Part 13
Can eternity bring back the seconds now wasted In hopeless desire? or restore to his breast The belief he has lost, with the bliss he once tasted, Embracing the midge that his being held best?
His friends would console him: life yet is before him; Many hundred long seconds he still has to live; In the State yet a mighty career spreads before him; Let him seek in the great world of action to strive!
There’s Fame! there’s Ambition! and, grander than either, There is Freedom! the progress and march of the race! But to Freedom his breast beats no longer, and neither Ambition nor action her loss can replace.
If the time had been spent in acquiring æsthetics I have squandered in learning this language of midges, There might, for my friend in her peripatetics, Have been now two asses to help o’er the bridges.
As it is, I’ll report her the whole conversation. It would have been longer, but, somehow or other (In the midst of that misanthrope’s long lamentation), A midge in my right eye became a young mother.
Since my friend is so clever, I’ll ask her to tell me Why the least living thing (a mere midge in the egg) Can make a man’s tears flow, as now it befell me. Oh, you dear, clever woman, explain it, I beg! _Robert Bulwer Lytton._
THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD WITH HIS SON
O WHAT harper could worthily harp it, Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold (Look out wold) with its wonderful carpet Of emerald, purple, and gold! Look well at it--also look sharp, it Is getting so cold.
The purple is heather (erica); The yellow, gorse--call’d sometimes “whin.” Cruel boys on its prickles might spike a Green beetle as if on a pin. You may roll in it, if you would like a Few holes in your skin.
You wouldn’t? Then think of how kind you Should be to the insects who crave Your compassion--and then, look behind you At yon barley-ears! Don’t they look brave As they undulate (undulate, mind you, From unda, a wave).
The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it Sounds here (on account of our height)! And this hillock itself--who could paint it, With its changes of shadow and light? Is it not--(never, Eddy, say “Ain’t it”)-- A marvellous sight?
Then yon desolate, eerie morasses, The haunts of the snipe and the hern-- (I shall question the two upper classes On aquatiles, when we return)-- Why, I see on them absolute masses Of filix or fern.
How it interests e’en a beginner (Or tyro) like dear little Ned! Is he listening? As I am a sinner, He’s asleep--he is wagging his head. Wake up! I’ll go home to my dinner, And you to your bed.
The boundless, ineffable prairie; The splendour of mountain and lake, With their hues that seem ever to vary; The mighty pine-forests which shake In the wind, and in which the unwary May tread on a snake;
And this wold with its heathery garment Are themes undeniably great. But--although there is not any harm in’t-- It’s perhaps little good to dilate On their charms to a dull little varmint Of seven or eight. _Charles Stuart Calverley._
OF PROPRIETY
STUDY first Propriety, for she is indeed the pole-star Which shall guide the artless maiden through the mazes of Vanity Fair; Nay, she is the golden chain which holdeth together Society, The lamp by whose light young Psyche shall approach unblamed her Eros. Verily, Truth is as Eve, which was ashamed, being naked; Wherefore doth Propriety dress her with the fair foliage of artifice; And when she is drest, behold, she knoweth not herself again! I walked in the forest, and above me stood the yew-- Stood like a slumbering giant, shrouded in impenetrable shade; Then I pass’d into the citizen’s garden, and marked a tree clipt into shape (The giant’s locks had been shorn by the Delilah-shears of Decorum), And I said, “Surely Nature is goodly; but how much goodlier is Art!” I heard the wild notes of the lark floating far over the blue sky, And my foolish heart went after him, and, lo! I blessed him as he rose. Foolish! for far better is the trained boudoir bullfinch, Which pipeth the semblance of a tune, and mechanically draweth up the water; And the reinless steed of the desert, though his neck be clothed with thunder, Must yield to him that danceth and “moveth in the circles” at Astley’s. For verily, O my daughter, the world is a masquerade, And God made thee one thing, that thou mightest make thyself another. A maiden’s heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling upward, And it needed that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of Propriety; He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure; Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of the cork. _Charles Stuart Calverley._
PEACE: _A Study_
HE stood, a worn-out City clerk-- Who’d toil’d, and seen no holiday, For forty years from dawn to dark-- Alone beside Caermarthen Bay.
