Chapter I: DU believe in Freedom’s cause, (3)

SUGGESTED BY THE ATTITUDE OF THE FRENCH PRESS ON THE FASHODA QUESTION

THAT man is surely in the wrong,
And lets his angry passions blind him,
Who, when a person comes along
Behind him,

And hits him hard upon the cheek
(One whom he took to be his brother),
Declines to turn and let him tweak
The other.

It should be his immediate care,
By delicate and tactful dealings,
To ease the striker’s pain, and spare
His feelings;

Nor should he, for his private ends,
Make any personal allusion
Tending to aggravate his friend’s
Confusion.

For there are people built this way:
They may have scratched your face, or bent it,
Yet, if you reason with them, they
Resent it!

Their honour, quickly rendered sore,
Demands that you should suffer mutely,
Lest they should feel it even more
Acutely.

I knew a man of perfect tact;
He caught a burglar once, my man did;
He took him in the very act,
Red-handed;

What kind of language then occurred?
How did he comment on the jemmy?
Did he employ some brutal word
Like “demme”?

Or kick the stranger then and there,
Or challenge him to formal battle?
Or spring upon the midnight air
His rattle?

Certainly not! He knew too much;
He knew that, as a bud is blighted,
Your burglar’s honour, at a touch,
Feels slighted.

He saw, as men of taste would see,
That others’ pride should be respected;
Some people cannot bear to be
Detected.

Therefore his rising wrath he curbed,
Gave him a smile as warm as may be,
Thanked him because he’d not disturbed
The baby;

Apologized for fear his guest
Might deem him casual or surly
For having rudely gone to bed
So early.

The night was still not very old,
And, short as was the invitation,
Would he not stay and share a cold
Collation?

So was his tact not found at fault;
So was he spared, by tasteful flattery,
What might have ended in assault
Or battery.

Soft language is the best--how true!
This doctrine, which I here rehearse, ’ll
Apply to nations: it is u-
-niversal!

Thus England should not take offence
When from behind they jump upon her;
She must not hurt their lively sense
Of honour.

For plain opinions, put in speech,
Might lead to blows, which might be bloody,
A lesson which the press should teach
And study!
_Owen Seaman._

JOHN JENKINS

JOHN JENKINS, in an evil day, felt suddenly inclined
To perpetrate a novel of an unobtrusive kind;
It held no “Strange Adventures” or “Mysterious Events,”
To terrify its readers with exciting accidents.
“I have never,” said John Jenkins, “in my uneventful life,
Taken part in revolutions or in sanguinary strife;
My knowledge of historic days is lamentably scant,
But the present will afford me the material I want.”
In fact, the rash resolve with which this foolish man set out,
Was just to deal with matters that he really knew about.
He studied all his characters with sympathy sincere;
He wrote, rewrote, and laboured at his chapters for a year;
He found a trusting publisher--one wonders much at that--
For this, his first production, fell quite absolutely flat.

The critics were benign indeed: “A harmless little tale,”
Was what they mostly called it. “While the reader cannot fail,”
Another wrote, “to credit it with fluency and grace,
Its fault is that it’s really so extremely commonplace.”
A third condemned it roundly as “A simple, shameless sham”
(Finding that alliteration often does for epigram).
And as John Jenkins wearily perused each fresh review,
He shook his head, and cried, “Oh, this will never, never do!”

Undaunted by catastrophe, John Jenkins tried again,
And wrote his second novel in a very different strain;
In one short month he finished what the critic at a glance
Pronounced a fine example of the latter-day Romance.
His characters now figured in that period sublime
Which, with convenient vagueness, writers call “The Olden Time.”

They said “Oddsbobs,” “Grammercy,” and other phrases sweet,
Extracted from old English as supplied in Wardour Street.
Exciting was their wooing, constant battles did they wage,
And some one murdered some one else on every other page;
Whereat the critics flung their caps, and one and all agreed,
“Hail to the great John Jenkins! This is True Romance indeed!”

And so John Jenkins flourishes, and scribbles wondrous fast
A string of such “romances,” each exactly like the last;
A score of anxious publishers for his assistance seek;
His “Illustrated Interview” you meet with every week.
Nay, more; when any question, difficult and intricate,
Perplexes the intelligence of ministers of State,
The country disregards them all, and where they fear to tread,
Adventurous John Jenkins rushes boldly in instead,
And kindly (in the intervals of literary cares)
Instructs a grateful nation how to manage its affairs!
So, for all youthful authors who are anxious to succeed,
The moral of John Jenkins is--well, he who runs may read.
_Anthony C. Deane._

A CERTAIN CURE

WHEN I look at my diligent neighbours,
Each wholly convinced in his mind
That the fruit of his personal labours
Will be the reform of mankind,
When I notice the bland satisfaction
That brightens the features of each--
Commendably prudent in action,
Though mighty in speech--

Observing by dint of persistence
What wide reputation they gain,
The clew to a happy existence
Is rendered increasingly plain,
Because the self-satisfied feeling
I covet may quickly be had
By any one owning (or stealing)
A suitable fad.

