Part 2
Gentle Reader, keep clear of her clutches! O beware of her voice, I entreat! Be you journalist, dowager duchess, Or just merely the Man in the Street. And I beg of you not to encourage a jade Who, if once she is started, can _never_ be stayed.
_The Cry of the Children_
[On the subject of infant education it has been suggested that more advantageous results might be obtained if, instead of filling children’s minds with such nonsense as fairy-tales, stories were read to them about Julius Cæsar.]
O my Brothers, do you hear the children weeping? Do you note the teardrops tumbling from their eyes? To the school-house they reluctantly are creeping,
Discontented with the teaching it supplies. At the quality of modern education Little urchins may with justice look askance, Since it panders to a child’s imagination, And encourages romance.
Do you see that toddling baby with a bib on, How his eyes with silent misery are dim? He is yearning for the chance of reading Gibbon; But his teachers give him nothing else but Grimm! What a handicap to infantile ambition! ’Tis enough to make the brightest bantling fume, To be gammoned with an Andrew Lang edition, When he longs for Hume, sweet Hume!
See that tiny one, what boredom he expresses! What intolerance his frequent yawns evince Of the fairy-tales where beautiful princesses Are delivered from a dragon by a prince! How he curses the pedantic institution Where he can’t obtain such volumes as “Le Cid,” Or that masterpiece on “Social Evolution” By another kind of Kidd!
Do you hear the children weeping, O my Brothers? They are crying for Max Müller and Carlyle. Tho’ Hans Andersen may satisfy their mothers, They are weary of so immature a style. And their time is far too brief to be expended On such nonsense as their “rude forefathers” read; For they know the days of sentiment are ended, And that Chivalry is dead!
Oh remember that the pillars of the nation Are the children that we discipline to-day; That to give them a becoming education You must rear them in a reasonable way! Let us guard them from the glamour of the mystics, Who would throw a ray of sunshine on their lives! Let us feed each helpless atom on statistics, And pray Heaven he survives!
Let us cast away the out-of-date traditions, Which our poets and romanticists have sung! Let us sacrifice the senseless superstitions That illuminate the fancies of the young! If we limit our instruction to the “reals,” We may prove to ev’ry baby from the start, The futility of cherishing ideals In his golden little heart!
_The Cry of the Elders_
[With steady but increasing pace the world is approaching a point at which the cleverness of the young will amount to a social problem. Already things are getting uncomfortable for persons of age and sobriety, whose notion of happiness is to ruminate a few solid and simple ideas in freedom from disturbance.--_Macmillan’s Magazine._]
O my Children, do you hear your elders sighing? Do you wonder that senility should find Your encyclopædic knowledge somewhat trying To the ordinary mind? In the heyday of a former generation, Some respect for our intelligence was shown; And it’s hard for us to cotton To the fact that _you’ve_ forgotten More than _we_ have ever known!
O my Children, do you hear your elders snoring, When the “chassis” of your motors you discuss? Do you wonder that your “shop” is rather boring To such simple souls as us?[1] Do you marvel that your dreary conversation Should evoke the yawns that “lie too deep for tears,” When you lecture to your betters About “tanks” and “carburettors,” About “sparking-plugs” and “gears”?
O my Children, in the season of your nonage, (Which delightful days no longer now exist!) We could join with other fogeys of our own age In a quiet game of whist. _Now_, at bridge, our very experts are defeated By some beardless but impertinent young cub, Who converts our silent table To a very Tow’r of Babel, At the Knickerbocker Club!
O my Children, we no longer are respected! ’Tis a fact we older fellows must deplore, Whose opinions and whose judgments are neglected, As they never were before. We may tender good advice to our descendants; We may offer them our money, if we will; Lo, the one shall be forsaken, And the other shall be taken (Like the women at the mill!).
O my Children, note the moral (like a kernel) I have hidden in the centre of my song! Do not contradict a relative maternal, If she happens to be wrong! Be indulgent to the author of your being; Never show him the contempt that you must feel; Treat him tolerantly, rather, Since a man who is _your_ father Can’t be wholly imbecile!
O my Children, we, the older generation, At whose feet you ought (in theory) to sit, Are bewildered by your mental penetration, We are dazzled by your wit! But we hopefully anticipate a future When the airship shall replace the motor-’bus, And _your_ children, when they meet you, Shall inevitably treat you Just as you are treating us!