He felt the salt spray on his lips; Heard children’s voices on the sands; Up the sun’s path he saw the ships Sail on and on to other lands;
And laugh’d aloud. Each sight and sound To him was joy too deep for tears; He sat him on the beach, and bound A blue bandana round his ears;
And thought how, posted near his door, His own green door on Camden Hill, Two bands at least, most likely more, Were mingling at their own sweet will
Verdi with Vance. And at the thought He laugh’d again, and softly drew That _Morning Herald_ that he’d bought Forth from his breast, and read it through. _Charles Stuart Calverley._
ALL-SAINTS
IN a church which is furnish’d with mullion and gable, With altar and reredos, with gargoyle and groin, The penitents’ dresses are sealskin and sable, The odour of sanctity’s eau-de-Cologne.
But only could Lucifer, flying from Hades, Gaze down on this crowd with its panniers and paints, He would say, as he look’d at the lords and the ladies, “Oh, where is All-Sinners’, if this is All-Saints’?” _Edmund Yates._
FAME’S PENNY TRUMPET
Affectionately dedicated to all “original researchers” who pant for “endowment.”
BLOW, blow your trumpets till they crack, Ye little men of little souls! And bid them huddle at your back, Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!
Fill all the air with hungry wails-- “Reward us, ere we think or write! Without your gold mere knowledge fails To sate the swinish appetite!”
And, where great Plato paced serene, Or Newton paused with wistful eye, Rush to the chase with hoofs unclean, And Babel-clamour of the sky!
Be yours the pay, be theirs the praise; We will not rob them of their due, Nor vex the ghosts of other days By naming them along with you.
They sought and found undying fame; They toiled not for reward nor thanks; Their cheeks are hot with honest shame For you, the modern mountebanks,
Who preach of justice, plead with tears That love and mercy should abound, While marking with complacent ears The moaning of some tortured hound;
Who prate of wisdom--nay, forbear, Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath, Trampling, with heel that will not spare, The vermin that beset her path!
Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms, Ye idols of a petty clique; Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes, And make your penny trumpets squeak;
Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds Of learning from a nobler time, And oil each other’s little heads With mutual flattery’s golden slime;
And when the topmost height ye gain, And stand in glory’s ether clear, And grasp the prize of all your pain-- So many hundred pounds a year--
Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled! Sing pæans for a victory won! Ye tapers, that would light the world, And cast a shadow on the Sun;
Who still shall pour his rays sublime, One crystal flood, from east to west, When ye have burned your little time, And feebly flickered into rest! _Lewis Carroll._
THE DIAMOND WEDDING
O LOVE! Love! Love! What times were those, Long ere the age of belles and beaux, And Brussels lace and silken hose, When, in the green Arcadian close, You married Psyche under the rose, With only the grass for bedding! Heart to heart, and hand to hand, You followed Nature’s sweet command, Roaming lovingly through the land, Nor sighed for a Diamond Wedding.
So have we read, in classic Ovid, How Hero watched for her belovéd, Impassioned youth, Leander. She was the fairest of the fair, And wrapt him round with her golden hair, Whenever he landed cold and bare, With nothing to eat and nothing to wear, And wetter than any gander; For Love was Love, and better than money; The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey; And kissing was clover, all the world over, Wherever Cupid might wander.
So thousands of years have come and gone, And still the moon is shining on, Still Hymen’s torch is lighted; And hitherto, in this land of the West, Most couples in love have thought it best To follow the ancient way of the rest, And quietly get united.
But now, True Love, you’re growing old-- Bought and sold, with silver and gold, Like a house, or a horse and carriage! Midnight talks, Moonlight walks, The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh, The shadowy haunts, with no one by, I do not wish to disparage, But every kiss Has a price for its bliss, In the modern code of marriage; And the compact sweet Is not complete Till the high contracting parties meet Before the altar of Mammon; And the bride must be led to a silver bower, Where pearls and rubies fall in a shower That would frighten Jupiter Ammon!
I need not tell How it befell, (Since Jenkins has told the story Over and over and over again, In a style I cannot hope to attain, And covered himself with glory!) How it befell, one summer’s day, The king of the Cubans strolled this way-- King January’s his name, they say-- And fell in love with the Princess May, The reigning belle of Manhattan; Nor how he began to smirk and sue, And dress as lovers who come to woo, Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do, When they sit full-bloomed in the ladies’ view, And flourish the wondrous baton.
He wasn’t one of your Polish nobles, Whose presence their country somehow troubles, And so our cities receive them; Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees, Who ply our daughters with lies and candies, Until the poor girls believe them. No, he was no such charlatan-- Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan, Full of gasconade and bravado-- But a regular, rich Don Rataplan Santa Claus de la Muscovado Señor Grandissimo Bastinado. His was the rental of half Havana, And all Matanzas; and Santa Anna, Rich as he was, could hardly hold A candle to light the mines of gold Our Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers; And broad plantations, that, in round figures, Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers!
