Same soubrettes, still twenty-two;
Same old story--nothing new!

Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy!
Father really foolish in his fond paternal joy;
Talked about that “kiddy,” and became a dreadful bore--
Just as if a baby never had been born before.
Same old crying, only more;
Same old business, walking floor;
Same old “kitchy--coochy--coo!”
Same old baby--nothing new!

_Harry B. Smith._

HEM AND HAW

HEM and Haw were the sons of sin,
Created to shally and shirk;
Hem lay ’round, and Haw looked on,
While God did all the work.

Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig,
For both had the dull, dull mind;
And whenever they found a thing to do,
They yammered and went it blind.

Hem was the father of bigots and bores;
As the sands of the sea were they;
And Haw was the father of all the tribe
Who criticise to-day.

But God was an artist from the first,
And knew what he was about;
While over his shoulder sneered these two,
And advised him to rub it out.

They prophesied ruin ere man was made:
“Such folly must surely fail!”
And when he was done, “Do you think, my Lord,
He’s better without a tail?”

And still in the honest working world,
With posture and hint and smirk,
These sons of the devil are standing by
While man does all the work.

They balk endeavour and baffle reform,
In the sacred name of law;
And over the quavering voice of Hem
Is the droning voice of Haw.

_Bliss Carman._

THE SCEPTICS

IT was the little leaves beside the road.

Said Grass: “What is that sound
So dismally profound,
That detonates and desolates the air?”
“That is St. Peter’s bell,”
Said rain-wise Pimpernel;
“He is music to the godly,
Though to us he sounds so oddly,
And he terrifies the faithful unto prayer.”

Then something very like a groan
Escaped the naughty little leaves.

Said Grass: “And whither track
These creatures all in black,
So woebegone and penitent and meek?”
“They’re mortals bound for church,”
Said the little Silver Birch;
“They hope to get to heaven,
And have their sins forgiven,
If they talk to God about it once a week.”

And something very like a smile
Ran through the naughty little leaves.

Said Grass: “What is that noise
That startles and destroys
Our blessed summer brooding when we’re tired?”
“That’s folk a-praising God,”
Said the tough old cynic Clod;
“They do it every Sunday,
They’ll be all right on Monday;
It’s just a little habit they’ve acquired.”

And laughter spread among the little leaves.
_Bliss Carman._

THE EVOLUTION OF A “NAME”

WHEN Hill, the poet, first essayed
To push the goose’s quill,
Scarce any name at all he made:
(’Twas simply “A. H. Hill.”)

But as success his efforts crowned,
Rewarding greater skill,
His name expanded at a bound:
(It was “A. Hiller Hill.”)

Now that his work, be what it may,
Is sure to “fill the bill,”
He has a name as wide as day:
(“Aquilla Hiller Hill.”)
_Charles Battell Loomis._

“THE HURT THAT HONOUR FEELS”