Chapter 4
At length, when four o’clock arrived, and it was time to go, The carriage was announced, but decent SARAH answered “No! Upon my word, I’d rather sleep my everlasting nap, Than go and ride alone with MR. PETER in a trap.”
And PETER’S over-sensitive and highly-polished mind Wouldn’t suffer him to sanction a proceeding of the kind; And further, he declared he suffered overwhelming shocks At the bare idea of having any coachman on the box.
So PETER into one turn-out incontinently rushed, While SARAH in a second trap sat modestly and blushed; And MR. NEWMAN’S coachman, on authority I’ve heard, Drove away in gallant style upon the coach-box of a third.
Now, though this modest couple in the matter of the car Were very likely carrying a principle too far, I hold their shy behaviour was more laudable in them Than that of PETER’S brother with MISS SARAH’S sister EM.
ALPHONSO, who in cool assurance all creation licks, He up and said to EMMIE (who had impudence for six), “MISS EMILY, I love you—will you marry? Say the word!” And EMILY said, “Certainly, ALPHONSO, like a bird!”
I do not recommend a newly-married pair to try To carry on as PETER carried on with SARAH BLIGH, But still their shy behaviour was more laudable in them Than that of PETER’S brother with MISS SARAH’S sister EM.
THE MARTINET
SOME time ago, in simple verse I sang the story true Of CAPTAIN REECE, the _Mantelpiece_, And all her happy crew.
I showed how any captain may Attach his men to him, If he but heeds their smallest needs, And studies every whim.
Now mark how, by Draconic rule And _hauteur_ ill-advised, The noblest crew upon the Blue May be demoralized.
When his ungrateful country placed Kind REECE upon half-pay, Without much claim SIR BERKELY came, And took command one day.
SIR BERKELY was a martinet— A stern unyielding soul— Who ruled his ship by dint of whip And horrible black-hole.
A sailor who was overcome From having freely dined, And chanced to reel when at the wheel, He instantly confined!
And tars who, when an action raged, Appeared alarmed or scared, And those below who wished to go, He very seldom spared.
E’en he who smote his officer For punishment was booked, And mutinies upon the seas He rarely overlooked.
In short, the happy _Mantelpiece_, Where all had gone so well, Beneath that fool SIR BERKELY’S rule Became a floating hell.
When first SIR BERKELY came aboard He read a speech to all, And told them how he’d made a vow To act on duty’s call.
Then WILLIAM LEE, he up and said (The Captain’s coxswain he), “We’ve heard the speech your honour’s made, And werry pleased we be.
“We won’t pretend, my lad, as how We’re glad to lose our REECE; Urbane, polite, he suited quite The saucy _Mantelpiece_.
“But if your honour gives your mind To study all our ways, With dance and song we’ll jog along As in those happy days.
“I like your honour’s looks, and feel You’re worthy of your sword. Your hand, my lad—I’m doosid glad To welcome you aboard!”
SIR BERKELY looked amazed, as though He didn’t understand. “Don’t shake your head,” good WILLIAM said, “It is an honest hand.
“It’s grasped a better hand than yourn— Come, gov’nor, I insist!” The Captain stared—the coxswain glared— The hand became a fist!
“Down, upstart!” said the hardy salt; But BERKELY dodged his aim, And made him go in chains below: The seamen murmured “Shame!”
He stopped all songs at 12 p.m., Stopped hornpipes when at sea, And swore his cot (or bunk) should not Be used by aught than he.
He never joined their daily mess, Nor asked them to his own, But chaffed in gay and social way The officers alone.
His First Lieutenant, PETER, was As useless as could be, A helpless stick, and always sick When there was any sea.
This First Lieutenant proved to be His foster-sister MAY, Who went to sea for love of he In masculine array.
And when he learnt the curious fact, Did he emotion show, Or dry her tears or end her fears By marrying her? No!
Or did he even try to soothe This maiden in her teens? Oh, no!—instead he made her wed The Sergeant of Marines!
Of course such Spartan discipline Would make an angel fret; They drew a lot, and WILLIAM shot This fearful martinet.
