Chapter 7
Once on a time, so ancient poets sing, There reigned in Godknowswhere a certain king. So great a monarch ne'er before was seen: He was a hero, even to his queen, In whose respect he held so high a place That none was higher,--nay, not even the ace. He was so just his Parliament declared Those subjects happy whom his laws had spared; So wise that none of the debating throng Had ever lived to prove him in the wrong; So good that Crime his anger never feared, And Beauty boldly plucked him by the beard; So brave that if his army got a beating None dared to face him when he was retreating. This monarch kept a Fool to make his mirth, And loved him tenderly despite his worth. Prompted by what caprice I cannot say, He called the Fool before the throne one day And to that jester seriously said: "I'll abdicate, and you shall reign instead, While I, attired in motley, will make sport To entertain your Majesty and Court."
'T was done and the Fool governed. He decreed The time of harvest and the time of seed; Ordered the rains and made the weather clear, And had a famine every second year; Altered the calendar to suit his freak, Ordaining six whole holidays a week; Religious creeds and sacred books prepared; Made war when angry and made peace when scared. New taxes he inspired; new laws he made; Drowned those who broke them, who observed them, flayed, In short, he ruled so well that all who'd not Been starved, decapitated, hanged or shot Made the whole country with his praises ring, Declaring he was every inch a king; And the High Priest averred 't was very odd If one so competent were not a god.
Meantime, his master, now in motley clad, Wore such a visage, woeful, wan and sad, That some condoled with him as with a brother Who, having lost a wife, had got another. Others, mistaking his profession, often Approached him to be measured for a coffin. For years this highborn jester never broke The silence--he was pondering a joke. At last, one day, in cap-and-bells arrayed, He strode into the Council and displayed A long, bright smile, that glittered in the gloom Like a gilt epithet within a tomb. Posing his bauble like a leader's staff, To give the signal when (and why) to laugh, He brought it down with peremptory stroke And simultaneously cracked his joke!
I can't repeat it, friends. I ne'er could school Myself to quote from any other fool: A jest, if it were worse than mine, would start My tears; if better, it would break my heart. So, if you please, I'll hold you but to state That royal Jester's melancholy fate.
The insulted nation, so the story goes, Rose as one man--the very dead arose, Springing indignant from the riven tomb, And babes unborn leapt swearing from the womb! All to the Council Chamber clamoring went, By rage distracted and on vengeance bent. In that vast hall, in due disorder laid, The tools of legislation were displayed, And the wild populace, its wrath to sate, Seized them and heaved them at the Jester's pate. Mountains of writing paper; pools and seas Of ink, awaiting, to become decrees, Royal approval--and the same in stacks Lay ready for attachment, backed with wax; Pens to make laws, erasers to amend them; With mucilage convenient to extend them; Scissors for limiting their application, And acids to repeal all legislation-- These, flung as missiles till the air was dense, Were most offensive weapons of offense, And by their aid the Fool was nigh destroyed. They ne'er had been so harmlessly employed. Whelmed underneath a load of legal cap, His mouth egurgitating ink on tap, His eyelids mucilaginously sealed, His fertile head by scissors made to yield Abundant harvestage of ears, his pelt, In every wrinkle and on every welt, Quickset with pencil-points from feet to gills And thickly studded with a pride of quills, The royal Jester in the dreadful strife Was made (in short) an editor for life!
An idle tale, and yet a moral lurks In this as plainly as in greater works. I shall not give it birth: one moral here Would die of loneliness within a year.
A CAREER IN LETTERS.
When Liberverm resigned the chair Of This or That in college, where For two decades he'd gorged his brain With more than it could well contain, In order to relieve the stress He took to writing for the press. Then Pondronummus said, "I'll help This mine of talent to devel'p;" And straightway bought with coin and credit The _Thundergust_ for him to edit.
The great man seized the pen and ink And wrote so hard he couldn't think; Ideas grew beneath his fist And flew like falcons from his wrist. His pen shot sparks all kinds of ways Till all the rivers were ablaze, And where the coruscations fell Men uttered words I dare not spell.
