Chapter VI: Part III: Perverted Proverbs

I

'VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD'

Virtue its own reward? Alas!
And what a poor one, as a rule!
Be Virtuous, and Life will pass
Like one long term of Sunday-school.
(No prospect, truly, could one find
More unalluring to the mind.)

The Model Child has got to keep
His fingers and his garments white;
In church he may not go to sleep,
Nor ask to stop up late at night.
In fact he must not ever do
A single thing he wishes to.

He may not paddle in his boots,
Like naughty children, at the sea;
The sweetness of Forbidden Fruits
Is not, alas! for such as he.
He watches, with pathetic eyes,
His weaker brethren make mud-pies.

He must not answer back, oh no!
However rude grown-ups may be;
But keep politely silent, tho'
He brim with scathing repartee;
For nothing is considered worse
Than scoring off Mamma or Nurse.

He must not eat too much at meals,
Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor;
However vacuous he feels,
He may not pass his plate for more;
--Not tho' his ev'ry organ ache
For further slabs of Christmas cake.

He is commanded not to waste
The fleeting hours of childhood's days,
By giving way to any taste
For circuses or matinees;
For him the entertainments planned
Are 'Lectures on the Holy Land.'

He never reads a story-book
By Rider H. or Winston C.,
In vain upon his desk you'd look
For tales by Arthur Conan D.,
Nor could you find upon his shelf
The works of Rudyard--or myself!

He always fears that he may do
Some action that is _infra dig._,
And so he lives his short life through
In the most noxious role of Prig.
('Short Life' I say, for it's agreed
The Good die very young indeed.)

Ah me! how sad it is to think
He could have lived like me--or you!
With practice, and a taste for drink,
Our joys he might have known, he too!
And shared the pleasure _we_ have had
In being gloriously bad!

The Naughty Boy gets much delight
From doing what he should not do;
But, as such conduct isn't Right,
He sometimes suffers for it, too.
Yet, what's a spanking to the fun
Of leaving vital things Undone?

The Wicked flourish like the bay,
At Cards or Love they always win,
Good Fortune dogs their steps all day,
They fatten while the Good grow thin.
The Righteous Man has much to bear;
The Bad becomes a Bullionaire!

For, though he be the greatest sham,
Luck favours him, his whole life through;
At 'Bridge' he always makes a Slam
After declaring 'Sans atout';
With ev'ry deal his fate has planned
A hundred Aces in his hand.

Yes, it is always just the same;
He somehow manages to win,
By mere good fortune, any game
That he may be competing in.
At Golf no bunker breaks his club,
For him the green provides no 'rub.'

At Billiards, too, he flukes away
(With quite unnecessary 'side');
No matter what he tries to play,
For him the pockets open wide;
He never finds both balls in baulk,
Or makes miss-cues for want of chalk.

He swears; he very likely bets;
He even wears a flaming necktie;
Inhales Egyptian cigarettes,
And has a 'Mens Inconscia Recti';
Yet, spite of all, one must confess
That nought succeeds like his excess.

There's no occasion to be Just,
No need for motives that are fine,
To be Director of a Trust,
Or Manager of a Combine;
Your Corner is a public curse,
Perhaps, but it will fill your purse.

Then stride across the Public's bones,
Crush all opponents under you,
Until you 'rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves'; and, when you do,
The widow's and the orphan's tears
Shall comfort your declining years!

. . . . .

Myself, how lucky I must be,
That need not fear so gross an end;
Since Fortune has not favoured me
With many million pounds to spend.
(Still, did that fickle Dame relent,
I'd show you how they _should_ be spent!)

I am not saint enough to feel
My shoulder ripen to a wing,
Nor have I wits enough to steal
His title from the Copper King;
And there's a vasty gulf between
The man I Am and Might Have Been;

But tho' at dinner I may take
Too much of Heidsick (extra dry),
And underneath the table make
My simple couch just where I lie,
My mode of roosting on the floor
Is just a trick and nothing more.