[1] “As us” is not grammar.--Publishers’ Reader. “As we” is not verse.--H. G.
_An Epithalamium_
LONGWORTH--ROOSEVELT, FEBRUARY 17TH, 1906
Hail, bride and bridegroom of the West! Your troth irrevocably plighted! Your act of Union doubly blest, Your single States United, With full approval and assent Of populace and President!
Let Spangled Banners wave on high, To greet the maiden as she passes! See how the proud Proconsul’s eye Grows dim behind his glasses! How fond the heart that beats beneath Those pleated Presidential teeth!
The bishop has received his cheque, The final slipper has been thrown; With rice down each respective neck, The couple stand alone. To them, at last, the fates provide A privacy so long denied.
Letters and wires, from near and far, Lie thickly piled on ev’ry table; The peaceful message from the Czar, The Kaiser’s kindly cable; The well-expressed congratulations From Heads of all the Sister Nations.
Rich gifts, as countless as the sand That cloaks the desert of Sahara, From fish-slice to piano (grand), From toast-rack to tiara, Still overwhelm the lucky maid (With heavy duties to be paid!).
See, hand-in-hand, the couple stand! (The guests their homeward journey take, Concealing their emotion--and Some lumps of wedding cake!) How glad the happy pair must be That Hymen’s bonds have set them free!
Free of the curious Yellow Press, Free of the public’s prying gaze, Of all the troubles that obsess The path of fiancés! Alone at last, and safely screen’d From onslaughts of the kodak-fiend!
The Bride, who bore without demur The wiles of artists photographic, Of vulgar crowds that gaped at her, Congesting all the traffic, Can shop, once more, in perfect peace, Without the help of the police.
Arrayed in stylish trav’lling dress, Behold, with blushes she departs! The free Republican Princess A captive Queen of Hearts! (Captive to Cupid, need I say? But Queen in ev’ry other way!)
And this must surely be the hour For Anglo-Saxons, ev’rywhere, With cousinly regard, to show’r Good wishes on the pair; Borne on the bosom of the breeze, Our blessings speed across the seas!
Hail, Bride and Bridegroom of the West! (Pray pardon my redundant lyre) May your united lives be blest With all your hearts’ desire! Accept the warm felicitations Of fond, if distant, blood-relations!
_The Self-Made Father to His Ready-Made Son_
(AN OPEN LETTER)
My Offspring:--Ere you raise the glass, To irrigate your ardent throttle; Ere once again you gladly pass The bottle; Take heed that your prevailing passion Be not completely out of fashion.
No longer does the Prodigal Expend his nights in drunken frolic; Or pass his days in revels al-Coholic; For, nowadays, a glass _de trop_ Is not considered _comme il faut_.
No longer do the youthful fall, Like leaf or partridge in October; For they, if anything at all, Are sober. (I mean the boys,--don’t be absurd! And not the foliage or the bird.)
No longer arm-in-arm they roam, Despite constabulary warning, Declaring that they won’t go home Till morning! With bursts of bacchanalian song, And jokes as broad as they are long.
No more they wander to-and-fro, Exchanging incoherent greetings-- The kind in vogue at Caledo- -Nian Meetings (Behavior that we all condemn, Especially at 3 a. m.).
Yes; fashions change--and well they may! No longer, at the dinner-table, Do persons drink as much as they Are able; And seek the hospitable floor, When they have drunk a trifle more.
My nasal hue, incarnadine, Shall not, perhaps, be wholly wasted, If sons of mine but leave their wine Untasted; And vanquish, with deserving merit, The varied vices they inherit.
Yes, Offspring, I rejoice to think That, shunning my example truly, You never may be led to drink Unduly. It is indeed a blessèd thought! Now, will you kindly pass the port?
_The Author to His Hostess_
(AN OPEN LETTER)
[Very few English men of letters enjoy a desirable social position. To be sure, they are frequently invited to functions, where they are treated with insistent affability by persons belonging to the higher classes; but the sort of position to be obtained in this way is insecure, and unpleasant to any save those of adamantine cheek.--_Current Magazine._]
Dear Lady,--When you bade me come To grace your crowded “Kettledrum,” And mingle in the best society; When Melba sang, and Elman played,
And waiters handed lemonade (Tempering music with sobriety), I never had the least suspicion Of my precarious position.
