Part 15
We consider dear old England as the fountain Of all institutions reputably sane; We abominate and loathe a Rocky Mountain; We regard a rolling prairie with disdain.
We assiduously imitate the polish That we notice round the English nabob hang; We unfailingly endeavour to abolish From our voices any trace of nasal twang.
Every patriotic duty we leave undone, With aversion such as Hebrews hold for pork, Since we venerate the very name of London In proportion to our hatred of New York.
No treaty could in any manner soften Our contempt for native tailors when we dress; If we bet, we “lay a guinea,” rather often, And we always say “I farncy” for “I guess.”
We esteem the Revolution as illegal; If you mention Bunker Hill to us, we sigh; We particularly execrate an eagle, And we languish on the fourth day of July.
We are not prepared in any foolish manner The vulgarities of Uncle Sam to screen; We dislike to hear that dull “Star-Spangled Banner,” But we thoroughly respect “God save the Queen.”
We revere the Prince of Wales, though he should prick us With a sneer at the republic we obey! We would rather let his Royal Highness kick us Than have been the bosom friend of Henry Clay!
_Edgar Fawcett._
From “The Buntling Ball.”
THE NET OF LAW
THE net of law is spread so wide, No sinner from its sweep may hide.
Its meshes are so fine and strong, They take in every child of wrong.
O wondrous web of mystery! Big fish alone escape from thee! _James Jeffrey Roche._
A BOSTON LULLABY
BABY’S brain is tired of thinking On the Wherefore and the Whence; Baby’s precious eyes are blinking With incipient somnolence.
Little hands are weary turning Heavy leaves of lexicon; Little nose is fretted learning How to keep its glasses on.
Baby knows the laws of nature Are beneficent and wise; His medulla oblongata Bids my darling close his eyes
And his pneumogastrics tell him Quietude is always best When his little cerebellum Needs recuperative rest.
Baby must have relaxation, Let the world go wrong or right. Sleep, my darling--leave Creation To its chances for the night. _James Jeffrey Roche._
THE V-A-S-E
FROM the madding crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art;
And none might tell from sight alone In which had culture ripest grown--
The Gotham Millions fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree,
The Boston Mind of azure hue, Or the Soulful Soul from Kalamazoo;
For all loved Art in a seemly way. With an earnest soul and a capital A.
* * * * *
Long they worshipped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke
The Western one from the nameless place, Who, blushing, said, “What a lovely vace!”
Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo.
But Gotham’s haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word;
Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries, “’Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!”
But brief her unworthy triumph, when The lofty one from the home of Penn,
With the consciousness of two grandpapas, Exclaims, “It is quite a lovely vahs!”
And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.
But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me!
“I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that charming vaws!”
_Dies erit prægelida Sinistra quum Bostonia._ _James Jeffrey Roche._
THURSDAY
THE sun was setting, and vespers done; From chapel the monks came one by one, And down they went thro’ the garden trim, In cassock and cowl, to the river’s brim. Ev’ry brother his rod he took; Ev’ry rod had a line and a hook; Ev’ry hook had a bait so fine, And thus they sang in the even shine: “Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll fish the stream to-day! Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll fish the stream to-day! Benedicite!”
So down they sate by the river’s brim, And fish’d till the light was growing dim; They fish’d the stream till the moon was high, But never a fish came wand’ring by. They fish’d the stream in the bright moonshine, But not one fish would he come to dine. And the Abbot said, “It seems to me These rascally fish are all gone to sea. And to-morrow will be Friday, but we’ve caught no fish to-day; Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, but we’ve caught no fish to-day! Maledicite!”
So back they went to the convent gate, Abbot and monks disconsolate; For they thought of the morrow with faces white, Saying, “Oh, we must curb our appetite! But down in the depths of the vault below There’s Malvoisie for a world of woe!” So they quaff their wine, and all declare That fish, after all, is but gruesome fare. “Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll warm our souls to-day! Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll warm our souls to-day! Benedicite!” _Frederick Edward Weatherly._
A BIRD IN THE HAND
THERE were three young maids of Lee; They were fair as fair can be, And they had lovers three times three, For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee. But these young maids they cannot find A lover each to suit her mind; The plain-spoke lad is far too rough, The rich young lord is not rich enough, The one is too poor, and one is too tall, And one just an inch too short for them all. “Others pick and choose, and why not we? We can very well wait,” said the maids of Lee. There were three young maids of Lee; They were fair as fair can be, And they had lovers three times three For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee.