And when, not Wisely but too Well,
My thirst I have contrived to quench,
The stories I am apt to tell
May be, perhaps, a trifle French;--
(For 'tis in anecdote, no doubt,
That what's Bred in the Beaune comes out.)--

It does not render me unfit
To give advice, both wise and right,
Because I do not follow it
Myself as closely as I might;
There's nothing that I wouldn't do
To point the proper road to _you_.

And this I'm sure of, more or less,
And trust that you will all agree--
The Elements of Happiness
Consist in being--just like Me;
No sinner, nor a saint perhaps,
But--well, the very best of chaps.

Share the Experience I have had,
Consider all I've known and seen,
And Don't be Good, and Don't be Bad,
But cultivate a Golden Mean.

. . . . .

What makes Existence _really_ nice
Is Virtue--with a dash of Vice.

II

'ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST'

What is Enough? An idle dream!
One cannot have enough, I swear,
Of Ices or Meringues-and-Cream,
Nougat or Chocolate Eclairs,
Of Oysters or of Caviar,
Of Prawns or Pate de Foie _Grar_!

Who would not willingly forsake
Kindred and Home, without a fuss,
For Icing from a Birthday Cake,
Or juicy fat Asparagus,
And journey over countless seas
For New Potatoes and Green Peas?

They say that a Contented Mind
Is a Continual Feast;--but where
The mental frame, and how to find,
Which can with Turtle Soup compare?
No mind, however full of Ease,
Could be Continual Toasted Cheese.

For dinner have a sole to eat
(Some Perrier Jouet, '92),
An Entree then (and, with the meat,
A bottle of Lafitte will do),
A quail, a glass of port (just one),
Liqueurs and coffee, and you've done.

Your tastes may be of simpler type;--
A homely pint of 'half-and-half,'
An onion and a dish of tripe,
Or headpiece of the kindly calf.
(Cruel perhaps, but then, you know,
''_Faut tout souffrir pour etre veau_!')

'Tis a mistake to eat too much
Of any dishes but the best;
And you, of course, should never touch
A thing you _know_ you can't digest;
For instance, lobster:--if you _do_,
Well,--I'm amayonnaised at you!

Let this be your heraldic crest:
A bottle (charge) of Champagne,
A chicken (gorged) with salad (dress'd),
Below, this motto to explain--
'Enough is Very Good, may be;
Too Much is Good Enough for Me!'

III

'DON'T BUY A PIG IN A POKE'

Unscrupulous Pigmongers will
Attempt to wheedle and to coax
The ignorant young housewife till
She purchases her pigs in pokes;
Beasts that have got a Lurid Past,
Or else are far Too Good to Last.

So, should you not desire to be
The victim of a cruel hoax,
Then promise me, ah! promise me,
You will not purchase pigs in pokes!
('Twould be an error just as big
To poke your purchase in a pig.)

Too well I know the bitter cost,
To turn this subject off with jokes;
How many fortunes have been lost
By men who purchased pigs in pokes.
(Ah! think on such when you would talk
With mouths that are replete with pork!)

And, after dinner, round the fire,
Astride of Grandpa's rugged knee,
Implore your bored but patient sire
To tell you what a Poke may be.
The fact he might disclose to you--
Which is far more than _I_ can do.

. . . . .

The Moral of The Pigs and Pokes
Is not to make your choice too quick.
In purchasing a Book of Jokes,
Pray poke around and take your pick.
Who knows how rich a mental meal
The covers of _this_ book conceal?

IV

'LEARN TO TAKE THINGS EASILY'

To these few words, it seems to me,
A wealth of sound instruction clings;
O Learn to Take things easily--
Espeshly Other People's Things;
And Time will make your fingers deft
At what is known as Petty Theft.

'Fools and Their Money soon must part!'
And you can help this on, may be,
If, in the kindness of your Heart,
You Learn to Take things easily;
And be, with little education,
A Prince of Misappropriation.