“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!” The señor swore to carry the day, To capture the beautiful Princess May, With his battery of treasure; Velvet and lace she should not lack; Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black, Genin and Stewart his suit should back, And come and go at her pleasure; Jet and lava, silver and gold, Garnets, emeralds rare to behold, Diamonds, sapphires, wealth untold, All were hers, to have and to hold-- Enough to fill a peck measure!
He didn’t bring all his forces on At once, but, like a crafty old Don, Who many a heart had fought and won, Kept bidding a little higher; And every time he made his bid, And what she said, and all they did, ’Twas written down For the good of the town, By Jeems, of _The Daily Flyer_.
A coach and horses, you’d think, would buy For the Don an easy victory; But slowly our Princess yielded. A diamond necklace caught her eye, But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh. She knew the worth of each maiden glance, And, like young colts that curvet and prance, She led the Don a deuce of a dance, In spite of the wealth he wielded. She stood such a fire of silks and laces, Jewels and gold dressing-cases, And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls, That every one of her dainty curls Brought the price of a hundred common girls; Folks thought the lass demented! But at last a wonderful diamond ring, An infant Kohinoor, did the thing, And, sighing with love, or something the same, (What’s in a name?) The Princess May consented.
Ring! ring the bells, and bring The people to see the marrying! Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poor Throng round the great cathedral door, To wonder what all the hubbub’s for, And sometimes stupidly wonder At so much sunshine and brightness which Fall from the church upon the rich, While the poor get all the thunder.
Ring, ring, merry bells, ring! O fortunate few, With letters blue, Good for a seat and a nearer view! Fortunate few, whom I dare not name; _Dilettanti!_ _Crême de la crême!_ We commoners stood by the street façade, And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade. We saw the bride In diamond pride With jewelled maidens to guard her side-- Six lustrous maidens in tarlatan. She led the van of the caravan; Close behind her, her mother (Dressed in gorgeous _moire antique_ That told as plainly as words could speak, She was more antique than the other) Leaned on the arm of Don Rataplan Santa Claus de la Muscovado Señor Grandissimo Bastinado. Happy mortal! fortunate man! And Marquis of El Dorado!
In they swept, all riches and grace, Silks and satins, jewels and lace; In they swept from the dazzled sun, And soon in the church the deed was done. Three prelates stood on the chancel high: A knot that gold and silver can buy, Gold and silver may yet untie, Unless it is tightly fastened; What’s worth doing at all’s worth doing well, And the sale of a young Manhattan belle Is not to be pushed or hastened; So two Very Reverends graced the scene, And the tall Archbishop stood between, By prayer and fasting chastened. The Pope himself would have come from Rome, But Garibaldi kept him at home. Haply these robed prelates thought Their words were the power that tied the knot; But another power that love-knot tied, And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride-- A glistening, priceless, marvellous chain, Coiled with diamonds again and again, As befits a diamond wedding; Yet still ’twas a chain, and I thought she knew it, And half-way longed for the will to undo it, By the secret tears she was shedding.
But isn’t it odd to think, whenever We all go through that terrible River, Whose sluggish tide alone can sever (The Archbishop says) the Church decree, By floating one in to Eternity, And leaving the other alive as ever, As each wades through that ghastly stream, The satins that rustle and gems that gleam, Will grow pale and heavy, and sink away To the noisome river’s bottom-clay! Then the costly bride and her maidens six Will shiver upon the bank of the Styx, Quite as helpless as they were born-- Naked souls, and very forlorn. The Princess, then, must shift for herself, And lay her royalty on the shelf; She, and the beautiful empress yonder, Whose robes are now the wide world’s wonder And even ourselves, and our dear little wives, Who calico wear each morn of their lives, And the sewing-girls, and _les chiffonniers_, In rags and hunger--a gaunt array-- And all the grooms of the caravan-- Aye, even the great Don Rataplan Santa Claus de la Muscovado Señor Grandissimo Bastinado-- That gold-encrusted, fortunate man-- All will land in naked equality; The lord of a ribboned principality Will mourn the loss of his _cordon_. Nothing to eat and nothing to wear Will certainly be the fashion there! Ten to one, and I’ll go it alone, Those most used to a rag and bone, Though here on earth they labour and groan, Will stand it best, as they wade abreast To the other side of Jordan. _Edmund Clarence Stedman._
TRUE TO POLL
I’LL sing you a song, not very long, But the story somewhat new Of William Kidd, who, whatever he did, To his Poll was always true. He sailed away in a galliant ship From the port of old Bris_tol_, And the last words he uttered, As his hankercher he fluttered, Were, “My heart is true to Poll.”