But now, with opened eyes, I leap To this conclusion, shrewd and deep, (What cerebral agility!): Your compliments were insincere, Your hospitality was mere “Insistent affability!” And I, a foolish man of letters, Who thought to mingle with his betters!
Ah me! How pride precedes a fall! That one who haunted “rout” or ball, When invitations were acquirable, Should see himself as others see, Becoming suddenly, like me, A social “undesirable”; Invading the selectest clique With truly adamantine cheek!
How proud an air I used to wear! When titled persons turned to stare, I blushed like a geranium. When lovely ladies softly said:
“Oh, Duchess, did you see his head?” “What a capacious cranium!” “Yes; isn’t that the man who writes?” “I wonder why they look such frights!”
I used to bridle coyly when Some schoolmate, of the Upper Ten (They were not over-numerous!), Would slap my back, and shout “By Jove! “Ain’t you a literary cove?” (As tho’ ’twere something humorous!) “Those books of yours are grand, you bet! What? No, I haven’t read them yet.”
But now I realize my fate; A stranger at the social gate (Tho’ treated with civility); The choicest circles I frequent Must be the ones my brains invent, With fictional futility; The only Royalties I know Are those my publisher can show!
The garden-party, and the tea, Are surely not for men like me (O Vanity of Vanities!); Such entertainments are taboo,
And might debase my talents to Additional inanities. The Poet has no business there: _Que ferait-il dans cette galère?_
Ah, lonely is the Author’s lot! Assuming, if he hath it not, A suitable humility. For when his daily work is done, He must inevitably shun The homes of the Nobility, As, with dejected steps, he passes To supper with the middle classes!
_On the Decline of Gentility Among the Young_
(SUGGESTED BY MR. MAX BEERBOHM)
O youth uncouth, who slouchest by, Along the crowded public street, An eyeglass in thy languid eye, Brown boots upon thy feet, A loose umbrella in thy grip, A toothpick pendent from thy lip.
Much I deplore thy clumsy gait, Thy drab sartorial display, So wholly inappropriate To this august highway; How can a man in such attire Set any spinster’s heart on fire?
Thou art in dress no epicure, By weight of fashions overladen; Thy tawdry togs do not allure The soul of every maiden; They sound no echoing color-note To her tempestuous petticoat.
Her stylish skirt, her dainty blouse, Are crêpe-de-chine, or bombazine[2]; Compare the texture of thy trous: With _their_ chromatic sheen; To what abysm of taste we reach By the Observance of thy Breech!
Think what she pays her _modiste_ for Those hats of questionable shapes, Surmounted by a seagull or Some imitation grapes! Small wonder she receives a shock Each time she views thy “billycock”!
Observe how like an autumn leaf The colors of the male canary, The garb of each New Zealand chief Who woos his Little Maori; The savage mind has thus designed A dress to please its womankind.
And tho’ I would not have thee go As far as primal man or beast, To lovely woman thou should’st show _Some_ deference at least, And give a thought of what to wear Upon the public thoroughfare.
And should’st thou wish to walk aright, Let Mr. Beerbohm be thy mould; Sedate yet courtly, and polite As any beau of old; Yea, plant thy footsteps in the tracks Of our inimitable Max!
Enclose thy larynx in a stock (As though afflicted with the fever); And in the place of “billycock” Procure a bristling “beaver”; And practise, not I hope in vain, The “conduct of a clouded cane.”
If thou consentest thus to act, In scorn of popular convention, Thy bearing shall indeed attract Much feminine attention; As day by day, in brilliant hue, Thy figure fills Fifth Avenue.
[2] Impossible.--Publishers’ Reader. These ones were.--H. G.
“_Lochinvar_”
(WITH APOLOGIES TO SCOTT AND SWINBURNE)
When the shadow-shapes shone like a shaddock, Where the sunset had kissed them to flame, On his palfrey, the pick of the paddock, With his sword in its scabbard, he came! In the glamour of amorous passion He would blaze like a seasoned cigar; And he fought in a similar fashion, Did Young Lochinvar!
By the fences and fens unaffrighted, And unstopt by the stream in its spate, In a lather, at last, he alighted, And he knocked at the Netherbys’ gate. ’Twas too late! (As he doubtless had dreaded.) He perceived his particular “star” To a blackguard about to be wedded, Did Young Lochinvar!