V

'A ROLLING STONE GATHERS NO MOSS'

I never understood, I own,
What anybody (with a soul)
Could mean by offering a Stone
This needless warning not to Roll;
And what inducement there can be
To gather Moss, I fail to see.

I'd sooner gather anything,
Like primroses, or news perhaps,
Or even wool (when suffering
A momentary mental lapse);
But could forgo my share of moss,
Nor ever realise the loss.

'Tis a botanical disease,
And worthy of remark as such;
Lending a dignity to trees,
To ruins a romantic touch;
A timely adjunct, I've no doubt,
But not worth writing home about.

Of all the Stones I ever met,
In calm repose upon the ground,
I really never found one yet
With a desire to roll around;
Theirs is a stationary role.
(A joke,--and feeble on the whole.)

But, if I were a stone, I swear
I'd sooner move and view the World,
Than sit and grow the greenest hair
That ever Nature combed and curled.
I see no single saving grace
In being known as 'Mossyface'!

Instead, I might prove useful for
A weapon in the hand of Crime,
A paperweight, a milestone, or
A missile at Election-time;
In each capacity I could
Do quite incalculable good.

When well directed from the Pit,
I might promote a welcome death,
If fortunate enough to hit
Some budding Hamlet or Macbeth,
Who twice each day the playhouse fills,--
(For Further Notice see Small Bills).

At concerts, too, if you prefer,
I could prevent your growing deaf
By silencing the amateur
Before she reached that upper F;
Or else, in lieu of half-a-brick,
Restrain some local Kubelik.

Then, human stones, take my advice,
(As you should always do, indeed);
This proverb may be very nice,
But don't you pay it any heed,
And, tho' you make the critics cross,
Roll on, and never mind the moss!

VI

'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND'

Since it can never be too late
To change your life, or else renew it,
Let the unpleasant process wait,
Until you are _compelled_ to do it.
The State provides (and gratis too)
Establishments for such as you.

Remember this, and pluck up heart,
That, be you publican or parson,
Your ev'ry art must have a start,
From petty larceny to arson;
And even in the burglar's trade,
The cracksman is not born, but made.

So, if in your career of crime,
You fail to carry out some 'coup,'
Then try again a second time,
And yet again, until you _do_;
And don't despair, or fear the worst,
Because you get found out at first.

Perhaps the battle will not go,
On all occasions, to the strongest;
You may be fairly certain tho'
That He Laughs Last who Laughs the Longest.
So keep a good reserve of laughter,
Which may be found of use hereafter.

Believe me that, howe'er well meant,
A good resolve is always brief;
Don't let your precious hours be spent
In turning over a new leaf.
Such leaves, like Nature's, soon decay,
And then are only in the way.

The Road to--well, a certain spot
(A road of very fair dimensions),
Has, so the proverb tells us, got
A parquet-floor of Good Intentions.
Take care, in your desire to please,
You do not add a brick to these.

For there may come a moment when
You shall be mended, willy-nilly,
With many more misguided men,
Whose skill is undermined with skilly.
Till then procrastinate, my friend;
'It _Never_ is Too Late to Mend!'

VII

'A BAD WORKMAN COMPLAINS OF HIS TOOLS'

This pen of mine is simply grand,
I never loved a pen so much;
This paper (underneath my hand)
Is really a delight to touch;
And never in my life, I think,
Did I make use of finer ink.

The subject upon which I write
Is ev'rything that I could choose;
I seldom knew my wits more bright,
More cosmopolitan my views;
Nor ever did my head contain
So surplus a supply of brain!

VIII

'DON'T LOOK A GIFT-HORSE IN THE MOUTH'

I knew a man who lived down South;
He thought this maxim to defy;
He looked a Gift-horse in the Mouth;
The Gift-horse bit him in the Eye!
And, while the steed enjoyed his bite,
My Southern friend mislaid his sight.

