Part 14

Our peerage we’ve remodelled on an intellectual basis, Which certainly is rough on our hereditary races. (They are going to remodel it in England.) The brewers and the cotton lords no longer seek admission, And literary merit meets with proper recognition-- (As literary merit does in England!) Who knows but we may count among our intellectual chickens Like them an Earl of Thackeray, and p’r’aps a Duke of Dickens-- Lord Fildes and Viscount Millais (when they come) we’ll welcome sweetly, And then this happy country will be 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! _W. S. Gilbert._

ETIQUETTE

THE _Ballyshannon_ foundered off the coast of Cariboo, And down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew; Down went the owners--greedy men whom hope of gain allured: Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.

Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew, The passengers were also drowned excepting only two: Young Peter Gray, who tasted teas for Baker, Croop, and Co., And Somers, who from Eastern shores imported indigo. These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast, Upon a desert island were eventually cast. They hunted for their meals, as Alexander Selkirk used, But they couldn’t chat together--they had not been introduced.

For Peter Gray, and Somers, too, though certainly in trade, Were properly particular about the friends they made; And somehow thus they settled it, without a word of mouth, That Gray should take the northern half, while Somers took the south.

On Peter’s portion oysters grew--a delicacy rare, But oysters were a delicacy Peter couldn’t bear. On Somer’s side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick, Which Somers couldn’t eat, because it always made him sick.

Gray gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty store Of turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature’s shore. The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved, For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved.

And Somers sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south, For the thought of Peter’s oysters brought the water to his mouth. He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff: He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough.

How they wished an introduction to each other they had had When on board the _Ballyshannon_! And it drove them nearly mad To think how very friendly with each other they might get, If it wasn’t for the arbitrary rule of etiquette!

One day, when out a-hunting for the _mus ridiculus_, Gray overheard his fellow-man soliloquising thus: “I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on, M’Connell, S. B. Walters, Paddy Byles, and Robinson?”

These simple words made Peter as delighted as could be; Old chummies at the Charterhouse were Robinson and he. He walked straight up to Somers, then he turned extremely red, Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said:

“I beg your pardon--pray forgive me if I seem too bold, But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old. You spoke aloud of Robinson--I happened to be by. You know him?” “Yes, extremely well.” “Allow me, so do I.”

It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on, For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew Robinson! And Mr. Somers’ turtle was at Peter’s service quite, And Mr. Somers punished Peter’s oyster-beds all night.

They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs; They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs; They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives; On several occasions, too, they saved each other’s lives.

They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night, And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light; Each other’s pleasant company they reckoned so upon, And all because it happened that they both knew Robinson!

They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore, And day by day they learned to love each other more and more. At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day, They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay.

To Peter an idea occurred. “Suppose we cross the main? So good an opportunity may not be found again.” And Somers thought a minute, then ejaculated, “Done! I wonder how my business in the City’s getting on?”

“But stay,” said Mr. Peter; “when in England, as you know, I earned a living tasting teas for Baker, Croop, and Co., I may be superseded--my employers think me dead!” “Then come with me,” said Somers, “and taste indigo instead.”

But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they found The vessel was a convict ship from Portland outward bound; When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind, To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.

As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke, They recognized a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke: ’Twas Robinson--a convict, in an unbecoming frock! Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!

They laughed no more, for Somers thought he had been rather rash In knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash; And Peter thought a foolish tack he must have gone upon In making the acquaintance of a friend of Robinson.

At first they didn’t quarrel very openly, I’ve heard; They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word: The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head, And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead.

To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth, And Peter takes the north again, and Somers takes the south; And Peter has the oysters, which he hates, in layers thick, And Somers has the turtle--turtle always makes him sick. _W. S. Gilbert._

THE ÆSTHETE

IF you’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line, as a man of culture rare, You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere; You must lie upon the daisies, and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind (The meaning doesn’t matter, if it’s only idle chatter of a transcendental kind). And every one will say, As you walk your mystic way, “If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me, Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!”

Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away, And convince ’em, if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture’s palmiest day. Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever’s fresh and new, and declare it’s crude and mean, And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine. And every one will say, As you walk your mystic way, “If that’s not good enough for him which is good enough for me, Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!”

Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen, An attachment _à la Plato_ for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean. Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high æsthetic band, If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval hand. And every one will say, As you walk your flowery way, “If he’s content with a vegetable love, which would certainly not suit me, Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!” _W. S. Gilbert._

TOO LATE!

“Ah! si la jeunesse savait,--si la vieillesse pouvait!”

THERE sat an old man on a rock, And unceasing bewailed him of Fate, That concern where we all must take stock, Though our vote has no hearing or weight; And the old man sang him an old, old song-- Never sang voice so clear and strong That it could drown the old man’s for long, For he sang the song, “Too late! too late!”

When we want, we have for our pains The promise that if we but wait Till the want has burned out of our brains, Every means shall be present to state; While we send for the napkins, the soup gets cold; While the bonnet is trimming, the face grows old; When we’ve matched our buttons, the pattern is sold, And everything comes too late--too late!

“When strawberries seemed like red heavens, Terrapin stew a wild dream, When my brain was at sixes and sevens, If my mother had ‘folks’ and ice-cream, Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger At the restaurant-man and fruit-monger-- But oh! how I wished I were younger, When the goodies all came in a stream--in a stream!

“I’ve a splendid blood-horse, and--a liver That it jars into torture to trot; My row-boat’s the gem of the river-- Gout makes every knuckle a knot! I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome, But no palate for _ménus_, no eyes for a dome-- _Those_ belonged to the youth who must tarry at home, When no home but an attic he’d got--he’d got!

“How I longed, in that lonest of garrets, Where the tiles baked my brains all July, For ground to grow two pecks of carrots, Two pigs of my own in a sty, A rosebush, a little thatched cottage, Two spoons, love, a basin of pottage! Now in freestone I sit, and my dotage, With a woman’s chair empty close by--close by!

“Ah, now, though I sit on a rock, I have shared one seat with the great; I have sat--knowing naught of the clock-- On love’s high throne of state; But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed, To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed, And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed, Had they only not come too late--too late!” _Fitz-Hugh Ludlow._

LIFE IN LACONICS

GIVEN a roof, and a taste for rations, And you have the key to the “wealth of nations.”

Given a boy, a tree, and a hatchet, And virtue strives in vain to match it.

Given a pair, a snake, and an apple, You make the whole world need a chapel.

Given “no cards,” broad views, and a hovel, You have a realistic novel.

Given symptoms and doctors with potion and pill, And your heirs will ere long be contesting your will.

That good leads to evil there’s no denying: If it were not for _truth_ there would be no _lying_.

“I’m nobody!” should have a hearse; But then, “I’m somebody!” is worse.

“Folks say,” _et cetera_! Well, they shouldn’t, And if they knew you well, they wouldn’t.

When you coddle your life, all its vigor and grace Shrink away with the whisper, “We’re in the wrong place.” _Mary Mapes Dodge._

DISTICHES

WISELY a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her. This one may love her some day; some day the lover will not.

There are three species of creatures who, when they seem coming, are going; When they seem going, they come: Diplomats, women, and crabs.

As the meek beasts in the Garden came flocking for Adam to name them, Men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king.

What is a first love worth except to prepare for a second? What does the second love bring? Only regret for the first. _John Hay._

THE POET AND THE CRITICS

IF those who wield the rod forget, ’Tis truly, _Quis custodiet_?

A certain bard (as bards will do) Dressed up his poems for review. His type was plain, his title clear, His frontispiece by Fourdrinier. Moreover, he had on the back A sort of sheepskin zodiac-- A mask, a harp, an owl--in fine, A neat and “classical” design. But the _in_-side? Well, good or bad, The inside was the best he had. Much memory, more imitation, Some accidents of inspiration, Some essays in that finer fashion Where fancy takes the place of passion; And some (of course) more roughly wrought To catch the advocates of thought.

