Chapter 8

Here lieth one, who did most truly prove That he could never die while he could move; So hung his destiny never to rot While he might still jog on and keep his trot; Made of sphere metal, never to decay Until his revolution was at stay. Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime 'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time, And like an engine moved with wheel and weight, His principles being ceased, he ended straight. Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death, And too much breathing put him out of breath; Nor were it contradiction to affirm, Too long vacation hasten'd on his term. Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd, Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd; "Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch'd, "If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd, But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers, For one carrier put down to make six bearers." Ease was his chief disease; and to judge right, He died for heaviness that his cart went light: His leisure told him that his time was come, And lack of load made his life burdensome. That even to his last breath (there be that say't), As he were press'd to death, he cried, "More weight;" But, had his doings lasted as they were, He had been an immortal carrier. Obedient to the moon he spent his date In course reciprocal, and had his fate Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas, Yet (strange to think) his wane was his increase: His letters are deliver'd all, and gone, Only remains the superscription.

_John Milton_.

_NEPHELIDIA_

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with sobs from the throat? Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past; Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death: Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses-- Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die. Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory melodiously mute as it may be, While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom--beats bound with the bliss-- bringing bulk of a balm--breathing baby, As they grope through the grave-yards of creeds, under skies growing green'at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old and its binding is blacker than bluer: Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things; Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kernel of kings.

_A. C. Swinburne, in "The Heptalogia_."

_MARTIN LUTHER AT POTSDAM_

What lightning shall light it? What thunder shall tell it? In the height of the height, in the depth of the deep?

Shall the sea--storm declare it, or paint it, or smell it? Shall the price of a slave be its treasure to keep? When the night has grown near with the gems on her bosom, When the white of mine eyes is the whiteness of snow, When the cabman--in liquor--drives a blue roan, a kicker, Into the land of the dear long ago.

Ah!--Ah, again!--You will come to me, fall on me-- You are _so_ heavy, and I am _so_ flat. And I? I shall not be at home when you call on me, But stray down the wind like a gentleman's hat: I shall list to the stars when the music is purple, Be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled into rings; Turn to sparks, and then straightway get stuck in the gateway That stands between speech and unspeakable things.

As I mentioned before, by what light is it lighted? Oh! Is it fourpence, or piebald, or gray? Is it a mayor that a mother has knighted, Or is it a horse of the sun and the day? Is it a pony? If so, who will change it? O golfer, be quiet, and mark where it scuds, And think of its paces--of owners and races-- Relinquish the links for the study of studs.

Not understood? Take me hence! Take me yonder! Take me away to the land of my rest-- There where the Ganges and other gees wander, And uncles and antelopes act for the best, And all things are mixed and run into each other In a violet twilight of virtues and sins, With the church-spires below you and no one to show you Where the curate leaves off and the pew-rent begins!

In the black night through the rank grass the snakes peer-- The cobs and the cobras are partial to grass-- And a boy wanders out with a knowledge of Shakespeare That's not often found in a boy of his class, And a girl wanders out without any knowledge, And a bird wanders out, and a cow wanders out, Likewise one wether, and they wander together-- There's a good deal of wandering lying about.

But it's all for the best; I've been told by my friends, Sir, That in verses I'd written the meaning was slight; I've tried with no meaning--to make 'em amends, Sir-- And find that this kind's still more easy to write. The title has nothing to do with the verses, But think of the millions--the laborers who In busy employment find deepest enjoyment, And yet, like my title, have nothing to do!

_Barry Pain_.

_COMPANIONS_

I know not of what we ponder'd Or made pretence to talk, As, her hand within mine, we wander'd Tow'rd the pool by the limetree walk, While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers And the blush-rose bent on her stalk.

I cannot recall her figure: Was it regal as Juno's own? Or only a trifle bigger Than the elves who surround the throne Of the Faëry Queen, and are seen, I ween, By mortals in dreams alone?