There are three old maids of Lee, And they are old as old can be, And one is deaf, and one cannot see, And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree, These three old maids of Lee. Now, if any one chanced--’tis a chance remote-- One single charm in these maids to note, He need not a poet nor handsome be, For one is deaf and one cannot see; He need not woo on his bended knee, For they all are willing as willing can be. He may take the one, or the two, or the three, If he’ll only take them away from Lee. There are three old maids at Lee; They are cross as cross can be; And there they are, and there they’ll be To the end of the chapter, one, two, three, These three old maids of Lee. _Frederick Edward Weatherly._
AN ADVANCED THINKER
THIS modern scientist--a word uncouth-- Who calls himself a seeker after truth, And traces man through monkey back to frog, Seeing a Plato in each pollywog, Ascribes all things unto the power of Matter. The woman’s anguish, and the baby’s chatter-- The soldier’s glory, and his country’s need-- Self-sacrificing love--self-seeking greed-- The false religion some vain bigots prize, Which seeks to win a soul by telling lies-- And even pseudo-scientific clatter-- All these, he says, are but the work of Matter. Thus, self-made science, like a self-made man, Deems naught uncomprehended in its plan; Sees naught he can’t explain by his own laws. The time has come, at length, to bid him pause, Before he strive to leap the unknown chasm Reft wide ’twixt awful God and protoplasm. _Brander Matthews._
A THOUGHT
IF all the harm that women have done Were put in a bundle and rolled into one, Earth would not hold it, The sky could not enfold it, It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun; Such masses of evil Would puzzle the devil, And keep him in fuel while Time’s wheels run.
But if all the harm that’s been done by men Were doubled, and doubled, and doubled again, And melted and fused into vapour, and then Were squared and raised to the power of ten, There wouldn’t be nearly enough, not near, To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year. _J. K. Stephen._
A SONNET
TWO voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep: And one is of an old, half-witted sheep, Which bleats articulate monotony, And indicates that two and one are three, That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep; And, Wordsworth, both are thine. At certain times Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes, The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst; At other times--good Lord! I’d rather be Quite unacquainted with the A B C, Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst. _J. K. Stephen._
THEY SAID
BECAUSE thy prayer hath never fed Dark Atë with the food she craves; Because thou dost not hate, they said, Nor joy to step on foemen’s graves; Because thou canst not hate, as we, How poor a creature thou must be! Thy veins as pale as ours are red! Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Because by thee no snare was spread To baffle Love--if Love should stray; Because thou dost not watch, they said, To strictly compass Love each way; Because thou dost not watch, as we, Nor jealous Care hath lodged with thee, To strew with thorns a restless bed-- Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Because thy feet were not misled To jocund ground, yet all infirm; Because thou art not fond, they said, Nor dost exact thine heyday term; Because thou art not fond, as we, How dull a creature thou must be! Thy pulse how slow, yet shrewd thy head! Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Because thou hast not roved to wed With those to Love averse or strange; Because thou hast not roved, they said, Nor ever studied artful change; Because thou hast not roved, as we, Love paid no ransom rich for thee, Nor, seeking thee, unwearied sped. Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Aye, so! because thou thought’st to tread Love’s ways, and all his bidding do; Because thou hast not tired, they said, Nor ever wert to Love untrue; Because thou hast not tired, as we, How tedious must thy service be; Love with thy zeal is surfeited! Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Because thou hast not wanton shed On every hand thy heritage; Because thou art not flush, they said, But hast regard to meagre age; Because thou art not flush, as we, How strait thy cautious soul must be! How well thy thrift stands thee in stead! Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
And therefore look thou not for bread-- For wine and bread from Love’s deep store, Because thou hast no need, they said; But us he’ll feast forevermore! Because thou hast no need, as we, Sit in his purlieus, thou, and see How with Love’s bounty we are fed. Go to! Love loves thee not, they said. _Edith M. Thomas._
TO R. K.
As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr’inform’-ingens-horrendous Demoniaco-seraphic Penman’s latest piece of graphic.--_Browning._
WILL there never come a season Which shall rid us from the curse Of a prose which knows no reason, And an unmelodious verse?-- When the world shall cease to wonder At the genius of an Ass, And a boy’s eccentric blunder Shall not bring success to pass?--
When mankind shall be delivered From the clash of magazines, And the inkstand shall be shivered Into countless smithereens?-- When there stands a muzzled stripling, Mute, beside a muzzled bore?-- When the Rudyards cease from Kipling, And the Haggards Ride no more? _J. K. Stephen._
TO MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA
A BLUEBIRD lives in yonder tree, Likewise a little chickadee, In two woodpeckers’ nests, rent free.
There, where the weeping willow weeps, A dainty house-wren sweetly cheeps; From an old oriole’s nest she peeps.