The Admiralty saw how ill They’d treated CAPTAIN REECE; He was restored once more aboard The saucy _Mantelpiece_.
THE SAILOR BOY TO HIS LASS
I GO away this blessed day, To sail across the sea, MATILDA! My vessel starts for various parts At twenty after three, MATILDA. I hardly know where we may go, Or if it’s near or far, MATILDA, For CAPTAIN HYDE does not confide In any ’fore-mast tar, MATILDA!
Beneath my ban that mystic man Shall suffer, _coûte qui coûte_, MATILDA! What right has he to keep from me The Admiralty route, MATILDA? Because, forsooth! I am a youth Of common sailors’ lot, MATILDA! Am I a man on human plan Designed, or am I not, MATILDA?
But there, my lass, we’ll let that pass! With anxious love I burn, MATILDA. I want to know if we shall go To church when I return, MATILDA? Your eyes are red, you bow your head; It’s pretty clear you thirst, MATILDA, To name the day—What’s that you say?— “You’ll see me further first,” MATILDA?
I can’t mistake the signs you make, Although you barely speak, MATILDA; Though pure and young, you thrust your tongue Right in your pretty cheek, MATILDA! My dear, I fear I hear you sneer— I do—I’m sure I do, MATILDA! With simple grace you make a face, Ejaculating, “Ugh!” MATILDA.
Oh, pause to think before you drink The dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA! Remember, do, what I’ve gone through, Before you give me up, MATILDA! Recall again the mental pain Of what I’ve had to do, MATILDA! And be assured that I’ve endured It, all along of you, MATILDA!
Do you forget, my blithesome pet, How once with jealous rage, MATILDA, I watched you walk and gaily talk With some one thrice your age, MATILDA? You squatted free upon his knee, A sight that made me sad, MATILDA! You pinched his cheek with friendly tweak, Which almost drove me mad, MATILDA!
I knew him not, but hoped to spot Some man you thought to wed, MATILDA! I took a gun, my darling one, And shot him through the head, MATILDA! I’m made of stuff that’s rough and gruff Enough, I own; but, ah, MATILDA! It _did_ annoy your sailor boy To find it was your pa, MATILDA!
I’ve passed a life of toil and strife, And disappointments deep, MATILDA; I’ve lain awake with dental ache Until I fell asleep, MATILDA! At times again I’ve missed a train, Or p’rhaps run short of tin, MATILDA, And worn a boot on corns that shoot, Or, shaving, cut my chin, MATILDA.
But, oh! no trains—no dental pains— Believe me when I say, MATILDA, No corns that shoot—no pinching boot Upon a summer day, MATILDA— It’s my belief, could cause such grief As that I’ve suffered for, MATILDA, My having shot in vital spot Your old progenitor, MATILDA.
Bethink you how I’ve kept the vow I made one winter day, MATILDA— That, come what could, I never would Remain too long away, MATILDA. And, oh! the crimes with which, at times, I’ve charged my gentle mind, MATILDA, To keep the vow I made—and now You treat me so unkind, MATILDA!
For when at sea, off Caribbee, I felt my passion burn, MATILDA, By passion egged, I went and begged The captain to return, MATILDA. And when, my pet, I couldn’t get That captain to agree, MATILDA, Right through a sort of open port I pitched him in the sea, MATILDA!
Remember, too, how all the crew With indignation blind, MATILDA, Distinctly swore they ne’er before Had thought me so unkind, MATILDA. And how they’d shun me one by one— An unforgiving group, MATILDA— I stopped their howls and sulky scowls By pizening their soup, MATILDA!
So pause to think, before you drink The dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA; Remember, do, what I’ve gone through, Before you give me up, MATILDA. Recall again the mental pain Of what I’ve had to do, MATILDA, And be assured that I’ve endured It, all along of you, MATILDA!
THE REVEREND SIMON MAGUS
A RICH advowson, highly prized, For private sale was advertised; And many a parson made a bid; The REVEREND SIMON MAGUS did.