In the less-crowded age of Anne, Our bard had been a favoured man; Fortune, more chary with the sickle, Had ranked him next to Garth or Tickell; He might have even dared to hope A line’s malignity from Pope! But now, when folks are hard to please, And poets are as thick as--peas, The Fates are not so prone to flatter, Unless, indeed, a friend.... No matter.

The book, then, had a minor credit. The critics took, and doubtless read it. Said A.: “These little songs display No lyric gift, but still a ray, A promise. They will do no harm.” ’Twas kindly, if not _very_ warm. Said B.: “The author may, in time, Acquire the rudiments of rhyme; His efforts now are scarcely verse.” This, certainly, could not be worse.

Sorely discomfited, our bard Worked for another ten years--hard. Meanwhile the world, unmoved, went on; New stars shot up, shone out, were gone; Before his second volume came, His critics had forgot his name: And who, forsooth, is bound to know Each laureate _in embryo_! They tried and tested him, no less, The pure assayers of the Press. Said A.: “_The author may, in time...._” Or much what B. had said of rhyme. Then B.: “_These little songs display...._” And so forth, in the sense of A. Over the bard I throw a veil.

There is no moral to this tale. _Austin Dobson._

THE LOVE-LETTER

“J’ai vu les mœurs de mon temps, et j’ai publié cette lettre.”--_La Nouvelle Héloise_.

IF this should fail, why, then I scarcely know What could succeed. Here’s brilliancy (and banter), Byron _ad lib._, a chapter of Rousseau; If this should fail, then _tempora mutantur_; Style’s out of date, and love, as a profession, Acquires no aid from beauty of expression.

“The men who think as I, I fear, are few” (Cynics would say ’twere well if they were fewer); “I am not what I seem”--(indeed, ’tis true; Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer); “Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lie More deep than words”--(as these exemplify).

“I will not say when first your beauty’s sun Illumed my life”--(it needs imagination); “For me to see you and to love were one”-- (This will account for some precipitation); “Let it suffice that worship more devoted Ne’er throbbed,” _et cetera_. The rest is quoted.

“If Love can look with all-prophetic eye”-- (Ah, if he could, how many would be single!) “If truly spirit unto spirit cry”-- (The ears of some most terribly must tingle!) “Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face.” This next, I think, is more than commonplace.

“Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting, Forestall the speech with favour found before? Why should we plead? it were an idle thing, If Love himself be Love’s ambassador!” Blot, as I live! Shall we erase it? No; ’Twill show we write _currente calamo_.

“My fate, my fortune, I commit to you”-- (In point of fact, the latter’s not extensive); “Without you I am poor indeed” (strike through-- ’Tis true, but crude; ’twould make her apprehensive); “My life is yours--I lay it at your feet” (Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet).

“Give me the right to stand within the shrine Where never yet my faltering feet intruded; Give me the right to call you wholly mine”-- (That is, consols and three-per-cents. included); “To guard your rest from every care that cankers-- To keep your life”--(and balance at your banker’s).

“Compel me not to long for your reply; Suspense makes havoc with the mind”--(and muscles); “Winged Hope takes flight” (which means that I must fly, Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels); “I cannot wait! My own, my queen--Priscilla! Write by return.” And _now_ for a manilla!

“Miss Blank,” at “Blank.” Jemima, let it go; And I, meanwhile, will idle with “Sir Walter.” Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though-- ’Twill serve again. There’s but the name to alter, And Love, that starves, must knock at every portal, _In forma pauperis_. We are but mortal! _Austin Dobson._

FAME

ALL over the world we sing of Fame, Bright as a bubble, and hollow; With a breath men make it and give it a name; All over the world they sing the same, And the beautiful bubble follow.

Its rounded, splendid, gossamer walls Hide more than our fairy fancies: For here, in the vaulted, antique halls, ’Mid oriel splendours, a light foot falls, And a fairy figure dances.

And men will do for a glancing eye, And foot that tarries never, More, far more than look and sigh; For men will fight, and man will die, But follow it on for ever. _James Herbert Morse._

FIVE LIVES

FIVE mites of monads dwelt in a round drop That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun. To the naked eye they lived invisible; Specks, for a world of whom the empty shell Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky.

