Part 9

_Moral._ I pray you think upon it well. There are full many people in this world Who think that they are wondrous wise in ART, And who, as Critics, write about the same In transcendental phrase with capitals, And call it Faith, and Love, and Heaven knows what, And cannot think of it without a gasp And uttering phrases silly, mystical,— Because they are the empty, windy ones, Inflating and inflated, who but blow The bellows of the organ, yet believe That they are leaders in the Realm of Art!

THE GOTH AND THE PIGEON

Among the merry tales of olden time Which are still current in fair Italy Are many told in taverns or in type About the rude barbarians of the North Who cross the Alps, even as they did of yore, When they invaded fertile Lombardy, And helped themselves to all which pleased their eyes, And paid for it in iron and with blood: Those times are fled, but Northmen still are here; States fall, arts fade, but English yet abound, And Austrian-Germans and Americans Stalk proudly through the streets with Baedeker, Or Murray, with the very gait and air Of their barbarian ancestors—although They are cleaner washed and more completely shaved— Bet high upon the latter; for as once They came to rob the natives of their goods, The latter now do live by spoiling them. And thus strange things do happen in this world.

Thus we may note that all these foreigners, Be it the daintiest English dame alive, Or damsel born in fair America, Or Russians of a royal family, Or Frenchmen of the very noblest stock, Or Viennese as elegant and _fesch_[12] As even Viennese can be produced— Wherein they wellnigh rival Baltimore— Are still regarded by the Italian with A doubtful smile, who as he smiles exclaims: “_Sono forestieri_”—which indeed Means “They are foreigners”—and yet the word Comes from _Foresto_—savage—desert—wild— And so do ancient thorns live round the rose. And thus strange things do happen in the world.

Now it befell that in the Lombard time When Dieterich-Theodoric was king, And from Ravenna ruled all Italy, The court religion was the Arian, To which men nowadays an Unit add, Yet do not add by the process—that I see— Aught to its value; but the odd result Was that the Gothic warriors nothing knew About the mystery of the Trinity,— Nay, they were even far more ignorant Than was the English curate, who when asked What he did understand by the Holy Ghost, Replied: “I am not sure, but I believe It is a kind of pigeon.” These poor Goths Had never learned so much as this youth knew. And thus strange things do happen in the world.

Now it befell that once a Visigoth Stately, while all unconscious of his state, And proud while nothing thinking of his pride, Went stalking onwards through the streets of Rome, Unheeding all the casual passers-by Who turned to look at him—as a grave bull Might walk through many sheep—or as my lord Guy de Plantagenet just now walked by Before my window, where I writing sit, In Florence—true he came _bien à propos_. And thus strange things do happen in this world.

Well then, this fierce barbarian from the North, Who as I said was densely ignorant Of Trinitarian theology, Was not much further in the Italian tongue, Seeing that that which he essayed to speak Was of the _pidgin_ kind,—oh, marvel strange! Oh, wondrous miracle!—lo, how the Muse Brings up that word to keep me to my tale! Ah! what strange things do happen in this world!

Now as he strode along the Roman street, With thoughts of dinner flitting through his soul, Lifting his eyes he saw upon a sign The picture of a dove with outspread wings Above the door of a _trattoria_, Which means a place where you can treat yourself To what you want—that is, a restaurant. And ’neath the bird he read inscribed in gold: _Spirito Santo_; and he gazed at it, And took an object-lesson, and exclaimed: “So _that_ is the Italian for a dove! I must remember it.” So in he went Repeating ever to himself the words “_Spirito Santo! Santo Spirito!_” Those who o’erheard him deemed him a devout And fervid follower of the Trinity. And thus strange things do happen in the world.

And having sat him down, the waiter came And asked His Excellence what he would have; To which his Gothic Excellence replied: “I want a bottle of your noblest wine, With it a soup of highest quality, And after that a roast San’ Spirito!” “A roasted—WHAT? Signore,” cried the man, As one who had not rightly understood, While all the guests around did glare amazed. “I said,” resumed the Northern warrior, “A _Spirito Santo_, such as you have got Upon your sign outside—a _bird_, you know, That moves its wings like this”—and here he moved His bended arms like wings, both up and down, While with his voice he murmured _Coo-oo-oo!_ Or what is called in French a _roucoulement_, Or _girren_ in the German. Hearing this, All who were present promptly understood; And though they all were naturally polite, And never laughed at any foreigner Before his face, because he erred in words, This was too—too—too much, and all burst out In a tremendous—an Homeric roar. They drew the line at pigeons; and the Goth When ’twas explained laughed loudest of them all; And thus it was he learned another word. And thus strange things do happen in the world.

