THE POSITIVISTS

WHAT’S this, a book? 16mo. Osgood’s page,Fair, clear, Olympian-typed, and save a scantO’ the margin, stiff i’ the hurried binding, good!Intituled how?—“The Inn Album, Robert Browning, Author.”Why should he not say, as well,The Hotel Register?—cis-Atlantic term!Nay, an he should, the action might purveyTo lower comprehensions: so not he!Reflect, ’tis Browning! he neglects, prepense,All forms of form: whathegives must we take,Sweet, bitter, sour, absinthean, adipose,Conglomerate, jellied, potted, salt, or dried,As the mood holds him; ours is not to choose!Well (here huge sighs be heard), commending usTo Heaven’s high mercy, let us read.Three hours:The end is reached; but who begins review,Forgetful o’ beginning, with the end?Turn back!—why, here’s a line supplies us withCurt comment on the whole, though travesty—“Hail, calm obliquity, lugubrious plot!...”Yea, since obliquity the straight path is,And Passion worships as her patron saintThe Holy Vitus, and from Language fallThe rusty chains of rhythm and harmony,Why not exclaim, “Hail, sham obliquity!”“Too hard,” you murmur, sweet, submissive minds?But take a bite o’ the original pie! Set teeth,’Ware cherry-stones, and if a herring-spineStick crosswise i’ the throat, go gulp, shed tears,But blame us not! So runs the opening:......This bard’s a Browning! there’s no doubt of that;But, ah, ye gods,the sense! Are we so sureIf sense be sense unto our common-sense,Low sense to higher, high to low, no senseAll sense to those, all sense no sense to these?That’s where your poet tells! and you’ve no right(Insensate sense with sensuous thought being mixed)To ask analysis! How can else review,Save in the dialect of his verse, be writ?So write we: (would we might foresee the end!)So has he taught us, i’ “The Ring and the Book,”De gustibus, concerning taste,non estThere’s no—disputing,disputandum(Ha!’Tis not so difficult)—and we submit.......This Album-book—“Hail, sham obliquity, lugubrious plot!”—Is well-nigh read; you end the tangle, smash!Here’s Browning’s recipe: take heaps o’ hate,Take boundless love, hydraulic-pressed, in bales,Distilments keen of baseness and of pride,And innocence and cunning; mix ’em well,And put a body round ’em! Add the moreO’ this, or that, you have another—stay!The sex don’t count; make female of the male,Male female, all the better; let them meet,Talk, love, hate, cross, till satisfied; then, kill!So here: lord, finding situation tough(Between two fires, hate and a horsewhip-threat),Writes i’ the Album, goes without and waits.Superb One, having read, takes hand of snob,Accepts his love till death; then lord comes back.What did he write? “Refinement every inch,From brow to boot-end”—’twas a threat to tellThe country curate of his wife’s disgrace—He, the disgracer! Snob gets wild at that,Screams, jumps, and clutches . . .All at once we seeOne character dead, but how, we don’t quite know.Then she, Superb One, writes in Album, diesBy force of will (no hint of instrument!),Leaving the snob alone and much surprised.Cousin is heard without; but ere the doorOpens, the story closes. Only this remains,The last conundrum, hardly guessableBy the unbrowninged mind. Since what it means,If aught the meaning, means some other thing,And that thing something else, but this not that,Nor that the other; we adopt the linesAs most expressing what we fail express,Our solemn verdict, handkerchief and all,Upon the book.......The meaning, ask you, O ingenuous soul?Why, were there such for you, what then were leftTo puzzle brain with, pump conjecture dry,And prove you little where the poet’s great?Great must he be, you therefore little. Go!The curtain falls, the candles are snuffed out:End, damned obliquity, lugubrious plot!Bayard Taylor.

WHAT’S this, a book? 16mo. Osgood’s page,

Fair, clear, Olympian-typed, and save a scant

O’ the margin, stiff i’ the hurried binding, good!

Intituled how?—“The Inn Album, Robert Browning, Author.”

Why should he not say, as well,

The Hotel Register?—cis-Atlantic term!

Nay, an he should, the action might purvey

To lower comprehensions: so not he!

Reflect, ’tis Browning! he neglects, prepense,

All forms of form: whathegives must we take,

Sweet, bitter, sour, absinthean, adipose,

Conglomerate, jellied, potted, salt, or dried,

As the mood holds him; ours is not to choose!

Well (here huge sighs be heard), commending us

To Heaven’s high mercy, let us read.