Shall I hotly oppose Vivisection?
Grow warm on the Drainage of Flats?
Or strive for the Better Protection
Of Commons, Cathedrals, or Cats?
Perhaps in orations that thrill, I
For freedom (and fever) will fight--
A portion of small-pox bacilli
Is simply our right!

However, the choice is a detail;
Whatever the fad be about,
To trade in it, wholesale and retail,
To preach it, in season and out,
And so to be reckoned a leader
(Although there be little to lead),
Yes, that’s, O incredulous reader,
The way to succeed!

You find that existence is hollow,
The fight for position is hard.
A remedy? Yes, if you’ll follow
This way, to the fad-monger’s yard:
Come, here is a hobby--astride it
You settle; I tighten the girth--
So-off, and good-luck to you! Ride it
For all it is worth!
_Anthony C. Deane._

THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE

A FRAGMENT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED EPIC

HERE, my Amanda, let us seat ourselves;
Here let us banish sorrow from our minds,
By contemplating the delightful view
Which stretches all around us. And what joy
To be reminded thus, though far from town,
Of that which glorifies our native land,
Our British Trade! Gaze first at yonder wood:
On every tree is tastefully inscribed
In scarlet letters, “Use Niagara Soap!”
Turn to those meadows (at no distant date
But one uninteresting plain of grass),
Each bears a dozen hoardings, striking, bright,
Decked in resplendent variegated hues,
Telling the reader that Excelsior Pills
Cure influenza; that Brown’s Tea is best,
And costs no more than one-and-six the pound;
And that the purchaser, who fain would quaff
Smith’s special brand of Sherry, must beware
Of spurious imitations. On that hill
A grand gigantic sky-sign testifies
To Johnson’s Hair Renewer; and beyond
You catch a glimpse of ocean, where the boats
Proclaim the message, painted on their sails:
“Robbinson’s Boots are Warranted to Wear!”
Oh, does not such a view delight the heart?
Yea, soon the time will come when every inch
Of England shall display advertisements;
When newly taught, the birds shall add their notes
To the glad chorus, “Buy Pomponia Paste!”
The nightingale shall sing, and all the glade
Echo her music--“Buy Pomponia Paste!”
How great a debt of thankfulness we owe
To these the benefactors of our time,
Who both contribute to the human race
Productions to our ancestors unknown,
And also glorify each rural scene
By the announcements of their excellence!
And how we pity those of olden time
Who praised the country, but so little knew
What beauty could be added to the scene
By the artistic advertiser’s aid,
To whom the hills, the meadows, and the woods
Brought no glad message, such as we receive,
Of Soaps and Sugars, Pens, Pianos, Pills!

_Anthony C. Deane._

PARADISE

A HINDOO LEGEND

A HINDOO died--a happy thing to do
When twenty years united to a shrew.
Released, he hopefully for entrance cries
Before the gates of Brahma’s Paradise.
“Hast been through Purgatory?” Brahma said.
“I have been married,” and he hung his head.
“Come in, come in, and welcome, too, my son!
Marriage and Purgatory are as one.”
In bliss extreme he entered heaven’s door,
And knew the peace he ne’er had known before.

He scarce had entered in the Garden fair,
Another Hindoo asked admission there.
The self-same question Brahma asked again:
“Hast been through Purgatory?” “No; what then?”
“Thou canst not enter!” did the god reply.
“He that went in was no more there than I.”
“Yes, that is true, but he has married been,
And so on earth has suffered for all sin.”
“Married? ’Tis well; for I’ve been married twice!”
“Begone! We’ll have no fools in Paradise!”
_George Birdseye._

HOCH! DER KAISER

DER Kaiser of dis Vaterland
Und Gott on high all dings command--
Ve two. Ach! don’t you understand?
Myself--und Gott.

Vile some men sing der power divine,
Mein soldiers sing “Der Wacht am Rhine,”
Und drink deir health in Rhenish wine
Of Me--und Gott.

Dere’s France, she swaggers all aroundt;
She’s ausgespielt, of no account;
To much ve tink she don’t amount;
Myself--und Gott.

She vill not dare to fight again;
But if she shouldt, I’ll show her blain
Dot Elsass und (in French) Lorraine
Are mein--by Gott!

Dere’s grandma dinks she’s nicht small beer;
Mit Boers und such she interfere;
She’ll learn none owns dis hemisphere
But me--und Gott!

She dinks, good Frau, fine ships she’s got,
Und soldiers mit der scarlet goat.
Ach! Ve could knock dem! Pouf! like dot,
Myself--mit Gott!

In dimes of peace brebare for wars;
I bear de spear und helm of Mars,
Und care not for a tousand Czars,
Myself--mit Gott!