I see the English sparrow tilt Upon a limb with sun begilt; Her nest an ancient swallow built.
So it was one of your old jests, Eh, Mig. Cervantes, that attests “There are no birds in last year’s nests?” _Richard Kendall Munkittrick._
WHAT’S IN A NAME?
IN letters large upon the frame, That visitors might see, The painter placed his humble name: O’Callaghan McGee.
And from Beersheba unto Dan, The critics, with a nod, Exclaimed: “This painting Irishman Adores his native sod.
“His stout heart’s patriotic flame There’s naught on earth can quell; He takes no wild romantic name To make his pictures sell.”
Then poets praise, in sonnets neat, His stroke so bold and free; No parlor wall was thought complete That hadn’t a McGee.
All patriots before McGee Threw lavishly their gold; His works in the Academy Were very quickly sold.
His “Digging Clams at Barnegat,” His “When the Morning Smiled,” His “Seven Miles from Ararat,” His “Portrait of a Child,” Were purchased in a single day, And lauded as divine.
* * * * *
That night as in his _atelier_ The artist sipped his wine,
And looked upon his gilded frames, He grinned from ear to ear: “They little think my real name’s V. Stuyvesant De Vere!” _Richard Kendall Munkittrick._
WED.
FOR these white arms about my neck-- For the dainty room, with its ordered grace-- For my snowy linen without a fleck-- For the tender charm of this uplift face--
For the softened light and the homelike air-- The low, luxurious cannel fire-- The padded ease of my chosen chair-- The devoted love that discounts desire--
I sometimes think, when twelve is struck By the clock on the mantel, tinkling clear, I would take--and thank the gods for the luck-- One single hour with the boys and the beer,
Where the sawdust-scent of a cheap saloon Is mingled with malt; where each man smokes; Where they sing the street-songs out of tune, Talk Art, and bandy ephemeral jokes.
By Jove, I do! And all the time I know not a man that is there to-night, But would barter his brains to be where I’m-- And I’m well aware that the beggars are right.
_H. C. Bunner._
ATLANTIC CITY
O CITY that is not a city, unworthy the prefix Atlantic, Forlornest of watering-places, and thoroughly Philadelphian! In thy despite I sing, with a bitter and deep detestation-- A detestation born of a direful and dinnerless evening, Spent in thy precincts unhallowed--an evening, I trust, may recur not. Never till then did I know what was meant by the word God-forsaken: Thou its betokening hast taught me, being the chiefest example. Thou art the scorned of the gods; thy sand from their sandals is shaken; Thee have they left in their wrath to thy uninteresting extensiveness, Barren, and bleak, and big; a wild aggregation of barracks, Miscalled hotels, and of dovecotes denominate cottages; A confusion of ugly girls, of sand, and of health-bearing breezes, With one unending plank-walk for a true Philadelphia “attraction.” City ambitiously named, why, with inducements delusive, Is the un-Philadelphian stranger lured to thy desert pretentious? ’Tis not alone that thy avenues, broad and unpaved and unending, Reecho yet with the obsolete music of “Pinafore,” Whistled in various keys by the rather too numerous negro; ’Tis not alone that Propriety--Propriety too Philadelphian-- Over thee stretches an ægis of wholly superfluous virtue; That thou art utterly good; hast no single vice to redeem thee; ’Tis not alone that thou art provincial in all things, and petty; And that the dulness of death is gay, compared to thy dulness-- ’Tis not alone for these things that my curse is to rest upon thee, But for a sin that crowns thee with perfect and eminent badness, Sets thee alone in thy shame, the unworthiest town on the sea-coast; This: That thou dinest at noon, and then in a manner barbarian, Soupless, and wineless, and coffeeless, untimely and wholly indecent, As is the custom, I learn, in Philadelphia proper. I rose, and I fled from thy supper. I said, “I will get me a dinner!” Vainly I wandered thy streets. Thy eating-places ungodly Knew not the holiness of dinner. In all that evening I dined not; But in a strange, low lair, infested of native mechanics, Bolted a fried beefsteak for the physical need of my stomach. And for them that have fried that steak, in Aïdes’ lowest back-kitchen, May they eternally broil, by way of a warning to others. During my wanderings, I met and hailed with delight one Italian, A man with a name from “Pasquale”--the chap sung by Tagliapietra; He knew what it was to dine; he comprehended my yearnings; But the spell was also on him, the somnolent spell Philadelphian, And his hostelry would not be open till Saturday next; and I cursed him. Now this is not too much to ask--God knows!--that a mortal should want a Pint of Bordeaux to his dinner, and a small cigarette for a climax; But these things being denied him, where, then, is your civilization? O Coney Island! of old I have reviled and blasphemed thee, For that thou dousest thy glim at an hour that is unmetropolitan; That thy frequenters’ feet turn townwards ere striketh eleven, When the returning cars are filled with young men and maidens, Most of the maidens asleep on the young men’s cindery shoulders-- Yea, but I spake as a fool, insensate, disgruntled, ungrateful: Thee will I worship henceforth in appreciative humility; Luxurious and splendid and urban, glorious and gaslit and gracious, Gathering from every land thy gay and ephemeral tenantry, From the Greek who hails thee “Thalatta!” to the rustic who murmurs “My golly!” From the Bowery youth who requests his sweetheart to “Look at them billers!” To the Gaul whom thy laughing waves almost persuade to immersion. O Coney Island, thou art the weary citizen’s heaven-- A heaven to dine, not die in, joyful and restful and clamful. Better one hour of thee than an age of Atlantic City! _H. C. Bunner._
THE FONT IN THE FOREST
THERE’S a prim little pond At the back of Beyond, And its waters are over your ears; It’s a sort of a tarn Behind Robin Hood’s barn, Where the fish live a million years.