He sought the agent’s: “Agent, I Have come prepared at once to buy (If your demand is not too big) The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge.”
“Ah!” said the agent, “_there’s_ a berth— The snuggest vicarage on earth; No sort of duty (so I hear), And fifteen hundred pounds a year!
“If on the price we should agree, The living soon will vacant be; The good incumbent’s ninety five, And cannot very long survive.
“See—here’s his photograph—you see, He’s in his dotage.” “Ah, dear me! Poor soul!” said SIMON. “His decease Would be a merciful release!”
The agent laughed—the agent blinked— The agent blew his nose and winked— And poked the parson’s ribs in play— It was that agent’s vulgar way.
The REVEREND SIMON frowned: “I grieve This light demeanour to perceive; It’s scarcely _comme il faut_, I think: Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.
“Don’t dig my waistcoat into holes— Your mission is to sell the souls Of human sheep and human kids To that divine who highest bids.
“Do well in this, and on your head Unnumbered honours will be shed.” The agent said, “Well, truth to tell, I _have_ been doing very well.”
“You should,” said SIMON, “at your age; But now about the parsonage. How many rooms does it contain? Show me the photograph again.
“A poor apostle’s humble house Must not be too luxurious; No stately halls with oaken floor— It should be decent and no more.
“No billiard-rooms—no stately trees— No croquêt-grounds or pineries.” “Ah!” sighed the agent, “very true: This property won’t do for you.”
“All these about the house you’ll find.”— “Well,” said the parson, “never mind; I’ll manage to submit to these Luxurious superfluities.
“A clergyman who does not shirk The various calls of Christian work, Will have no leisure to employ These ‘common forms’ of worldly joy.
“To preach three times on Sabbath days— To wean the lost from wicked ways— The sick to soothe—the sane to wed— The poor to feed with meat and bread;
“These are the various wholesome ways In which I’ll spend my nights and days: My zeal will have no time to cool At croquet, archery, or pool.”
The agent said, “From what I hear, This living will not suit, I fear— There are no poor, no sick at all; For services there is no call.”
The reverend gent looked grave, “Dear me! Then there is _no_ ‘society’?— I mean, of course, no sinners there Whose souls will be my special care?”
The cunning agent shook his head, “No, none—except”—(the agent said)— “The DUKE OF A., the EARL OF B., The MARQUIS C., and VISCOUNT D.
“But you will not be quite alone, For though they’ve chaplains of their own, Of course this noble well-bred clan Receive the parish clergyman.”
“Oh, silence, sir!” said SIMON M., “Dukes—Earls! What should I care for them? These worldly ranks I scorn and flout!” “Of course,” the agent said, “no doubt!”
“Yet I might show these men of birth The hollowness of rank on earth.” The agent answered, “Very true— But I should not, if I were you.”
“Who sells this rich advowson, pray?” The agent winked—it was his way— “His name is HART; ’twixt me and you, He is, I’m grieved to say, a Jew!”
“A Jew?” said SIMON, “happy find! I purchase this advowson, mind. My life shall be devoted to Converting that unhappy Jew!”
DAMON _v._ PYTHIAS
TWO better friends you wouldn’t pass Throughout a summer’s day, Than DAMON and his PYTHIAS,— Two merchant princes they.
At school together they contrived All sorts of boyish larks; And, later on, together thrived As merry merchants’ clerks.
And then, when many years had flown, They rose together till They bought a business of their own— And they conduct it still.
They loved each other all their lives, Dissent they never knew, And, stranger still, their very wives Were rather friendly too.
Perhaps you think, to serve my ends, These statements I refute, When I admit that these dear friends Were parties to a suit?
But ’twas a friendly action, for Good PYTHIAS, as you see, Fought merely as executor, And DAMON as trustee.
They laughed to think, as through the throng Of suitors sad they passed, That they, who’d lived and loved so long, Should go to law at last.
The junior briefs they kindly let Two sucking counsel hold; These learned persons never yet Had fingered suitors’ gold.
But though the happy suitors two Were friendly as could be, Not so the junior counsel who Were earning maiden fee.