Eftsoons with corrugated brow, Wet towels bound about his pow, Locked legs and failing appetite, He thought so hard he couldn't write. His soaring fancies, chickenwise, Came home to roost and wouldn't rise. With dimmer light and milder heat His goose-quill staggered o'er the sheet, Then dragged, then stopped; the finish came-- He couldn't even write his name. The _Thundergust_ in three short weeks Had risen, roared, and split its cheeks. Said Pondronummus, "How unjust! The storm I raised has laid my dust!"
When, Moneybagger, you have aught Invested in a vein of thought, Be sure you've purchased not, instead, That salted claim, a bookworm's head.
THE FOLLOWING PAIR.
O very remarkable mortal, What food is engaging your jaws And staining with amber their portal? "It's 'baccy I chaws."
And why do you sway in your walking, To right and left many degrees, And hitch up your trousers when talking? "I follers the seas."
Great indolent shark in the rollers, Is "'baccy," too, one of your faults?-- You, too, display maculate molars. "I dines upon salts."
Strange diet!--intestinal pain it Is commonly given to nip. And how can you ever obtain it? "I follers the ship."
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
"I beg you to note," said a Man to a Goose, As he plucked from her bosom the plumage all loose, "That pillows and cushions of feathers and beds As warm as maids' hearts and as soft as their heads, Increase of life's comforts the general sum-- Which raises the standard of living." "Come, come," The Goose said, impatiently, "tell me or cease, How that is of any advantage to geese." "What, what!" said the man--"you are very obtuse! Consumption no profit to those who produce? No good to accrue to Supply from a grand Progressive expansion, all round, of Demand? Luxurious habits no benefit bring To those who purvey the luxurious thing? Consider, I pray you, my friend, how the growth Of luxury promises--" "Promises," quoth The sufferer, "what?--to what course is it pledged To pay me for being so often defledged?" "Accustomed"--this notion the plucker expressed As he ripped out a handful of down from her breast-- "To one kind of luxury, people soon yearn For others and ever for others in turn; And the man who to-night on your feathers will rest, His mutton or bacon or beef to digest, His hunger to-morrow will wish to assuage By dining on goose with a dressing of sage."
VANISHED AT COCK-CROW.
"I've found the secret of your charm," I said, Expounding with complacency my guess. Alas! the charm, even as I named it, fled, For all its secret was unconsciousness.
THE UNPARDONABLE SIN.
I reckon that ye never knew, That dandy slugger, Tom Carew, He had a touch as light an' free As that of any honey-bee; But where it lit there wasn't much To jestify another touch. O, what a Sunday-school it was To watch him puttin' up his paws An' roominate upon their heft-- Particular his holy left! Tom was my style--that's all I say; Some others may be equal gay. What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure-- He's dead--which make his fate obscure. I only started in to clear One vital p'int in his career, Which is to say--afore he died He soiled his erming mighty snide. Ye see he took to politics And learnt them statesmen-fellers' tricks; Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent, Just like he was the President; Went to the Legislator; spoke Right out agin the British yoke-- But that was right. He let his hair Grow long to qualify for Mayor, An' once or twice he poked his snoot In Congress like a low galoot! It had to come--no gent can hope To wrastle God agin the rope. Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead, I s'pose it oughtn't to be said, For sech inikities as flow From politics ain't fit to know; But, if you think it's actin' white To tell it--Thomas throwed a fight!
INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT.
As time rolled on the whole world came to be A desolation and a darksome curse; And some one said: "The changes that you see In the fair frame of things, from bad to worse, Are wrought by strikes. The sun withdrew his glimmer Because the moon assisted with her shimmer.
"Then, when poor Luna, straining very hard, Doubled her light to serve a darkling world, He called her 'scab,' and meanly would retard Her rising: and at last the villain hurled A heavy beam which knocked her o'er the Lion Into the nebula of great O'Ryan.
"The planets all had struck some time before, Demanding what they said were equal rights: Some pointing out that others had far more That a fair dividend of satellites. So all went out--though those the best provided, If they had dared, would rather have abided.