And the mortals who drink At its pebbly brink Are immediately changed into mullets, Whose heads grow immense At their bodies’ expense, And whose eyes become bulbous as bullets.
But they willingly stay Who have once found the way, And they crave neither credit nor blame; For to wiggle their tails, And to practise their scales, Is enough in the Fountain of Fame. _Herman Knickerbocker Vielé._
THE ORIGIN OF SIN
HE talked about the origin Of sin; But present sin, I must confess, He never tried to render less; But used to add, so people talk, His share unto the general stock-- But grieved about the origin Of sin.
He mourned about the origin Of sin; But never struggled very long To rout contemporaneous wrong, And never lost his sleep, they say, About the evils of to-day-- But wept about the origin Of sin.
He sighed about the origin Of sin; But showed no fear you could detect About its ultimate effect; He deemed it best to use no force, But let it run its natural course-- But moaned about the origin Of sin. _Samuel Walter Foss._
A PHILOSOPHER
ZACK BUMSTEAD useter flosserfize About the ocean an’ the skies; An’ gab an’ gas f’um morn till noon About the other side the moon; An’ ’bout the natur of the place Ten miles beyend the end of space. An’ if his wife she’d ask the crank Ef he wouldn’t kinder try to yank Hisself out-doors an’ git some wood To make her kitchen fire good, So she c’d bake her beans an’ pies, He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”
An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize About the natur an’ the size Of angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp, An’ wonder how they make ’em flop. He’d calkerlate how long a skid ’Twould take to move the sun, he did; An’ if the skid was strong an’ prime, It couldn’t be moved to supper-time. An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the lout Ef he wouldn’t kinder waltz about An’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies, He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”
An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize ’Bout schemes for fencing in the skies, Then lettin’ out the lots to rent, So’s he could make an honest cent. An’ if he’d find it pooty tough To borry cash fer fencin’-stuff? An’ if ’twere best to take his wealth An’ go to Europe for his health, Or save his cash till he’d enough To buy some more of fencin’-stuff; Then, ef his wife she’d ask the gump Ef he wouldn’t kinder try to hump Hisself to t’other side the door, So she c’d come an’ sweep the floor, He’d look at her with mournful eyes, An’ say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”
An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize ’Bout what it wuz held up the skies, An’ how God made this earthly ball Jest simply out er nawthin’ ’tall, An’ ’bout the natur, shape, an’ form Of nawthin’ that he made it from. Then, ef his wife sh’d ask the freak Ef he wouldn’t kinder try to sneak Out to the barn an’ find some aigs, He’d never move, nor lift his laigs; He’d never stir, nor try to rise, But say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”
An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize About the earth, an’ sea, an’ skies, An’ scratch his head, an’ ask the cause Of w’at there wuz before time wuz, An’ w’at the universe ’d do Bimeby w’en time hed all got through; An’ jest how fur we’d have to climb Ef we sh’d travel out er time; An’ ef we’d need, w’en we got there, To keep our watches in repair. Then, ef his wife she’d ask the gawk Ef he wouldn’t kinder try to walk To where she had the table spread, An’ kinder git his stomach fed, He’d leap for that ar kitchen door, An’ say, “W’y didn’t you speak afore?” An’ when he’d got his supper et, He’d set, an’ set, an’ set, an’ set, An’ fold his arms, an’ shet his eyes, An’ set, an’ set, an’ flosserfize. _Samuel Walter Foss._
THE FATE OF PIOUS DAN