In fact, I humour efery vhim,
Mit aspect dark und visage grim;
Gott pulls mit me, und I mit Him,
Myself--und Gott!
_Rodney Blake._

ON A MAGAZINE SONNET

“SCORN not the sonnet,” though its strength be sapped,
Nor say malignant its inventor blundered;
The corpse that here in fourteen lines is wrapped
Had otherwise been covered with a hundred.
_Russell Hilliard Loines._

EARTH

IF this little world to-night
Suddenly should fall through space
In a hissing, headlong flight,
Shrivelling from off its face,
As it falls into the sun,
In an instant every trace
Of the little crawling things--
Ants, philosophers, and lice,
Cattle, cockroaches, and kings,
Beggars, millionaires, and mice,
Men and maggots--all as one,
As it falls into the sun--
Who can say but at the same
Instant, from some planet far
A child may watch us, and exclaim:
“See the pretty shooting star!”
_Oliver Herford._

A BUTTERFLY OF FASHION

A REAL Butterfly, I mean,
With Orange-Pointed saffron wings,
And coat of inky Velveteen--
None of your Fashion-Plated Things

That dangle from the Apron-strings
Of Mrs. Grundy, or you see
Loll by the Stage-Door or the Wings,
Or sadly flit from Tea to Tea;

Not such a Butterfly was he;
He lived for Sunshine and the Hour;
He did not flit from Tea to Tea,
But gayly flew from Flower to Flower.

One Day there came a Thunder-Shower;
An Open Window he espied;
He fluttered in; behold, a Flower!
An Azure Rose with petals wide.

He did not linger to decide
Which Flower; there was no other there.
He calmly settled down inside
That Rose, and no one said “Beware!”

There was no Friend to say “Take care!”
How ever, then, could he suppose
This Blossom, of such Colour Rare,
Was just an Artificial Rose?

All might have ended well--who knows?--
But just then some one chanced to say:
“The very Latest Thing! That Rose
In Paris is the Rage To-day.”

No Rose of such a Tint _outré_
Was ever seen in Garden Bed;
The Butterfly had such a Gay
Chromatic Sense, it turned his head.

“The Very Latest Thing?” he said;
“Long have I sighed for something New!
O Roses Yellow, White, and Red,
Let others sip; mine shall be Blue!”

The Flavour was not Nice, ’tis true
(He felt a Pain inside his Waist).
“It is not well to overdo,”
Said he, “a just-acquired taste.”

The Shower passed; he joined in haste
His friends. With condescension great,
Said he, “I fear your time you waste;
Real Roses are quite out of date.”
He argued early, argued late,
Till what was erst a HARMLESS POSE
Grew to a Fierce, Inordinate
Craving for Artificial Rose.

He haunted Garden Parties, Shows,
Wherever Ladies Congregate,
And in their Bonnets thrust his nose
His Craving Fierce to Satiate.

At last he chanced--sad to relate!--
Into a Caterer’s with his Pose,
And there Pneumonia was his Fate,
From sitting on an Ice-Cream Rose.

O Reader, shun the Harmless Pose!
They buried him, with scant lament,
Beneath a Common Brier-Rose,
And wrote:
HERE LIES A DECADENT.
_Oliver Herford._

GENERAL SUMMARY

WE are very slightly changed
From the semi-apes who ranged
India’s prehistoric clay;
Whoso drew the longest bow,
Ran his brother down, you know,
As we run men down to-day.
“Dowb,” the first of all his race,
Met the Mammoth face to face
On the lake or in the cave,
Stole the steadiest canoe,
Ate the quarry others slew,
Died--and took the finest grave.

When they scratched the reindeer-bone,
Someone made the sketch his own,
Filched it from the artist--then,
Even in those early days,
Won a simple Viceroy’s praise
Through the toil of other men.

Ere they hewed the Sphinx’s visage,
Favouritism governed kissage,
Even as it does in this age.

Who shall doubt the secret hid
Under Cheops’ pyramid
Was that the contractor did
Cheops out of several millions?
Or that Joseph’s sudden rise
To Comptroller of Supplies
Was a fraud of monstrous size
On King Pharaoh’s swart Civilians?

Thus, the artless songs I sing
Do not deal with anything
New or never said before.
As it was in the beginning,
Is to-day official sinning,
And shall be for evermore.
_Rudyard Kipling._

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

WHEN the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and
gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in
the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his
mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, “It’s pretty, but is
it Art?”

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew--
The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread
review;
And he left his lore to the use of his sons, and that was a glorious
gain
When the Devil chuckled, “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded
Cain.

They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked
and they fought in the West,
Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had
rest--
Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened
to start,
And the Devil bubbled below the keel, “It’s human, but is it Art?”

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks, “It’s striking, but is it
Art?”
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side, and the idle derrick
swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien
tongue.