His heart was true to Poll, His heart was true to Poll. It’s no matter what you do If your heart be only true: And his heart _was_ true to Poll.
’Twas a wreck. Willi_am_, on shore he swam, And looked about for an inn; When a noble savage lady, of a colour rather shady, Came up with a kind of grin: “Oh, marry _me_, and a king you’ll be, And in a palace loll; Or we’ll eat you willy-nilly.” So he gave his _hand_, did Billy, But his _heart_ was true to Poll.
Away a twelvemonth sped, and a happy life he led As the King of the Kikeryboos; His paint was red and yellar, and he used a big umbrella, And he wore a pair of over-_shoes_; He’d corals and knives, and twenty-six wives, Whose beauties I cannot here extol; One day they all revolted, So he back to Bristol bolted, For his _heart_ was true to Poll.
His heart was true to Poll, His heart was true to Poll. It’s no matter what you do, If your heart be only true: And his heart _was_ true to Poll. _Frank C. Burnand._
SLEEP ON
FEAR no unlicensed entry, Heed no bombastic talk, While guards the British sentry Pall Mall and Birdcage Walk. Let European thunders Occasion no alarms, Though diplomatic blunders May cause a cry, “To arms!” Sleep on, ye pale civilians; All thunder-clouds defy; On Europe’s countless millions The sentry keeps his eye!
Should foreign-born rapscallions In London dare to show Their overgrown battalions, Be sure I’ll let you know. Should Russians or Norwegians Pollute our favoured clime With rough barbaric legions, I’ll mention it in time. So sleep in peace, civilians, The Continent defy; While on its countless millions The sentry keeps his eye! _W. S. Gilbert._
TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE
BY A MISERABLE WRETCH
ROLL on, thou ball, roll on! Through pathless realms of space Roll on! What though I’m in a sorry case? What though I cannot meet my bills? What though I suffer toothache’s ills? What though I swallow countless pills? Never _you_ mind! Roll on!
Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through seas of inky air Roll on! It’s true I’ve got no shirts to wear; It’s true my butcher’s bill is due; It’s true my prospects all look blue; But don’t let that unsettle you. Never _you_ mind! Roll on! (_It rolls on._) _W. S. Gilbert._
THE APE AND THE LADY
A LADY fair, of lineage high, Was loved by an ape, in the days gone by; The maid was radiant as the sun; The ape was a most unsightly one. So it would not do-- His scheme fell through; For the maid, when his love took formal shape, Expressed such terror At his monstrous error, That he stammered an apology and made his ’scape, The picture of a disconcerted ape.
With a view to rise in the social scale, He shaved his bristles and he docked his tail; He grew mustachios, and he took his tub, And he paid a guinea to a toilet club. But it would not do-- The scheme fell through; For the maid was Beauty’s fairest queen, With golden tresses, Like a real princess’s, While the ape, despite his razor keen, Was the apiest ape that ever was seen!
He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits; He crammed his feet into bright, tight boots; And to start his life on a brand-new plan, He christened himself Darwinian man! But it would not do-- The scheme fell through; For the maiden fair, whom the monkey craved, Was a radiant being, With a brain far-seeing; While a man, however well behaved, At best is only a monkey shaved! _W. S. Gilbert._
ANGLICISED UTOPIA
SOCIETY has quite forsaken all her wicked courses, Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces. (Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.) No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour, For the higher his position is, the greater the offender. (That’s a maxim that is prevalent in England.) No peeress at our drawing-room before the Presence passes Who wouldn’t be accepted by the lower-middle classes. Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out neatly; In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely! It really is surprising What a thorough Anglicising We’ve brought about--Utopia’s quite another land; In her enterprising movements, She is England, with improvements, Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!
Our city we have beautified--we’ve done it willy-nilly-- And all that isn’t Belgrave Square is Strand and Piccadilly. (They haven’t any slummeries in England.) We have solved the labour question with discrimination polished, So poverty is obsolete, and hunger is abolished. (They are going to abolish it in England.) The Chamberlain our native stage has purged, beyond a question, Of “risky situation and indelicate suggestion”; No piece is tolerated if it’s costumed indiscreetly-- In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely! It really is surprising What a thorough Anglicising We’ve brought about--Utopia’s quite another land; In her enterprising movements, She is England, with improvements, Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!