One was a meditative monad, called a sage; And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought: “Tradition, handed down for hours and hours, Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world, Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence When I am very old, yon shimmering doom Comes drawing down and down, till all things end?” Then with a wizen smirk he proudly felt No other mote of God had ever gained Such giant grasp of universal truth.

One was a transcendental monad; thin And long and slim of mind; and thus he mused: “Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls! Made in the image”--a horse frog croaks from the pool, “Hark! ’twas some god, voicing his glorious thought In thunder-music. Yea, we hear their voice, And we may guess their minds from ours, their work. Some taste they have like ours, some tendency To wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum.” He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas, That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone.

One was a barren-minded monad, called A positivist, and he knew positively: “There was no world beyond this certain drop. Prove me another! Let the dreamers dream Of their faint gleams, and noises from without, And higher and lower; life is life enough.” Then swaggering half a hair’s-breath hungrily, He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed.

One was a tattered monad, called a poet, And with a shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang: “Oh, little female monad’s lips! Oh, little female monad’s eyes! Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!” The last was a strong-minded monadess, Who dashed amid the infusoria, Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove, Till the dizzy others held their breath to see.

But while they led their wondrous little lives, Æonian moments had gone wheeling by, The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed; A glistening film--’twas gone; the leaf was dry. The little ghost of an inaudible squeak Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone; Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful ox Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged, Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still. _Edward Rowland Sill._

HE AND SHE

WHEN I am dead you’ll find it hard, Said he, To ever find another man Like me.

What makes you think, as I suppose You do, I’d ever want another man Like you? _Eugene Fitch Ware._

WHAT WILL WE DO?

WHAT will we do when the good days come-- When the prima donna’s lips are dumb, And the man who reads us his “little things” Has lost his voice like the girl who sings; When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man, And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan; When our neighbours’ children have lost their drums-- Oh, what will we do when the good time comes? Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time, When the tramp will work--oh, thing sublime! And the scornful dame who stands on your feet Will “Thank you, sir,” for the proffered seat; And the man you hire to work by the day, Will allow you to do his work your way; And the cook who trieth your appetite Will steal no more than she thinks is right; When the boy you hire will call you “Sir,” Instead of “Say” and “Guverner”; When the funny man is humorsome-- How can we stand the millennium? _Robert J. Burdette._

THE TOOL

THE man of brains, of fair repute and birth, Who loves high place above all else of earth-- Who loves it so, he’ll go without the power, If he may hold the semblance but an hour; Willing to be some sordid creature’s tool, So he but seem a little while to rule-- On him even moral pigmies would look down; Were prizes given for shame, he’d wear the crown. _Richard Watson Gilder._

GIVE ME A THEME

“GIVE me a theme,” the little poet cried, “And I will do my part.” “’Tis not a theme you need,” the world replied; “You need a heart.” _Richard Watson Gilder._

THE POEM, TO THE CRITIC

WEIGH me, if you’re fain; Measure me, if it is your plan; Know your little thimble-brain Hold me never can. _Richard Watson Gilder._

BALLADE OF LITERARY FAME

“All these for fourpence.”

OH, where are the endless romances Our grandmothers used to adore? The knights with their helms and their lances, Their shields and the favours they wore? And the monks with their magical lore? They have passed to oblivion and _Nox_; They have fled to the shadowy shore-- They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And where the poetical fancies Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore? The lyric’s melodious expanses, The epics in cantos a score. They have been, and are not. No more Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks, Nor the ladies their languors deplore-- They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And the music! The songs and the dances? The tunes that time may not restore? And the tomes where divinity prances? And the pamphlets where heretics roar? They have ceased to be even a bore,-- The divine, and the sceptic who mocks; They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core, They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

ENVOI

Suns beat on them; tempests downpour, On the chest without cover or locks, Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door-- They are all in the Fourpenny Box! _Andrew Lang._

CHORUS OF ANGLOMANIACS

IT is positively false to call us frantic, For the soundness of our mental state is sure, Yet we look upon this side of the Atlantic As a tract of earth unpleasant to endure.