Part 4

Hail, Happy Muse, and touch the tuneful string! The benefits conferred by Science[1] I sing. Under the kind Examiners’ direction[2] I only write about them in connection With benefits which the Electric Light Confers on us; especially at night. These are my theme, of these my song shall rise. My lofty head shall swell to strike the skies.[3] And tears of hopeless love bedew the maiden’s eyes. Descend, O Muse, from thy divine abode, To Osney, on the Seven Bridges Road; For under Osney’s solitary shade The bulk of the Electric Light is made. Here are the works;--from hence the current flows Which (so the Company’s prospectus goes) Can furnish to Subscribers hour by hour No less than sixteen thousand candle power,[4] All at a thousand volts. (It is essential To keep the current at this high potential In spite of the considerable expense.) The Energy developed represents, Expressed in foot-tons, the united forces Of fifteen elephants and forty horses. But shall my scientific detail thus Clip the dear wings of Buoyant Pegasus? Shall pure statistics jar upon the ear That pants for Lyric accents loud and clear? Shall I describe the complex Dynamo Or write about its Commutator? No! To happier fields I lead my wanton pen, The proper study of mankind is men. Awake, my Muse! Portray the pleasing sight That meets us where they make Electric Light. Behold the Electrician where he stands: Soot, oil, and verdigris are on his hands; Large spots of grease defile his dirty clothes, The while his conversation drips with oaths. Shall such a being perish in its youth? Alas! it is indeed the fatal truth. In that dull brain, beneath that hair unkempt, Familiarity has bred contempt. We warn him of the gesture all too late: Oh, Heartless Jove! Oh, Adamantine Fate! Some random touch--a hand’s imprudent slip-- The Terminals--a flash--a sound like “Zip!” A smell of burning fills the started Air-- The Electrician is no longer there! But let us turn with true Artistic scorn From facts funereal and from views forlorn Of Erebus and Blackest midnight born.[5] Arouse thee, Muse! and chaunt in accents rich The interesting processes by which The Electricity is passed along: These are my theme: to these I bend my song. It runs encased in wood or porous brick Through copper wires two millimetres thick, And insulated on their dangerous mission By indiarubber, silk, or composition. Here you may put with critical felicity The following question: “What is Electricity?” “Molecular Activity,” say some, Others when asked say nothing, and are dumb. Whatever be its nature, this is clear: The rapid current checked in its career, Baulked in its race and halted in its course[6] Transforms to heat and light its latent force: It needs no pedant in the lecturer’s chair To prove that light and heat are present there. The pear-shaped vacuum globe, I understand, Is far too hot to fondle with the hand. While, as is patent to the meanest sight, The carbon filament is very bright. As for the lights they hang about the town, Some praise them highly, others run them down. This system (technically called the Arc), Makes some passages too light, others too dark. But in the house the soft and constant rays Have always met with universal praise. For instance: if you want to read in bed No candle burns beside your curtain’s head, Far from some distant corner of the room The incandescent lamp dispels the gloom, And with the largest print need hardly try The powers of any young and vigorous eye. Aroint thee, Muse! Inspired the poet sings! I cannot help observing future things! Life is a vale, its paths are dark and rough Only because we do not know enough: When Science has discovered something more We shall be happier than we were before. Hail, Britain, Mistress of the Azure Main, Ten thousand Fleets sweep over thee in vain! Hail, Mighty Mother of the Brave and Free, That beat Napoleon, and gave birth to me! Thou that canst wrap in thine emblazoned robe One quarter of the habitable globe. Thy mountains, wafted by a favouring breeze, Like mighty rocks withstand the stormy seas. Thou art a Christian Commonwealth; and yet Be thou not all unthankful--nor forget As thou exultest in Imperial Might The Benefits of the Electric Light.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] To be pronounced as a monosyllable in the Imperial fashion.

[2] Mr. Punt, Mr. Howl, and Mr. Grewcock (now, alas, deceased).

[3] A neat rendering of “Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.”

[4] To the Examiners: These facts (of which I guarantee the accuracy) were given me by a Director.

[5] A reminiscence of Milton: “Fas est et ab hoste doceri.”

[6] Lambkin told me he regretted this line, which was for the sake of Rhyme. He would willingly have replaced it, but to his last day could construct no substitute.