What her eyes were like, I know not: Perhaps they were blurred with tears; And perhaps in your skies there glow not (On the contrary) clearer spheres. No as to her eyes I am just as wise As you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly": But which was she, brunette or blonde? Her hair, was it quaintly curly, Or as straight as a beadle's wand? That I failed to remark;--it was rather dark And shadowy round the pond.

Then the hand that reposed so snugly In mine--was it plump or spare? Was the countenance fair or ugly? Nay, children, you have me there! My eyes were p'raps blurr'd; and besides, I'd heard That it's horribly rude to stare.

And I--was I brusque and surly? Or oppressively bland and fond? Was I partial to rising early? Or why did we twain abscond, All breakfastless too, from the public view To prowl by a misty pond?

What passed, what was felt or spoken-- Whether anything passed at all-- And whether the heart was broken That beat under that sheltering shawl-- (If shawl she had on, which I doubt)--has gone. Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady's suitor? Or her uncle? I can't make out-- Ask your governess, dears, or tutor. For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt As to why we were there, and who on earth we were, And what this is all about.

_C. S. Calverley_.

_THE COCK AND THE BULL_

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

Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, The basis or substratum--what you will-- Of the impending eighty thousand lines. "Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge. But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit.

Mark first the rationale of the thing: Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed. That shilling--and for matter o' that, the pence-- I had o' course upo' me--wi' me say-- (_Mecum's_ the Latin, make a note o' that) When I popp'd pen i' stand, scratched ear, wiped snout, (Let everybody wipe his own himself) Sniff'd--tch!--at snuffbox; tumbled up, he-heed, Haw-haw'd (not he-haw'd, that's another guess thing): Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door, I shoved the timber ope wi' my omoplat; And _in vestibulo_, i' the lobby to-wit, (Iacobi Facciolati's rendering, sir,) Donned galligaskins, antigropeloes, And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves, One on and one a-dangle i' my hand, And ombrifuge (Lord love you!) cas o' rain, I flopped forth, 'sbuddikins! on my own ten toes, (I do assure you there be ten of them) And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale To find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy. Put case I hadn't 'em on me, could I ha' bought This sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call-toy, This pebble-thing, o' the boy-thing? Q. E. D. That's proven without aid for mumping Pope, Sleek porporate or bloated cardinal. (Isn't it, old Fatchops? You're in Euclid now.) So, having the shilling--having i' fact a lot-- And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them, I purchased, as I think I said before, The pebble (_lapis, lapidis, di, dem, de_-- What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchops, eh?) O the boy, a bare-legg'd beggarly son of a gun, For one-and-fourpence. Here we are again. Now Law steps in, biwigged, voluminous-jaw'd; Investigates and re-investigates. Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head. Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.

At first the coin was mine, the chattel his. But now (by virtue of the said exchange And barter) _vice versa_ all the coin, _Rer juris operationem_, vests I' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom; _In saecula saeculo-o-o-orum_; (I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.) To have and hold the same to him and them ... Confer some idiot on Conveyancing. Whereas the pebble and every part thereof, And all that appertaineth thereunto, _Quodcunque pertinet ad em rem_, (I fancy, sir, my Latin's rather pat) Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would, or should, _Subaudi caetera_--clap we to the close-- For what's the good of law in such a case o' the kind Is mine to all intents and purposes. This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale.

Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality. He says a gen'lman bought a pebble of him, (This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand)-- And paid for 't, _like_ a gen'lman, on the nail. "Did I o'ercharge him a ha'penny? Devil a bit. Fiddlepin's end! Get out, you blazing ass! Gabble o' the goose. Don't bugaboo-baby _me_! Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what's the odds?" --There's the transaction viewed in the vendor's light.

Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by, With her three frowsy blowsy brats o' babes, The scum o' the Kennel, cream o' the filth-heap--Faugh! Aie, aie, aie, aie! [Greek: otototototoi], ('Stead which we blurt out, Hoighty toighty now)-- And the baker and candlestick maker, and Jack and Gill, Blear'd Goody this and queasy Gaffer that, Ask the Schoolmaster, Take Schoolmaster first. He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad A stone, and pay for it _rite_ on the square, And carry it off _per saltum_, jauntily _Propria quae maribus_, gentleman's property now (Agreeable to the law explained above). _In proprium usum_, for his private ends, The boy he chucked a brown i' the air, and bit I' the face the shilling; heaved a thumping stone At a lean hen that ran cluck-clucking by, (And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door,) Then _abiit_--What's the Ciceronian phrase? _Excessit, evasit, erupit_--off slogs boy; Off like bird, _avi similis_--(you observed The dative? Pretty i' the Mantuan!)--_Anglice_ Off in three flea skips. _Hactenus_, so far, So good, _tam bene. Bene, satis, male_,-- Where was I with my trope 'bout one in a quag? I did once hitch the Syntax into verse _Verbum personale_, a verb personal, _Concordat_--"ay", agrees old Fatchops--_cum Nominativo_, with its nominative, _Genere_, i' point of gender, _numero_, O' number, _et persona_, and person. _Ut_, Instance: _Sol ruit_, down flops sun, _et_ and, _Montes umbrantur_, out flounce mountains. Pah! Excuse me, sir, I think I'm going mad.

You see the trick on't, though, and can yourself Continue the discourse _ad libitum_. It takes up about eighty thousand lines, A thing imagination boggles at; And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands Extend from here to Mesopotamy.

_C.S. Calverley_.

LOVERS AND A REFLECTION

In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean; Meaning, however, is no great matter) Where woods are a-tremble with words a-tween;

Thro' God's own heather we wonned together, I and my Willie (O love my love): I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, And flitter-bats wavered alow, above:

Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing, (Boats in that climate are so polite,) And sands were a ribbon of green endowing, And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!

Thro' the rare red heather we danced together (O love my Willie,) and smelt for flowers: I must mention again it was glorious weather, Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:

By rises that flushed with their purple favors, Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen, We walked or waded, we two young shavers, Thanking our stars we were both so green.

We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, In fortunate parallels! Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:

Song-birds darted about, some inky As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds; Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky-- They reek of no eerie To-come, those birds!

But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes, Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem; They need no parasols, no goloshes; And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather), That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms; And snapt--(it was perfectly charming weather)-- Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:

And Willie 'gan sing--(Oh, his notes were fluty; Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)-- Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty, Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry":

Bowers of flowers encountered showers In William's carol--(O love my Willie!) Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe tomorrow I quite forget what--say a daffodilly.

A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow," I think occurred next in his nimble strain; And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden-- A rhyme most novel I do maintain:

Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories, And all least furlable things got furled; Not with any design to conceal their glories, But simply and solely to rhyme with world.

O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers, And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, Could be furled together, this genial weather, And carted or carried on wafts away,

Nor ever again trotted out--ah me! How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be.

_C.S. Calverley_

AN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH

There is a river clear and fair, 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there-- It winds about like any hare; And then it takes as straight a course As on the turnpike road a horse, Or through the air an arrow.

The trees that grow upon the shore, Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing. Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first these trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they'd nothing else to do, But ever to be growing.

The impulses of air and sky Have rear'd their stately heads so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,-- And when the wind blows loud and keen, I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee-- Wagging their heads in mockery.

Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reach'd their roots below. For they have gain'd the river's brink, And of the living waters drink.

There's little Will, a five years child-- He is my youngest boy: To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy:-- He hath conversed with sun and shower, And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar rose,-- The blue-belles are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem.

And I have said, my little Will, Why should not he continue still A thing of Nature's rearing? A thing beyond the world's control-- A living vegetable soul,-- No human sorrow fearing.

It were a blessed sight to see That child become a Willow-tree, His brother trees among. He'd be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long.

_Catharine M. Fanshawe_.