Now, had this foolish man, that day,
Observed the Gift-horse in the _Heel_,
It might have kicked his brains away,
But that's a loss he would not feel;
Because, you see (need I explain?),
My Southern friend has got no brain.

When any one to you presents
A poodle, or a pocket-knife,
A set of Ping-pong instruments,
A banjo or a lady-wife,
'Tis churlish, as I understand,
To grumble that they're second-hand.

And he who termed Ingratitude
As 'worser nor a servant's tooth'
Was evidently well imbued
With all the elements of Truth;
(While he who said 'Uneasy lies
The tooth that wears a crown' was wise).

'One must be poor,' George Eliot said,
'To know the luxury of giving';
So too one really should be dead
To realise the joy of living.
(I'd sooner be--I don't know which--
I'd _like_ to be alive and rich!)

_This_ book may be a Gift-horse too,
And one you surely ought to prize;
If so, I beg you, read it through,
With kindly and uncaptious eyes,
Not grumbling because this particular line doesn't happen to scan,
And this one doesn't rhyme!

IX

POTPOURRI

There are many more Maxims to which
I would like to accord a front place,
But alas! I have got
To omit a whole lot,
For the lack of available space;
And the rest I am forced to boil down and condense
To the following Essence of Sound without Sense:

Now the Pitcher that journeys too oft
To the Well will get broken at last.
But you'll find it a fact
That, by using some tact,
Such a danger as this can be past.
(There's an obvious way, and a simple, you'll own,
Which is, if you're a Pitcher, to Let Well alone.)

Half a loafer is never well-bred,
And Self-Praise is a Dangerous Thing.
And the mice are at play
When the Cat is away,
For a moment, inspecting a King.
(Tho' if Care kills a Cat, as the Proverbs declare,
It is right to suppose that the King will take care.)

Don't Halloo till you're out of the Wood,
When a Stitch in Good Time will save Nine,
While a Bird in the Hand
Is worth Two, understand,
In the Bush that Needs no Good Wine.
(Tho' the two, if they _Can_ sing but Won't, have been known,
By an accurate aim to be killed with one Stone.)

Never Harness the Cart to the Horse;
Since the latter should be _a la carte_.
Also, Birds of a Feather
Come Flocking Together,
--Because they can't well Flock Apart.
(You may cast any Bread on the Waters, I think,
But, unless I'm mistaken, you can't make it Sink.)

It is only the Fool who remarks
That there Can't be a Fire without Smoke;
Has he never yet learned
How the gas can be turned
On the best incombustible coke?
(Would you value a man by the checks on his suits,
And forget '_que c'est le premier passbook qui Coutts?_')

Now '_De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bonum_,'
Is Latin, as ev'ry one owns;
If your domicile be
Near a Mortuaree,
You should always avoid throwing bones.
(I would further remark, if I could,--but I couldn't--
That People Residing in Glasshouses shouldn't.)

You have heard of the Punctual Bird,
Who was First in presenting his Bill;
But I pray you'll be firm,
And remember the Worm
Had to get up much earlier still;
(So that, if you _can't_ rise in the morning, then Don't;
And be certain that Where there's a Will there's a Won't.)

You can give a bad name to a Dog,
And hang him by way of excuse;
Whereas Hunger, of course;
Is by far the Best Sauce
For the Gander as well as the Goose.
(But you shouldn't judge any one just by his looks,
For a Surfeit of Broth ruins too many Cooks.)

With the fact that Necessity knows
Nine Points of the Law, you'll agree.
There are just as Good Fish
To be found on a Dish
As you ever could catch in the Sea.
(You should Look ere you Leap on a Weasel Asleep,
And I've also remarked that Still Daughters Run Cheap.)

The much trodden-on Lane _will_ Turn,
And a Friend is in Need of a Friend;
But the Wisest of Saws,
Like the Camel's Last Straws,
Or the Longest of Worms, have an end.
So, before out of Patience a Virtue you make,
A decisive farewell of these maxims we'll take.