Part 9

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

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

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

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

TIMBUCTOO.—PART I.

_The situation._

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

_The natural history._

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

_The lion hunt._

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

_Their lives at home._

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

_Abroad._

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

_Reflections on the foregoing._

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

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

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

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

Line 5.—So Horace: leonum arida nutrix.

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

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

_W. M. Thackeray._

AFTER TUPPER

OF FRIENDSHIP

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

OF READING

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

AFTER THACKERAY

THE WILLOW-TREE

(_Another version_)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MORAL

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

AFTER CHARLES DICKENS

MAN’S PLACE IN NATURE

(_Dedicated to Darwin and Huxley_)

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

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

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

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

AFTER ROBERT BROWNING

HOME TRUTHS FROM ABROAD

I

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

II

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

AFTER BROWNING

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

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

THE COCK AND THE BULL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A STACCATO TO O LE LUPE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BY THE SEA

_Mutatis Mutandis_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANGELO ORDERS HIS DINNER

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

THE FLIGHT OF THE BUCKET

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