THE FAMOUS BALLAD OF THE JUBILEE CUP

You may lift me up in your arms, lad, and turn my face to the sun, For a last look back at the dear old track where the Jubilee cup was won; And draw your chair to my side, lad--no, thank ye, I feel no pain-- For I'm going out with the tide, lad; but I'll tell you the tale again.

I'm seventy-nine or nearly, and my head it has long turned gray, But it all comes back as clearly as though it was yesterday-- The dust, and the bookies shouting around the clerk of the scales, And the clerk of the course, and the nobs in force, and 'Is 'Ighness the Pr**ce of W*les.

'Twas a nine-hole thresh to wind'ard (but none of us cared for that), With a straight run home to the service tee, and a finish along the flat, "Stiff?" ah, well you may say it! Spot barred, and at five stone ten! But at two and a bisque I'd ha' run the risk; for I was a greenhorn then.

So we stripped to the B. Race signal, the old red swallowtail-- There was young Ben Bolt and the Portland Colt, and Aston Villa, and Yale; And W. G., and Steinitz, Leander and The Saint, And the G*rm*n Emp*r*r's Meteor, a-looking as fresh as paint;

John Roberts (scratch), and Safety Match, The Lascar, and Lorna Doone, Oom Paul (a bye), and Romany Rye, and me upon Wooden Spoon; And some of us cut for partners, and some of us strung for baulk, And some of us tossed for stations--But there, what use to talk?

Three-quarter-back on the Kingsclere crack was station enough for me, With a fresh jackyarder blowing and the Vicarage goal a-lee! And I leaned and patted her centre-bit and eased the quid in her cheek, With a "Soh my lass!" and a "Woa you brute!"--for she could do all but speak.

She was geared a thought too high perhaps; she was trained a trifle fine; But she had the grand reach forward! I never saw such a line! Smooth-bored, clean run, from her fiddle head with its dainty ear half-cock, Hard-bit, _pur sang_, from her overhang to the heel of her off hind sock.

Sir Robert he walked beside me as I worked her down to the mark; "There's money on this, my lad," said he, "and most of 'em's running dark; But ease the sheet if you're bunkered, and pack the scrummages tight, And use your slide at the distance, and we'll drink to your health to-night!"

But I bent and tightened my stretcher. Said I to myself, said I-- "John Jones, this here is the Jubilee Cup, and you have to do or die." And the words weren't hardly spoken when the umpire shouted "Play!" And we all kicked off from the Gasworks End with a "Yoicks!" and a "Gone Away!"

And at first I thought of nothing, as the clay flew by in lumps, But stuck to the old Ruy Lopez, and wondered who'd call for trumps, And luffed her close to the cushion, and watched each one as it broke, And in triple file up the Rowley Mile we went like a trail of smoke.

The Lascar made the running but he didn't amount to much, For old Oom Paul was quick on the ball, and headed it back to touch; And the whole first flight led off with the right as The Saint took up the pace, And drove it clean to the putting green and trumped it there with an ace.

John Roberts had given a miss in baulk, but Villa cleared with a punt; And keeping her service hard and low the Meteor forged to the front; With Romany Rye to windward at dormy and two to play, And Yale close up--but a Jubilee Cup isn't run for every day.

We laid our course for the Warner--I tell you the pace was hot! And again off Tattenham Corner a blanket covered the lot. Check side! Check side! now steer her wide! and barely an inch of room, With The Lascar's tail over our lee rail and brushing Leander's boom.

We were running as strong as ever--eight knots--but it couldn't last; For the spray and the bails were flying, the whole field tailing fast; And the Portland Colt had shot his bolt, and Yale was bumped at the Doves, And The Lascar resigned to Steinitz, stalemated in fifteen moves.

It was bellows to mend with Roberts--starred three for a penalty kick: But he chalked his cue and gave 'em the butt, and Oom Paul marked the trick-- "Offside--No Ball--and at fourteen all! Mark Cock! and two for his nob!" When W.G. ran clean through his lee and beat him twice with a lob.