Part 8

Who then, or what, this king of mighty fame? Whence comes his power, and what may be his name? May we not, with some show of truthful grace, Put The Waste Basket in that honored place? The question 'mongst good talkers, day by day, Should be, what is it wisest _not_ to say? The question with good workers who'd be true, Should be, what is it wisest _not_ to do? The minister his judgment should beseech, To know what sermons wisely _not_ to preach; The editor should study, without stint, What articles 'tis wisest _not_ to print; And so I ask, the question home to bring-- Is The Waste Basket not The Sanctum King? Great treasurer of literary gems! Casket of unsuspected diadems! Sad cemetery, where in dreamless sleep, Some millions of bright hopes lie buried deep! Joy to the editor, who, keen of sight, Knows his Waste Basket how to use aright; Who marks its prudent counsels, day by day, And rules himself its mandates to obey! Prints no cheap advertisement for a song, But straight inserts them--where the things belong; Kills those communications whose sour fruit Would probably have been--a libel suit; Rejects that trash his desk so often finds, Unfit to set before his readers' minds; And sends the scum of malice, filth and spite, To be made into paper, pure and white! Let The Waste Basket's countless merits ring; But still it is not quite The Sanctum King!

So, then, if none of those of which I speak, Is vested with the qualities we seek, Let us once more inquire, untouched by blame, Who is this wondrous king, of mighty fame? List then, while plain his name to you I bring, THE PUBLIC HEART! That is The Sanctum King!

Yes, 'mid unceasing worry and turmoil, To serve that Heart, the Editor must toil; Under Its bidding must his efforts be; It forms part of "the editorial We." Why do the papers gossip, would you know? Because--the public ear would have it so. Our journal's not a favorite breakfast-dish, Unless it gossips to the public wish; And even they who call "the stuff absurd," Will sit and groan, and--read it every word. Why do we thread men's motives thro' and thro'? Because our king, The Public, tells us to! Why do we quote the wedding chimes and hues? Because our Queen is waiting for the news. Why do we type on useless stories waste? To please some portions of the public taste! Why do we into secret haunts repair? Because a curious public sends us there! Why do we tell the crimes of all the lands? Because The Public Heart their tale demands! Why are we deep in politics immersed? Because The Public fought and quarreled first!

Why do we toil with all that we possess? Because The Public Brain will take no less! Acknowledged let our proud position be: The Public Heart's prime-ministers are we!

Men of the Press! to us is given, indeed, To shape the growing appetites we feed! We must from day to day and week to week, To elevate our Monarch's motives seek, That he may, with an open, liberal hand, Higher and higher things of us demand! So let us cut our own progressive way-- So onward toil, through darkness and through day; So let us in our labor persevere, Unspoiled by praise--untouched by blame or fear; Learn to distinguish, with true, patient art, The private pocket from The Public Heart; Learn how to guide that Heart, in every choice, And give its noblest thoughts its purest voice! Till so The Press The Public Heart may move, That day by day they mutually improve: That high and higher each the other bring, Till God Himself shall be The Sanctum King!

STRAY STANZAS.

LINES TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

[IN BOSTON LITERARY WORLD'S "WELCOME" NUMBER, JUNE 27, 1885.]

With love not even he could wake, Save in his fatherland, We reach a Yankee grasp, and take Hosea by the hand. With smiles of praise, that need must throng With sympathizing tears, We greet our prince of prose and song, In his maturer years; For words that made a shining track, Beyond the Atlantic foam, We lift our hearts, and welcome back Our statesman to his home.

TO MONSIEUR PASTEUR.

[UPON HIS DISCOVERY OF INOCULATION FOR HYDROPHOBIA.]

O good Monsieur Pasteur! your humanized art Has thrilled every brain, and has touched every heart; Man's friendliest beast--by disease tortured sore, Henceforth is a poisonous reptile no more; Now please find a cure to our maladies when This poor world is bitten by mad-minded men!

TO A YOUNG LADY.

[FOR WHOM TWO HARVARD STUDENTS ENGAGED IN A GAME OF FISTICUFFS.]

'Tis something to be sought for, O maiden archly fair-- And to be bravely fought for; but, sweet one, have a care! The "slugger" tribe (the fact is) when business with them thrives, Are sometimes prone to practice their art upon their wives!

DEATH OF THE RICHEST MAN.

He owned, to-day, a large and gleaming share Of this earth's narrow rim; A sigh--a groan--a gesture of despair-- The earth owned him. The richest one of any clime or land, The old-time lesson taught; A human mine of gold!--God raised His hand, And he had nought.

TO THE SMOTHERED MINERS.

Oh men who died in tombs, Away from the life of the sun, Down in the griefs and glooms Of a day forever done: The life of that senseless coal Will some day seek the air; And Heaven will claim each soul Of your bodies buried there.

THE DEATHLESS SONG.

[TELEGRAPHED TO THE JOHN HOWARD PAYNE OBSEQUIES AT WASHINGTON, 1883.]

Although to-day with reverent tread I may not join your throng, My heart is with the living dead Who wrote the deathless song.

ON A "POET"-CRITIC.

Disgruntled ----, by failure spoiled Into a living frown, With pens by his own "poems" spoiled, Writes younger authors down: Sick serpent of the growler tribes, Your victims might do worse; They'd rather bear your shallow gibes, Than write your dawdling verse.

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Transcriber's Notes.

1. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=.

2. Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors have been silently corrected.