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree, and new as the new-cut tooth,
For each man knows, ere his lip-thatch grows, he is master of Art
and Truth;
And each man hears, as the twilight nears to the beat of his dying
heart,
The Devil drum on the darkened pane, “You did it, but was it Art?”

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a
surplice-peg;
We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled
egg;
We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by
the cart;
But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old, “It’s clever, but is it
Art?”

When the flicker of London Sun falls faint on the Club-room’s green
and gold,
The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the
mould;
They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the
ink and the anguish start,
For the Devil mutters behind the leaves, “It’s pretty, but is it
Art?”

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers
flow,
And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,
And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry
through,
By the favour of God we might know as much--as our father Adam knew!
_Rudyard Kipling._

EXTRACTS FROM THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR CAYENNE

WAKE! for the Hack can scatter into flight
Shakespeare and Dante in a single Night!
The Penny-a-Liner is Abroad, and strikes
Our Modern Literature with blithering Blight.

Before Historical Romances died,
Methought a Voice from Art’s Olympus cried,
“When all Dumas and Scott is still for Sale,
Why nod o’er drowsy Tales, by Tyros tried?”

A Book of Limericks--Nonsense, anyhow--
Alice in Wonderland, the Purple Cow
Beside me singing on Fifth Avenue--
Ah, this were Modern Literature enow!

Ah, my Beloved, write the Book that clears
TO-DAY of dreary Debt and sad Arrears;
To-morrow!--Why, To-Morrow I may see
My Nonsense popular as Edward Lear’s.

And we, that now within the Editor’s Room
Make merry while we have our little Boom,
Ourselves must we give way to next month’s Set--
Girls with Three Names, who know not Who from Whom!

As then the Poet for his morning Sup
Fills with a Metaphor his mental Cup,
Do you devoutly read your Manuscripts
That Someone may, before you burn them up!

And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read,
End in the Garbage-Barrel--take no Heed;
Think that you are no worse than other Scribes,
Who scribble Stuff to meet the Public Need.

So, when WHO’S-WHO records your silly Name,
You’ll think that you have found the Road to Fame;
And though ten thousand other Names are there,
You’ll fancy you’re a Genius, just the Same!

Why, if an Author can fling Art aside,
And in a Book of Balderdash take pride,
Were’t not a Shame--were’t not a Shame for him
A Conscientious Novel to have tried?

And fear not, if the Editor refuse
Your work, he has no more from which to choose;
The Literary Microbe shall bring forth
Millions of Manuscripts too bad to use.

The Woman’s Touch runs through our Magazines;
For her the Home, and Mother-Tale, and Scenes
Of Love-and-Action, Happy at the End--
The same old Plots, the same old Ways and Means.

But if, in spite of this, you build a Plot
Which these immortal Elements has not,
You gaze TO-DAY upon a Slip, which reads,
“The Editor Regrets”--and such-like Rot.

Waste not your Ink, and don’t attempt to use
That subtle Touch which Editors refuse;
Better be jocund at two cents a word,
Than, starving, court an ill-requited Muse!

Strange--is it not?--that of the Authors who
Publish in England, such a mighty Few
Make a Success, though here they score a Hit?
The British Public knows a Thing or Two!

The Scribe no question makes of Verse or Prose,
But what the Editor demands, he shows;
And he who buys three thousand words of Drool,
He knows what People want--you Bet He knows!

Would but some wingéd Angel bring the News
Of Critic who reads Books that he Reviews,
And make the stern Reviewer do as well
Himself, before he Meed of Praise refuse!
Ah, Love, could you and I perchance succeed
In boiling down the Million Books we read
Into One Book, and edit that a Bit--
There’d be a WORLD’S BEST LITERATURE indeed!
_Gelett Burgess._

BALLADE OF EXPANSION

1899

TIME was he sang the British Brute,
The ruthless lion’s grasping greed,
The European Law of Loot,
The despot’s devastating deed;
But now he sings the heavenly creed
Of saintly sword and friendly fist,
He loves you, though he makes you bleed--
The Ethical Expansionist!

He loves you, Heathen! Though his foot
May kick you like a worthless weed
From that wild field where you have root,
And scatter to the winds your seed;
He’s just the government you need;
If you object, why, he’ll insist,
And, on your protest, “draw a bead”--
The Ethical Expansionist!

He’ll take you to him _coute que coute_!
He’ll win you, though you fight and plead.
His guns shall urge his ardent suit,
Relentless fire his cause shall speed.
In time you’ll learn to write and read,
(That is, if you should then exist!)
You won’t, if you his course impede--
The Ethical Expansionist!

ENVIO

Heathen, you must, you shall be freed!
It’s really useless to resist;
To save your life, you’d better heed
The Ethical Expansionist!