[12] A very peculiar Viennese slang word, signifying stylish or elegant. It is supposed to be an abbreviation of the mispronunciation of the English word fashionable—_Germanicé_, _feshionable_.

REFLECTIONS IN A PRINTING-OFFICE

Faust means a fist—a fist can hit, I ween: Faust made the greatest hit that e’er was seen.

I know not if ’twas Guttenberg Or Faust who first began To print—the honour was too great For any single man.

Printing is called the Art of Arts, And typos then are artists—right— They are the nobler counterparts Of those who work in Black and White.

APPENDIX

ORBUS IN TACTU MAINET.—P. 2

THERE were in Philadelphia, forty years ago, two sailors’ groggeries in Water Street, both having the sign of The Boy and Barrel, derived from the infant Bacchus. One of these had for motto the words exactly as here misspelt and divided.

TIME FOR US TO GO.—P. 64

In one of his admirable papers, “At the Sign of the Ship,” published in the _Cornhill Magazine_, Mr. Andrew Lang, in discussing Sea Songs, wrote the following:—

“In an unpublished play by Mr. Henley and Mr. R. L. Stevenson, a play called _Admiral Guinea_, that veteran ruffian, Mr. Pew of Treasure Island, makes his appearance. He has been a sailor of Admiral Guinea’s in the slave trade, and he haunts the evangelical and remorseful Admiral like an evil conscience, singing snatches of the following ‘Slaver’s Song.’ Mr. Henley has kindly copied out the whole piece, which was published in Mr. Leland’s ‘Captain Jonas Fisher’ in _Temple Bar_ about fourteen years ago. Whether the ballad is traditional and collected by Mr. Leland, or whether to himself is due the great credit of the authorship, I am not aware.”

Truly I am not the author of the song which I picked up in Philadelphia before the War, nor do I know who wrote it. I am tolerably certain, however, that I, having slightly retouched it, republished it in _Temple Bar_ as quoted. There are, however, others besides Mr. Lang who think I wrote it, so I give it here in order to make truth known, but chiefly because it is in keeping with other specimens of sailors’ lyrical folk-lore in these pages, and will be acceptable to all who like such ballads.

SAMUEL JACKSON.—P. 99

“And of the heathen natives with their suppositious wiles.”

I once crossed the Atlantic in a sailing-vessel, sharing my state-room with a veteran sea-captain who had been for forty years in the whaling service. He had an inexhaustible stock of sea-folk-lore, which he freely imparted to me who was an eager listener, and as the voyage lasted _thirty-five_ days I had opportunity to gather much. I am indebted to him for this amusing interchange of words. When telling me that he once went incognito to revisit his old home in Connecticut he said, “I passed under a superstitious name.”

THE END _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_

N E W N O V E L S. _At all the Libraries._

JOHN DARKER By AUBREY LEE. A ROMANCE OF DIJON By M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. POSTE RESTANTE By C. Y. HARGREAVES. MARGARET DRUMMOND By SOPHIE F. F. VEITCH. PAUL ROMER By C. Y. HARGREAVES. MY INDIAN SUMMER By Princess ALTIERI. THE CURB OF HONOUR By M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. BORN IN EXILE By GEORGE GISSING. THE GREAT CHIN EPISODE By PAUL CUSHING. THE LAST TOUCHES By Mrs. W. K. CLIFFORD. A TANGLED WEB By Lady LINDSAY. THE PHILOSOPHER’S WINDOW By Lady LINDSAY. CAP AND GOWN COMEDY By ASCOTT R. HOPE. UNDER TWO SKIES By E. W. HORNUNG.

ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON.

THE

POETICAL

WORKS

OF

SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart.

Selected and Edited, with Introduction and Notes,

BY

ANDREW LANG

In 2 vols., Crown 8vo, Price 5s. in Cloth; or 6s. Half-Bound

Uniform with the Dryburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels

ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.

[The end of _Songs of the Sea and Lays of the Land_, by Charles Godfrey Leland.]