But he passed through the portal so proudly To the room where the gifts were displayed, That old Netherby called to him loudly (For the bridegroom, poor fool, was afraid). “Is it blood you are bent upon shedding? With a murder this marriage to mar? Or to waltz do you wish at the wedding, My Young Lochinvar?”
He replied, “Tho’ ’twere useless to smother My love for the maid at your side; Tho’ my Helen be bound to another, I shall trust to the turn of the tied. As I drink to her squint and her freckles, I’ll remark how few ladies there are Who would shrink from a share of the shekels Of Young Lochinvar.”
Then he pledged her in port, so politely (Tho’ her mother lamented his taste), And she smiled at him ever so slightly, As he settled his arm round her waist. When he drew her direct to the dancers, The Bohemian band struck a bar, And she found herself leading the Lancers With Young Lochinvar!
Oh, the beauty and grace are so vivid Of this perfectly parallel pair, That the parents grow purple and livid, And the bridegroom is tearing his hair; While the bridesmaids talk ten to the dozen, Saying: “Goodness, what gabies we are, Not to marry our exquisite cousin To Young Lochinvar!”
Then the girl by her partner is beckoned To the door, where a charger they find; To the saddle he springs in a second, And he lifts her up lightly behind; “She is mine!” he announces, adjourning To the distant horizon afar, “Till the cattle to roost are returning!”[3] Says Young Lochinvar.
O the tumult! The tumbling of tables! O the stress of the scene that succeeds! O the stir on the stairs,--in the stables! O the stamping and saddling of steeds! But the bride has eluded them surely; In the room of some kind Registrar, She is now being wedded securely To Young Lochinvar!
[3] “Till the cows come home”: an old English saying, denoting eternity.
_Abbreviation’s Artful Aid_
The Bard, at times Is stumped for rhymes, Without the least excuse. He can defy Such moments by Abbreviation’s use, And gain the grat: Of friend or neighb: Without an at: Of extra lab:
So simp: a rule May seem pecul: And make the crit: indig: What matter if The scans: is diff: The meaning too ambig:? The net result, Lacon: and punct: Is worth a mult: Of needless unct:
We long for sile: From folks who pile Their worldly Pel: on Oss: Extremely nox: And quite intox: By their exhub: verbos: We curse their imp: In manner dras: And fail to symp: With their loquac:
In House of Rep: Applause is tep: For periphrastic Pol: Reviewers sniff At auth: prolif: With semiannual vol: But we can pard: However peev: The minor bard Who will abbrev:
With pen and ink In close propinq: The Poet, lucky fell:! Avoiding troub: May give his pub: The cred: for some intell: And like an orph: In pose recumb: In arms of Morph: Securely slumb:
Let corks explode: With brand: and sod: Ye wearers of the mot:! Decant the cham: (What matt: the dam:?) And empt: the flowing bott:! And ne’er surren: The Laureate’s palm, His haunch of ven: And butt of Malm:!
_Author’s Aftword_
How I have labored, night and day, Just like the hero of a novel, To drive the hungry wolf away From my baronial hovel, To keep the bailiffs from my home, By finishing this bulky tome.
To such a trying mental strain My intellect is far from fitted, Tho’ if I had an ounce more brain I should be quite half-witted, And when I wander in my mind I am most difficult to find.
The sort of life for which I care Is one combining Peace and Plenty With _laisser aller_, _laisser faire_, And _dolce far niente_. (The heart of ev’ry Bridge-fiend jumps: _Dolce_ ... ’tis sweet to make “No Trumps.”)
I shrink from work in any shape,-- Too clearly do these pages show it,-- But work is what one can’t escape And be a Minor Poet; And critics I may well defy To find a minor bard than I.
I ought to live out ’Frisco way, Where working is considered silly, As Greeley (Horace) used to say,-- Or was it Collier (Willie)?-- “Go West, young man” (I understand), “Go West and blow up with the land!”
Were I as full of zeal and fun As Balzac, who could drudge so gaily, Or diligent as Peter Dunne, I might accomplish daily An ode of Pleasure or of Passion In Ella Wheeler Wilcox fashion;
But, as it is, I sit and toil, Consuming time and ink and curses And pints of precious midnight oil To perpetrate these verses. If _writing_ them be dull indeed, Alas! what must they be to _read_!