_Hilda Johnson._

FRIDAY AFTERNOON AT THE BOSTON SYMPHONY HALL

SINCE Bach so well his clavier tuned, since Palestrina wrote his
Masses,
Since Modes Ecclesiastical began to puzzle music-classes,
All Anglo-Saxondom has tried, by teaching of its lads and lasses,
The gift of Orpheus to acquire,
Whilst substituting for his lyre
The concert-room’s imposing choir--string-orchestra, wood, wind,
and brasses.

Hallé in Free Trade Hall I heard when first I took the music craze
on;
Later, in Sydney, New South Wales, I listened to Roberto Hazon;
Berlin’s “Philharmonie,” which plays the winter through alternate
days on,
Took my spare cash from time to time,
And I may add, for sake of rhyme,
Richter at Bradford, quite sublime! Pauer and Colonne in the
_Saison_.

Lest I should make the list too short, and show a lack of erudition,
I’d better mention Cowan, who ruled at the Melbourne Exhibition,
Villiers Stanford, Auguste Mannés, and Thomas, whose keen intuition
Carried him westward from New York
To the Metropolis of Pork,
Where, thanks to his devoted work, Beethoven found superb rendition.

All these I’ve heard, and others, too--poor Seidl, who has talked
with Charon;
Nikisch, whose eager gestures make it difficult to keep your hair
on;
Then there’s a chap whose name I’ve lost (I think he wrote “The
Rose of Sharon”);
Wood, of Queen’s Hall, in London Town;
Strauss, for his programme-music known;
Dozens whose brains the genius own that’s common to the seed of
Aaron.

But if good music is the thing your inmost soul would fain get fat
on,
Avoid, I pray, good Boston town, where, though no male may keep his
hat on,
The ladies talk the whole show through, and you will certainly be
sat on
If you protest, for they will say
“We have the right to, if we pay
Each for a seat, and chat away in time with the conductor’s baton.”

Oft that October day I see--delightful month, June’s elder sister;
The splendid Hall was opened, and a poem read by Owen Wister
(So kind the Muse, ’twas plain to see in Philadelphia he had kissed
her).
Missa Solennis, then, in B,
Proud to be in such company
Of fair-clad girls, and panoply of bright new paint without a
blister.

Nowhere on this broad earth, I grant, is music played to such
perfection;
Even strict Apthorp will admit that false notes are a rare
exception;
But what avail such wond’rous play, when to the Hall for friend’s
inspection
Each lady takes some little thing--
New-purchased pocket-book, or ring--
Or in loud voice the matrons sing the dangers of small-pox
infection.

To Mendelssohn’s Scotch Symphony I’ve heard of Johnny’s scarlet
fever;
Bizet’s Arlesienne Suites I link with Kate’s sore throat that
wouldn’t leave her;
Oft to Wagnerian strains I’ve heard eager dispute of seal and
beaver,
To clasp fair Mabel’s dainty throat,
Or make for Madge a winter coat,
As seen on transatlantic boat, from Messrs. Robinson and Cleaver.

Pray do not think that Boston girls all talk such feeble stuff as
this is;
To Glazounoff’s inspiring notes they’ll quote from Phillips’s
“Ulysses”;
To Massenet’s caressing phrase admire Burne-Jones’s long-necked
misses;
Ask what of Ibsen you may think,
Of Nietzsche or of Maeterlinck,
And tell, to score of Humperdink, Buddha’s most esoteric blisses.

A concert it is hard to turn into a _conversazione_,
Except with consequences which would make the softest heart quite
stony,
Unless ’tis done in restaurant where foreigners eat macaroni,
And greasy dago tips a stave,
Or where the blue Atlantic wave,
While pallid shop-girls misbehave, doth cool the verdant Isle of
Coney.

Forgive me if I criticise; I love you none the less, Priscilla,
And when the concert’s o’er, we’ll go where Huyler serves his best
vanilla;
Talk as you will, I love you still; I’d live with you in flat or
villa,
For never, never you’d commit
A split infinitive, and it
Is certain you would not omit in proper place the French cedilla.
_Faulkner Armytage._

WAR IS KIND

DO not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands towards the sky,
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom--
A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Swift-blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter;
Make plain to them the excellence of killing,
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother, whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
_Stephen Crane._

LINES

A LITTLE ink more or less!
It surely can’t matter?
Even the sky and the opulent sea,
The plains and the hills, aloof,
Hear the uproar of all these books.
But it is only a little ink more or less.

* * * * *

A MAN said to the universe,
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”

* * * * *

THE Wayfarer,
Perceiving the pathway to truth,
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
“Ha,” he said,
“I see that none has passed here
In a long time.”
Later he saw that each weed
Was a singular knife.
“Well,” he mumbled at last,
“Doubtless there are other roads.”

* * * * *

“HAVE you ever made a just man?”
“Oh, I have made three,” answered God,
“But two of them are dead,
And the third--
Listen! listen,
And you will hear the thud of his defeat.”