"The stars struck too--I think it was because The comets had more liberty than they, And were not bound by any hampering laws, While _they_ were fixed; and there are those who say The comets' tresses nettled poor Altair, An aged orb that hasn't any hair.
"The earth's the only one that isn't in The movement--I suppose because she's watched With horror and disgust how her fair skin Her pranking parasites have fouled and blotched With blood and grease in every labor riot, When seeing any purse or throat to fly at."
TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
"The world is dull," I cried in my despair: "Its myths and fables are no longer fair.
"Roll back thy centuries, O Father Time. To Greece transport me in her golden prime.
"Give back the beautiful old Gods again-- The sportive Nymphs, the Dryad's jocund train,
"Pan piping on his reeds, the Naiades, The Sirens singing by the sleepy seas.
"Nay, show me but a Gorgon and I'll dare To lift mine eyes to her peculiar hair
"(The fatal horrors of her snaky pate, That stiffen men into a stony state)
"And die--erecting, as my soul goes hence, A statue of myself, without expense."
Straight as I spoke I heard the voice of Fate: "Look up, my lad, the Gorgon sisters wait."
Raising my eyes, I saw Medusa stand, Stheno, Euryale, on either hand.
I gazed unpetrified and unappalled-- The girls had aged and were entirely bald!
CONTENTMENT.
Sleep fell upon my senses and I dreamed Long years had circled since my life had fled. The world was different, and all things seemed Remote and strange, like noises to the dead. And one great Voice there was; and something said: "Posterity is speaking--rightly deemed Infallible:" and so I gave attention, Hoping Posterity my name would mention.
"Illustrious Spirit," said the Voice, "appear! While we confirm eternally thy fame, Before our dread tribunal answer, here, Why do no statues celebrate thy name, No monuments thy services proclaim? Why did not thy contemporaries rear To thee some schoolhouse or memorial college? It looks almighty queer, you must acknowledge."
Up spake I hotly: "That is where you err!" But some one thundered in my ear: "You shan't Be interrupting these proceedings, sir; The question was addressed to General Grant." Some other things were spoken which I can't Distinctly now recall, but I infer, By certain flushings of my cheeks and forehead, Posterity's environment is torrid.
Then heard I (this was in a dream, remark) Another Voice, clear, comfortable, strong, As Grant's great shade, replying from the dark, Said in a tone that rang the earth along, And thrilled the senses of the Judges' throng: "I'd rather you would question why, in park And street, my monuments were not erected Than why they were." Then, waking, I reflected.
THE NEW ENOCH.
Enoch Arden was an able Seaman; hear of his mishap-- Not in wild mendacious fable, As 't was told by t' other chap;
For I hold it is a youthful Indiscretion to tell lies, And the writer that is truthful Has the reader that is wise.
Enoch Arden, able seaman, On an isle was cast away, And before he was a freeman Time had touched him up with gray.
Long he searched the fair horizon, Seated on a mountain top; Vessel ne'er he set his eyes on That would undertake to stop.
Seeing that his sight was growing Dim and dimmer, day by day, Enoch said he must be going. So he rose and went away--
Went away and so continued Till he lost his lonely isle: Mr. Arden was so sinewed He could row for many a mile.
Compass he had not, nor sextant, To direct him o'er the sea: Ere 't was known that he was extant, At his widow's home was he.
When he saw the hills and hollows And the streets he could but know, He gave utterance as follows To the sentiments below:
"Blast my tarry toplights! (shiver, Too, my timbers!) but, I say, W'at a larruk to diskiver, I have lost me blessid way!
"W'at, alas, would be my bloomin' Fate if Philip now I see, Which I lammed?--or my old 'oman, Which has frequent basted _me_?"
Scenes of childhood swam around him At the thought of such a lot: In a swoon his Annie found him And conveyed him to her cot.
'T was the very house, the garden, Where their honeymoon was passed: 'T was the place where Mrs. Arden Would have mourned him to the last.
Ah, what grief she'd known without him! Now what tears of joy she shed! Enoch Arden looked about him: "Shanghaied!"--that was all he said.
DISAVOWAL.