They too, till then, were friends. At school They’d done each other’s sums, And under Oxford’s gentle rule Had been the closest chums.
But now they met with scowl and grin In every public place, And often snapped their fingers in Each other’s learned face.
It almost ended in a fight When they on path or stair Met face to face. They made it quite A personal affair.
And when at length the case was called (It came on rather late), Spectators really were appalled To see their deadly hate.
One junior rose—with eyeballs tense, And swollen frontal veins: To all his powers of eloquence He gave the fullest reins.
His argument was novel—for A verdict he relied On blackening the junior Upon the other side.
“Oh,” said the Judge, in robe and fur, “The matter in dispute To arbitration pray refer— This is a friendly suit.”
And PYTHIAS, in merry mood, Digged DAMON in the side; And DAMON, tickled with the feud, With other digs replied.
But oh! those deadly counsel twain, Who were such friends before, Were never reconciled again— They quarrelled more and more.
At length it happened that they met On Alpine heights one day, And thus they paid each one his debt, Their fury had its way—
They seized each other in a trice, With scorn and hatred filled, And, falling from a precipice, They, both of them, were killed.
MY DREAM
THE other night, from cares exempt, I slept—and what d’you think I dreamt? I dreamt that somehow I had come To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom—
Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice: Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice: Where right is wrong and wrong is right— Where white is black and black is white.
Where babies, much to their surprise, Are born astonishingly wise; With every Science on their lips, And Art at all their finger-tips.
For, as their nurses dandle them They crow binomial theorem, With views (it seems absurd to us) On differential calculus.
But though a babe, as I have said, Is born with learning in his head, He must forget it, if he can, Before he calls himself a man.
For that which we call folly here, Is wisdom in that favoured sphere; The wisdom we so highly prize Is blatant folly in their eyes.
A boy, if he would push his way, Must learn some nonsense every day; And cut, to carry out this view, His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.
Historians burn their midnight oils, Intent on giant-killers’ toils; And sages close their aged eyes To other sages’ lullabies.
_Our_ magistrates, in duty bound, Commit all robbers who are found; But there the Beaks (so people said) Commit all robberies instead.
_Our_ Judges, pure and wise in tone, Know crime from theory alone, And glean the motives of a thief From books and popular belief.
But there, a Judge who wants to prime His mind with true ideas of crime, Derives them from the common sense Of practical experience.
Policemen march all folks away Who practise virtue every day— Of course, I mean to say, you know, What we call virtue here below.
For only scoundrels dare to do What we consider just and true, And only good men do, in fact, What we should think a dirty act.
But strangest of these social twirls, The girls are boys—the boys are girls! The men are women, too—but then, _Per contra_, women all are men.
To one who to tradition clings This seems an awkward state of things, But if to think it out you try, It doesn’t really signify.
With them, as surely as can be, A sailor should be sick at sea, And not a passenger may sail Who cannot smoke right through a gale.
A soldier (save by rarest luck) Is always shot for showing pluck (That is, if others can be found With pluck enough to fire a round).
“How strange!” I said to one I saw; “You quite upset our every law. However can you get along So systematically wrong?”
“Dear me!” my mad informant said, “Have you no eyes within your head? You sneer when you your hat should doff: Why, we begin where you leave off!
“Your wisest men are very far Less learned than our babies are!” I mused awhile—and then, oh me! I framed this brilliant repartee:
“Although your babes are wiser far Than our most valued sages are, Your sages, with their toys and cots, Are duller than our idiots!”
But this remark, I grieve to state, Came just a little bit too late For as I framed it in my head, I woke and found myself in bed.
Still I could wish that, ’stead of here, My lot were in that favoured sphere!— Where greatest fools bear off the bell I ought to do extremely well.
THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO AGAIN
I OFTEN wonder whether you Think sometimes of that Bishop, who From black but balmy Rum-ti-Foo Last summer twelvemonth came. Unto your mind I p’r’aps may bring Remembrance of the man I sing To-day, by simply mentioning That PETER was his name.