* * * * *

THREE little birds in a row
Sat musing.
A man passed near that place.
Then did the little birds nudge each other.
They said, “He thinks he can sing.”
They threw back their heads to laugh.
With quaint countenances
They regarded him.
They were very curious,
Those three little birds in a row.

* * * * *

A YOUTH, in apparel that glittered,
Went to walk in a grim forest.
There he met an assassin
Attired all in garb of old days;
He, scowling through the thickets,
And dagger poised quivering,
Rushed upon the youth.
“Sir,” said the latter,
“I am enchanted, believe me,
To die thus
In this mediæval fashion,
According to the best legends;
Ah, what joy!”
Then took he the wound, smiling,
And died, content.

* * * * *

A MAN saw a ball of gold in the sky;
He climbed for it,
And eventually he achieved it;
It was clay.
Now this is the strange part:
When the man went to the earth
And looked again,
Lo, there was the ball of gold.
Now this is the strange part:
It was a ball of gold.
Aye, by the heavens, it was a ball of gold.

* * * * *

“THINK as I think,” said a man,
“Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad.”
And after I had thought of it,
I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”

* * * * *

UPON the road of my life,
Passed me many fair creatures,
Clothed all in white, and radiant;
To one, finally, I made speech:
“Who art thou?”
But she, like the others,
Kept cowled her face,
And answered in haste, anxiously,
“I am Good Deed, forsooth;
You have often seen me.”
“Not uncowled,” I made reply.
And with rash and strong hand,
Though she resisted,
I drew away the veil,
And gazed at the features of Vanity.
She, shamefaced, went on;
And after I had mused a time,
I said of myself, “Fool!”
_Stephen Crane._

FROM THE HOUSE OF A HUNDRED LIGHTS

WHAT! doubt the Master Workman’s hand
Because my fleshly ills increase?
No; for there still remains one chance
That I am not His masterpiece.

Out of all Epicurus’ train
I wonder which class is sincerest,
The drones, or workers, who believe
This doctrine of “Believe-the-Nearest.”

You invalids who cannot drink
Much wine or love, I say to you,
“Content yourselves with laughing at
The antics of the fools who do.”

Bad-liver says each morning’s sun
Is but to him a juggling bawd,
That opens up for man’s deceit
Only another chest of fraud.

Old Ash-in-Blood still deals advice
To Rose-of-Youth, and as he deals it,
Rolls piously his eyes; but ah,
He knows the pain whose body feels it.

In youth my head was hollow, like
A gourd, not knowing good from ill;
Now, though ’tis long since then, I’m like
A reed--wind-shaken, hollow still.

Said one young foolish mouth with words
As many as the desert sands,
“My grandfather took daily baths
In rose-water; just smell my hands!”

And now young poets will arise
And burst earth’s fetters link by link,
And mount the skies of poesy,
And daub Time’s helpless wings with ink!

In youth I wrote a song so great,
I thought that, like a flaring taper,
’Twould shine abroad; and so it did,
To the four corners of the--paper.

And, poet, should you think your songs
Must, or even will, be read,
Bethink thee, friend, what fine springs rise
Impotently from the sea’s bed.

I marvelled at the speaker’s tongue,
And marvelled more as he unrolled it.
How strange a thing it was, and yet
How much more strange if he could hold it!

A little judge once said to me,
“Behold, my friend, I caused these laws!”
But I knew One who, strange to say,
Had been the Causer of this Cause.

See fathoms deep, midst gold and gems,
Life sits and weeps on ocean’s floor;
But though on land no treasure is,
Life laughs and stands. I’ll stay on shore.

This mess of cracked ice, stones and bread,
Of sweetness savours not a bit,
And yet, my friends, I’m satisfied,
For lo! I--I--invented it!
_Frederic Ridgely Torrence._

THE BRITISH VISITOR

ARRIV’D, at last, Niagara to scan,
He walks erect and feels himself a man;
Surveys the cataract with a “critic’s eye,”
Resolv’d to pass no “imperfections by”--
Niag’ra, wonder of the Deity,
Where God’s own spirit reigns in majesty.
With sullen roar the foaming billows sweep;
A world of waters thunders o’er the steep;
The unmingled colours laugh upon the spray,
And one eternal rainbow gilds the day.
Oh, glorious God! Oh, scene surpassing all!
“True, true,” quoth he, “’tis something of a fall.”
Now, shall unpunish’d such a vagrant band,
Pour like the plagues of Egypt on the land,
Eyeing each fault, to all perfection blind,
Shedding the taint of a malignant mind?
_From the Trollopiad._

A MATCH

IF I were Anglo-Saxon,
And you were Japanese,
We’d study storks together,
Pluck out the peacock’s feather,
And lean our languid backs on
The stiffest of settees--
If I were Anglo-Saxon,
And you were Japanese.