THE YELLOW MUSTARD

Oh! ye that prink it to and fro, In pointed flounce and furbelow, What have ye known, what can ye know That have not seen the mustard grow?

The yellow mustard is no less Than God’s good gift to loneliness; And he was sent in gorgeous press To jangle keys at my distress.

I heard the throstle call again, Come hither, Pain! come hither, Pain! Till all my shameless feet were fain To wander through the summer rain.

And far apart from human place, And flaming like a vast disgrace, There struck me blinding in the face The livery of the mustard race.

* * * * *

To see the yellow mustard grow Beyond the town, above, below; Beyond the purple houses, oh! To see the yellow mustard grow!

ON HYGIENE

Of old when folk lay sick and sorely tried, The doctors gave them medicine and they died. Here is an happier age, for now we know Both how to make men sick and keep them so.

THE FALSE HEART

I said to Heart, “How goes it?” Heart replied: “Right as a Ribstone Pippin!” But it lied.

* * * * *

A critic said large margins did not please him, I therefore printed just two lines, to tease him. And if he still complains of what I’ve done, In my next book I’ll fill a page with ONE.

SONNET UPON GOD, THE WINE GIVER

(_For Easter Sunday_)

Thought Man made wine, I think God made it, too; God making all things, made Man made good wine. He taught him how the little tendrils twine About the stakes of labor close and true. Then next, with intimate prophetic laughter, He taught the Man, in His own image blest, To pluck and wagon and to--all the rest! To tread the grape and work his vintage after.

So did God make us, making good wine makers; So did He order us to rule the field And now by God are we not only bakers; But winners also sacraments to yield; Yet most of all strong lovers, Praised be God! Who taught us how the wine-press should be trod!

THE POLITICIAN OR THE IRISH EARLDOM

A strong and striking Personality, Worth several hundred thousand pounds-- Of strict political Morality-- Was walking in his park-like Grounds; When, just as these began to pall on him (I mean the Trees, and Things like that), A Person who had come to call on him Approached him, taking off his Hat.

He said, with singular veracity: “I serve our Sea-girt Mother-Land In no conspicuous capacity. I am but an Attorney; and I do a little elementary Negotiation, now and then, As Agent for a Parliamentary Division of the Town of N....

“Merely as one of the Electorate-- A member of the Commonweal-- Before completing my Directorate, I want to know the way you feel On matters more or less debatable; As--whether our Imperial Pride Can treat as taxable or rateable The Gardens of ...” His host replied:

“The Ravages of Inebriety (Alas! increasing day by day!) Are undermining all Society. I do not hesitate to say My country squanders her abilities, Observe how Montenegro treats Her Educational Facilities.... ... As to the African defeats,

“I bitterly deplored their frequency; On Canada we are agreed, The Laws protecting Public Decency Are very, very lax indeed! The Views of most of the Nobility Are very much the same as mine, On Thingumbob’s eligibility ... I trust that you remain to dine?”

His Lordship pressed with importunity, As rarely he had pressed before.

* * * * *

It gave them both an opportunity To know each other’s value more.

SHORT BALLAD AND POSTSCRIPT ON CONSOLS

I

Gigantic daughter of the West (The phrase is Tennysonian), who From this unconquerable breast The vigorous milk of Freedom drew --We gave it freely--shall the crest Of Empire in your keeping true, Shall England--I forget the rest, But Consols are at 82.

II

Now why should any one invest, As even City people do (His Lordship did among the rest), When stocks--but what is that to you? And then, who ever could have guessed About the guns--and horses too!-- Besides, they knew their business best, And Consols are at 82.

III

It serves no purpose to protest, It isn’t manners to halloo About the way the thing was messed-- Or vaguely call a man a Jew. A gentleman who cannot jest Remarked that we should muddle through (The continent was much impressed), And Consols are at 82.

_Envoi_

And, Botha lay at Pilgrim’s Rest And Myberg in the Great Karroo (A desert to the south and west), And Consols are at 82.

_Postscript_

Permit me--if you do not mind-- To add it would be screaming fun If, after printing this, I find Them after all at 81.

Or 70 or 63, Or 55 or 44, Or 39 and going free, Or 28--or even more.

No matter--take no more advice From doubtful and intriguing men. Refuse the stuff at any price, And slowly watch them fall to 10.

Meanwhile I feel a certain zest In writing once again the new Refrain that all is for the best, And Consols are at 82.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.