Remember how that holy man Came with the great Colonial clan To Synod, called Pan-Anglican; And kindly recollect How, having crossed the ocean wide, To please his flock all means he tried Consistent with a proper pride And manly self-respect.
He only, of the reverend pack Who minister to Christians black, Brought any useful knowledge back To his Colonial fold. In consequence a place I claim For “PETER” on the scroll of Fame (For PETER was that Bishop’s name, As I’ve already told).
He carried Art, he often said, To places where that timid maid (Save by Colonial Bishops’ aid) Could never hope to roam. The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught As he had learnt it; for he thought The choicest fruits of Progress ought To bless the Negro’s home.
And he had other work to do, For, while he tossed upon the Blue, The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo Forgot their kindly friend. Their decent clothes they learnt to tear— They learnt to say, “I do not care,” Though they, of course, were well aware How folks, who say so, end.
Some sailors, whom he did not know, Had landed there not long ago, And taught them “Bother!” also, “Blow!” (Of wickedness the germs). No need to use a casuist’s pen To prove that they were merchantmen; No sailor of the Royal N. Would use such awful terms.
And so, when BISHOP PETER came (That was the kindly Bishop’s name), He heard these dreadful oaths with shame, And chid their want of dress. (Except a shell—a bangle rare— A feather here—a feather there The South Pacific Negroes wear Their native nothingness.)
He taught them that a Bishop loathes To listen to disgraceful oaths, He gave them all his left-off clothes— They bent them to his will. The Bishop’s gift spreads quickly round; In PETER’S left-off clothes they bound (His three-and-twenty suits they found In fair condition still).
The Bishop’s eyes with water fill, Quite overjoyed to find them still Obedient to his sovereign will, And said, “Good Rum-ti-Foo! Half-way I’ll meet you, I declare: I’ll dress myself in cowries rare, And fasten feathers in my hair, And dance the ‘Cutch-chi-boo!’”
And to conciliate his See He married PICCADILLILLEE, The youngest of his twenty-three, Tall—neither fat nor thin. (And though the dress he made her don Looks awkwardly a girl upon, It was a great improvement on The one he found her in.)
The Bishop in his gay canoe (His wife, of course, went with him too) To some adjacent island flew, To spend his honeymoon. Some day in sunny Rum-ti-Foo A little PETER’ll be on view; And that (if people tell me true) Is like to happen soon.
A WORM WILL TURN
I LOVE a man who’ll smile and joke When with misfortune crowned; Who’ll pun beneath a pauper’s yoke, And as he breaks his daily toke, Conundrums gay propound.
Just such a man was BERNARD JUPP, He scoffed at Fortune’s frown; He gaily drained his bitter cup— Though Fortune often threw him up, It never cast him down.
Though years their share of sorrow bring, We know that far above All other griefs, are griefs that spring From some misfortune happening To those we really love.
E’en sorrow for another’s woe Our BERNARD failed to quell; Though by this special form of blow No person ever suffered so, Or bore his grief so well.
His father, wealthy and well clad, And owning house and park, Lost every halfpenny he had, And then became (extremely sad!) A poor attorney’s clerk.
All sons it surely would appal, Except the passing meek, To see a father lose his all, And from an independence fall To one pound ten a week!
But JUPP shook off this sorrow’s weight, And, like a Christian son, Proved Poverty a happy fate— Proved Wealth to be a devil’s bait, To lure poor sinners on.
With other sorrows BERNARD coped, For sorrows came in packs; His cousins with their housemaids sloped— His uncles forged—his aunts eloped— His sisters married blacks.
But BERNARD, far from murmuring (Exemplar, friends, to us), Determined to his faith to cling,— He made the best of everything, And argued softly thus:
“’Twere harsh my uncles’ forging knack Too rudely to condemn— My aunts, repentant, may come back, And blacks are nothing like as black As people colour them!”
Still Fate, with many a sorrow rife, Maintained relentless fight: His grandmamma next lost her life, Then died the mother of his wife, But still he seemed all right.
His brother fond (the only link To life that bound him now) One morning, overcome by drink, He broke his leg (the right, I think) In some disgraceful row.