If you were Della-Cruscan,
And I were A.-Mooresque,
We’d make our limbs look less in
Artistic folds, and dress in
What once were tunics Tuscan
In Dante’s days grotesque--
If you were Della-Cruscan,
And I were A.-Mooresque.

If I were mock Pompeian,
And you Belgravian Greek,
We’d glide ’mid gaping Vandals
In shapeless sheets and sandals,
Like shades in Tartarean
Dim ways remote and bleak--
If I were mock Pompeian,
And you Belgravian Greek.

If you were Culture’s scarecrow,
And I the guy of Art,
I’d learn in latest phrases
Of either’s quaintest crazes
To lisp, and let my hair grow,
While yours you’d cease to part--
If you were Culture’s scarecrow,
And I the guy of Art.

If I’d a Botticelli,
And you’d a new Burne-Jones,
We’d dote for days and days on
Their mystic hues, and gaze on

With lowering looks that felly
We’d fix upon their tones--
If I’d a Botticelli,
And you’d a new Burne-Jones.

If you were skilled at crewels,
And I a dab at rhymes,
I’d write delirious “ballads,”
While you your bilious salads
Were stitching upon two ells
Of coarsest crash, at times--
If you were skilled at crewels,
And I a dab at rhymes.

If I were what’s “consummate,”
And you were quite “too, too,”
’Twould be our Eldorado
To have a yellow dado,
Our happiness to hum at
A teapot tinted blue--
If I were what’s “consummate,”
And you were quite “too, too.”

If you were what “intense” is,
And I were like “decay,”
We’d mutely muse, or mutter
In terms distinctly utter,
And find out what the sense is
Of this æsthetic lay--
If you were what “intense” is,
And I were like “decay.”

If you were wan, my lady,
And I your lover weird,
We’d sit and wink for hours
At languid lily-flowers,
Till, fain of all things fady,
We faintly--disappeared--
If you were wan, my lady,
And I your lover weird.
_Punch._

WANTED--A GOVERNESS

A GOVERNESS wanted--well fitted to fill
The post of tuition with competent skill--
In a gentleman’s family highly genteel;
Superior attainments are quite indispensable,
With everything, too, that’s correct and ostensible;
Morals of pure unexceptionability;
Manners well formed, and of strictest gentility.
The pupils are five--ages, six to sixteen,
All as promising girls as ever were seen;
And besides (though ’tis scarcely worth while to put that in),
There is one little boy, but he only learns Latin.
The lady must teach all the several branches
Whereinto polite education now launches.
She’s expected to speak the French tongue like a native,
And be to her pupils of all its points dative.
Italian she must know _à fond_, nor need banish
Whatever acquaintance she may have with Spanish;
Nor would there be harm in a trifle of German,
In the absence, that is, of the master, Von Hermann.
The harp and piano--_cela va sans dire_--
With thorough-bass, too, on the plan of Logier.
In drawing in pencil, and chalks, and the tinting
That’s called Oriental, she must not be stint in;
She must paint upon paper, and satin, and velvet;
And if she knows gilding, she’s no need to shelve it.
Dancing, of course, with the newest gambades,
The Polish mazurka, and best gallopades;
Arithmetic, history joined with chronology,
Heraldry, botany, writing, conchology,
Grammar, and satin stitch, netting, geography,
Astronomy, use of the globes, and cosmography.
’Twere also as well she should be calisthenical,
That her charges’ young limbs may be pliant to any call.
Their health, play, and studies, and moral condition
Must be superintended without intermission.
At home she must all habits check that disparage,
And when they go out must attend to their carriage.
Her faith must be orthodox, temper most pliable,
Health good, and reference quite undeniable.
These are the principal matters--_Au reste_,
Address, Bury Street, Mrs. General Peste.
As the _salary’s moderate_, none need apply
Who more on that point than on _comfort_ rely.
_Anonymous._

LINES BY AN OLD FOGY

I’M thankful that the sun and moon
Are both hung up so high,
That no presumptuous hand can stretch
And pull them from the sky.
If they were not, I have no doubt
But some reforming ass
Would recommend to take them down
And light the world with gas.
_Anonymous._

INDEX OF TITLES

PAGE
ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE
RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS _Robert Burns_ 86
Advanced Thinker, An _Brander Matthews_ 282
Æsthete, The _W. S. Gilbert_ 260
All-Saints _Edmund Yates_ 237
Anglicised Utopia _W. S. Gilbert_ 252
Annuity, The _George Outram_ 156
Ape and the Lady, The _W. S. Gilbert_ 250
Ass’s Legacy, The _Rutebœuf_ 7
Atlantic City _H. C. Bunner_ 290

BALLADE OF EXPANSION _Hilda Johnson_ 331
Ballade of Literary Fame _Andrew Lang_ 274
Ballade of Old-Time Ladies, A
(Translated by John Payne) _François Villon_ 11
Battle of Blenheim, The _Robert Southey_ 97
Beauties of Nature, The _Anthony C. Deane_ 317
Bird in the Hand, A _Frederick E. Weatherly_ 281
Boston Lullaby, A _James Jeffrey Roche_ 277
British Visitor, The _From the Trollopiad_ 343
Butterfly of Fashion, A _Oliver Herford_ 322