Two bodies are lying in Phoenix Park, Grim and bloody and stiff and stark, And a Land League man with averted eye Crosses himself as he hurries by. And he says to his conscience under his breath: "I have had no hand in this deed of death!"
A Fenian, making a circuit wide And passing them by on the other side, Shudders and crosses himself and cries: "Who says that I did it, he lies, he lies!"
Gingerly stepping across the gore, Pat Satan comes after the two before, Makes, in a solemnly comical way, The sign of the cross and is heard to say: "O dear, what a terrible sight to see, For babes like them and a saint like me!"
1882.
AN AVERAGE.
I ne'er could be entirely fond Of any maiden who's a blonde, And no brunette that e'er I saw Had charms my heart's whole warmth to draw.
Yet sure no girl was ever made Just half of light and half of shade. And so, this happy mean to get, I love a blonde and a brunette.
WOMAN.
Study good women and ignore the rest, For he best knows the sex who knows the best.
INCURABLE.
From pride, joy, hate, greed, melancholy-- From any kind of vice, or folly, Bias, propensity or passion That is in prevalence and fashion, Save one, the sufferer or lover May, by the grace of God, recover: Alone that spiritual tetter, The zeal to make creation better, Glows still immedicably warmer. Who knows of a reformed reformer?
THE PUN.
Hail, peerless Pun! thou last and best, Most rare and excellent bequest Of dying idiot to the wit He died of, rat-like, in a pit!
Thyself disguised, in many a way Thou let'st thy sudden splendor play, Adorning all where'er it turns, As the revealing bull's-eye burns, Of the dim thief, and plays its trick Upon the lock he means to pick.
Yet sometimes, too, thou dost appear As boldly as a brigadier Tricked out with marks and signs, all o'er, Of rank, brigade, division, corps, To show by every means he can An officer is not a man; Or naked, with a lordly swagger, Proud as a cur without a wagger, Who says: "See simple worth prevail-- All dog, sir--not a bit of tail!"
'T is then men give thee loudest welcome, As if thou wert a soul from Hell come.
O obvious Pun! thou hast the grace Of skeleton clock without a case-- With all its boweling displayed, And all its organs on parade.
Dear Pun, you're common ground of bliss, Where _Punch_ and I can meet and kiss; Than thee my wit can stoop no low'r-- No higher his does ever soar.
A PARTISAN'S PROTEST.
O statesmen, what would you be at, With torches, flags and bands? You make me first throw up my hat, And then my hands.
TO NANINE.
Dear, if I never saw your face again; If all the music of your voice were mute As that of a forlorn and broken lute; If only in my dreams I might attain The benediction of your touch, how vain Were Faith to justify the old pursuit Of happiness, or Reason to confute The pessimist philosophy of pain. Yet Love not altogether is unwise, For still the wind would murmur in the corn, And still the sun would splendor all the mere; And I--I could not, dearest, choose but hear Your voice upon the breeze and see your eyes Shine in the glory of the summer morn.
VICE VERSA.
Down in the state of Maine, the story goes, A woman, to secure a lapsing pension, Married a soldier--though the good Lord knows That very common act scarce calls for mention. What makes it worthy to be writ and read-- The man she married had been nine hours dead!
Now, marrying a corpse is not an act Familiar to our daily observation, And so I crave her pardon if the fact Suggests this interesting speculation: Should some mischance restore the man to life Would she be then a widow, or a wife?
Let casuists contest the point; I'm not Disposed to grapple with so great a matter. 'T would tie my thinker in a double knot And drive me staring mad as any hatter-- Though I submit that hatters are, in fact, Sane, and all other human beings cracked.
Small thought have I of Destiny or Chance; Luck seems to me the same thing as Intention; In metaphysics I could ne'er advance, And think it of the Devil's own invention. Enough of joy to know though when I wed I _must_ be married, yet I _may_ be dead.
A BLACK-LIST.