CACOËTHES SCRIBENDI _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 166
Carman’s Account of a Lawsuit, A _Sir David Lyndsay_ 12
Certain Cure, A _Anthony C. Deane_ 316
Character of Holland, The _Andrew Marvell_ 35
Chorus of Anglomaniacs (From “The
Buntling Ball”) _Edgar Fawcett_ 275
Chorus of Women _Aristophanes_ 3
Christmas Out of Town _James Smith_ 103
Cockle v. Cackle _Thomas Hood_ 140
Cologne _Samuel T. Coleridge_ 96
Conservative, A _Charlotte Perkins
(Stetson) Gilman_ 304
Constant Lover, The _Sir John Suckling_ 27
Contentment _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 171
Conundrum of the Workshops, The _Rudyard Kipling_ 326
Country House Party, A _Lord Byron_ 127
Country Squire, The _Tomas Yriarte_ 80
Critics _Elizabeth Barrett
Browning_ 164
Cui Bono? _Thomas Carlyle_ 135
Cynical Ode to an Ultra-Cynical
Public _Charles Mackay_ 192

DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS _William Makepeace
Thackeray_ 182
Description of Holland _Samuel Butler_ 30
Devil at Home, The _Thomas Kibble Hervey_ 149
Diamond Wedding, The _Edmund Clarence Stedman_ 240
Distiches _John Hay_ 264
Dr. Delany’s Villa _Thomas Sheridan_ 52
Duke of Buckingham, The _John Dryden_ 37

EARTH _Oliver Herford_ 321
Eggs, The _Tomas Yriarte_ 83
Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, An _Oliver Goldsmith_ 72
Epistle to Sir Robert Walpole, An _Henry Fielding_ 65
Epitaph, An _George John Cayley_ 64
Epitaph, An _Matthew Prior_ 43
Eternal London _Thomas Moore_ 105
Etiquette _W. S. Gilbert_ 254
Evolution of a “Name,” The _Charles Battell Loomis_ 310
Extracts from the Rubaiyat of Omar
Cayenne _Gelett Burgess_ 328

FAITHFUL PICTURE OF ORDINARY SOCIETY,
A _William Cowper_ 74
Fame _James Herbert Morse_ 269
Fame’s Penny Trumpet _Lewis Carroll_ 238
Familiar Letter to Several
Correspondents, A _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 167
Fate of Pious Dan, The _Samuel Walter Foss_ 298
Father-Land and Mother-Tongue _Samuel Lover_ 135
Father Molloy _Samuel Lover_ 136
Five Lives _Edward Rowland Sill_ 270
Font in the Forest, The _Herman Knickerbocker
Vielé_ 294
Fragment, A _Grace Greenwood_ 212
Friar of Orders Gray, The _John O’Keefe_ 79
Friday Afternoon at the Boston
Symphony Hall _Faulkner Armytage_ 332
Friend of Humanity and the
Knife-Grinder, The _George Canning_ 92
From “A Fable for Critics” _James Russell Lowell_ 201
From “As You Like It” _Shakespeare_ 22
From “English Bards and Scotch
Reviewers” _Lord Byron_ 125
From “King Henry IV.” _Shakespeare_ 20
From “Love’s Labour’s Lost” _Shakespeare_ 21
From “The Devil’s Drive” _Lord Byron_ 123
From “The Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot” _Alexander Pope_ 60
From “The Feast of the Poets” _James Henry Leigh Hunt_ 116
From “The House of a Hundred Lights” _Frederic Ridgely
Torrence_ 340
From “The Love of Fame” _Edward Young_ 50
Furniture of a Woman’s Mind, The _Jonathan Swift_ 48

GAFFER GRAY (FROM “HUGH TREVOR”) _Thomas Holcroft_ 139
General Summary _Rudyard Kipling_ 324
Giles’ Hope _Samuel T. Coleridge_ 96
Give Me a Theme _Richard Watson Gilder_ 274
Great Critics, The _Charles Mackay_ 193
Greediness Punished _Friedrich Rückert_ 130

HE AND SHE _Eugene Fitch Ware_ 272
Hem and Haw _Bliss Carman_ 307
Hen, The _Matthew Claudius_ 77
Hiding the Skeleton _George Meredith_ 229
Hoch! der Kaiser _Rodney Blake_ 320
Holy Willie’s Prayer _Robert Burns_ 88
Horace Concocting an Ode _Thomas Dekker_ 23
How to Make a Man of Consequence _Mark Lemon_ 173
How To Make a Novel _Lord Charles Neaves_ 150
“Hurt that Honour Feels, The” _Owen Seaman_ 310