"Resolved that we will post," the tradesmen say, "All names of debtors who do never pay." "Whose shall be first?" inquires the ready scribe-- "Who are the chiefs of the marauding tribe?" Lo! high Parnassus, lifting from the plain, Upon his hoary peak, a noble fane! Within that temple all the names are scrolled Of village bards upon a slab of gold; To that bad eminence, my friend, aspire, And copy thou the Roll of Fame, entire. Yet not to total shame those names devote, But add in mercy this explaining note: "These cheat because the law makes theft a crime, And they obey all laws but laws of rhyme."
A BEQUEST TO MUSIC.
"Let music flourish!" So he said and died. Hark! ere he's gone the minstrelsy begins: The symphonies ascend, a swelling tide, Melodious thunders fill the welkin wide-- The grand old lawyers, chinning on their chins!
AUTHORITY.
"Authority, authority!" they shout Whose minds, not large enough to hold a doubt, Some chance opinion ever entertain, By dogma billeted upon their brain. "Ha!" they exclaim with choreatic glee, "Here's Dabster if you won't give in to me-- Dabster, sir, Dabster, to whom all men look With reverence!" The fellow wrote a book. It matters not that many another wight Has thought more deeply, could more wisely write On t' other side--that you yourself possess Knowledge where Dabster did but faintly guess. God help you if ambitious to persuade The fools who take opinion ready-made And "recognize authorities." Be sure No tittle of their folly they'll abjure For all that you can say. But write it down, Publish and die and get a great renown-- Faith! how they'll snap it up, misread, misquote, Swear that they had a hand in all you wrote, And ride your fame like monkeys on a goat!
THE PSORIAD.
The King of Scotland, years and years ago, Convened his courtiers in a gallant row And thus addressed them:
"Gentle sirs, from you Abundant counsel I have had, and true: What laws to make to serve the public weal; What laws of Nature's making to repeal; What old religion is the only true one, And what the greater merit of some new one; What friends of yours my favor have forgot; Which of your enemies against me plot. In harvests ample to augment my treasures, Behold the fruits of your sagacious measures! The punctual planets, to their periods just, Attest your wisdom and approve my trust. Lo! the reward your shining virtues bring: The grateful placemen bless their useful king! But while you quaff the nectar of my favor I mean somewhat to modify its flavor By just infusing a peculiar dash Of tonic bitter in the calabash. And should you, too abstemious, disdain it, Egad! I'll hold your noses till you drain it!
"You know, you dogs, your master long has felt A keen distemper in the royal pelt-- A testy, superficial irritation, Brought home, I fancy, from some foreign nation. For this a thousand simples you've prescribed-- Unguents external, draughts to be imbibed. You've plundered Scotland of its plants, the seas You've ravished, and despoiled the Hebrides, To brew me remedies which, in probation, Were sovereign only in their application. In vain, and eke in pain, have I applied Your flattering unctions to my soul and hide: Physic and hope have been my daily food-- I've swallowed treacle by the holy rood!
"Your wisdom, which sufficed to guide the year And tame the seasons in their mad career, When set to higher purposes has failed me And added anguish to the ills that ailed me. Nor that alone, but each ambitious leech His rivals' skill has labored to impeach By hints equivocal in secret speech. For years, to conquer our respective broils, We've plied each other with pacific oils. In vain: your turbulence is unallayed, My flame unquenched; your rioting unstayed; My life so wretched from your strife to save it That death were welcome did I dare to brave it. With zeal inspired by your intemperate pranks, My subjects muster in contending ranks. Those fling their banners to the startled breeze To champion some royal ointment; these The standard of some royal purge display And 'neath that ensign wage a wasteful fray! Brave tongues are thundering from sea to sea, Torrents of sweat roll reeking o'er the lea! My people perish in their martial fear, And rival bagpipes cleave the royal ear!
"Now, caitiffs, tremble, for this very hour Your injured sovereign shall assert his power! Behold this lotion, carefully compound Of all the poisons you for me have found-- Of biting washes such as tan the skin, And drastic drinks to vex the parts within. What aggravates an ailment will produce-- I mean to rub you with this dreadful juice! Divided counsels you no more shall hatch-- At last you shall unanimously scratch. Kneel, villains, kneel, and doff your shirts--God bless us! They'll seem, when you resume them, robes of Nessus!"