Three hours:The end is reached; but who begins review,Forgetful o’ beginning, with the end?Turn back!—why, here’s a line supplies us withCurt comment on the whole, though travesty—“Hail, calm obliquity, lugubrious plot!...”Yea, since obliquity the straight path is,And Passion worships as her patron saintThe Holy Vitus, and from Language fallThe rusty chains of rhythm and harmony,Why not exclaim, “Hail, sham obliquity!”“Too hard,” you murmur, sweet, submissive minds?But take a bite o’ the original pie! Set teeth,’Ware cherry-stones, and if a herring-spineStick crosswise i’ the throat, go gulp, shed tears,But blame us not! So runs the opening:......This bard’s a Browning! there’s no doubt of that;But, ah, ye gods,the sense! Are we so sureIf sense be sense unto our common-sense,Low sense to higher, high to low, no senseAll sense to those, all sense no sense to these?That’s where your poet tells! and you’ve no right(Insensate sense with sensuous thought being mixed)To ask analysis! How can else review,Save in the dialect of his verse, be writ?So write we: (would we might foresee the end!)So has he taught us, i’ “The Ring and the Book,”De gustibus, concerning taste,non estThere’s no—disputing,disputandum(Ha!’Tis not so difficult)—and we submit.......This Album-book—“Hail, sham obliquity, lugubrious plot!”—Is well-nigh read; you end the tangle, smash!Here’s Browning’s recipe: take heaps o’ hate,Take boundless love, hydraulic-pressed, in bales,Distilments keen of baseness and of pride,And innocence and cunning; mix ’em well,And put a body round ’em! Add the moreO’ this, or that, you have another—stay!The sex don’t count; make female of the male,Male female, all the better; let them meet,Talk, love, hate, cross, till satisfied; then, kill!So here: lord, finding situation tough(Between two fires, hate and a horsewhip-threat),Writes i’ the Album, goes without and waits.Superb One, having read, takes hand of snob,Accepts his love till death; then lord comes back.What did he write? “Refinement every inch,From brow to boot-end”—’twas a threat to tellThe country curate of his wife’s disgrace—He, the disgracer! Snob gets wild at that,Screams, jumps, and clutches . . .

Three hours:

The end is reached; but who begins review,

Forgetful o’ beginning, with the end?

Turn back!—why, here’s a line supplies us with

Curt comment on the whole, though travesty—

“Hail, calm obliquity, lugubrious plot!...”

Yea, since obliquity the straight path is,

And Passion worships as her patron saint

The Holy Vitus, and from Language fall

The rusty chains of rhythm and harmony,

Why not exclaim, “Hail, sham obliquity!”

“Too hard,” you murmur, sweet, submissive minds?

But take a bite o’ the original pie! Set teeth,

’Ware cherry-stones, and if a herring-spine

Stick crosswise i’ the throat, go gulp, shed tears,

But blame us not! So runs the opening:

......

This bard’s a Browning! there’s no doubt of that;

But, ah, ye gods,the sense! Are we so sure

If sense be sense unto our common-sense,

Low sense to higher, high to low, no sense

All sense to those, all sense no sense to these?

That’s where your poet tells! and you’ve no right

(Insensate sense with sensuous thought being mixed)

To ask analysis! How can else review,

Save in the dialect of his verse, be writ?

So write we: (would we might foresee the end!)

So has he taught us, i’ “The Ring and the Book,”

De gustibus, concerning taste,non est

There’s no—disputing,disputandum(Ha!

’Tis not so difficult)—and we submit.

......

This Album-book—

“Hail, sham obliquity, lugubrious plot!”—

Is well-nigh read; you end the tangle, smash!

Here’s Browning’s recipe: take heaps o’ hate,

Take boundless love, hydraulic-pressed, in bales,

Distilments keen of baseness and of pride,

And innocence and cunning; mix ’em well,

And put a body round ’em! Add the more

O’ this, or that, you have another—stay!

The sex don’t count; make female of the male,

Male female, all the better; let them meet,

Talk, love, hate, cross, till satisfied; then, kill!

So here: lord, finding situation tough

(Between two fires, hate and a horsewhip-threat),

Writes i’ the Album, goes without and waits.

Superb One, having read, takes hand of snob,

Accepts his love till death; then lord comes back.

What did he write? “Refinement every inch,

From brow to boot-end”—’twas a threat to tell

The country curate of his wife’s disgrace—

He, the disgracer! Snob gets wild at that,

Screams, jumps, and clutches . . .

All at once we seeOne character dead, but how, we don’t quite know.Then she, Superb One, writes in Album, diesBy force of will (no hint of instrument!),Leaving the snob alone and much surprised.Cousin is heard without; but ere the doorOpens, the story closes. Only this remains,The last conundrum, hardly guessableBy the unbrowninged mind. Since what it means,If aught the meaning, means some other thing,And that thing something else, but this not that,Nor that the other; we adopt the linesAs most expressing what we fail express,Our solemn verdict, handkerchief and all,Upon the book.......The meaning, ask you, O ingenuous soul?Why, were there such for you, what then were leftTo puzzle brain with, pump conjecture dry,And prove you little where the poet’s great?Great must he be, you therefore little. Go!The curtain falls, the candles are snuffed out:End, damned obliquity, lugubrious plot!Bayard Taylor.

All at once we see

One character dead, but how, we don’t quite know.

Then she, Superb One, writes in Album, dies

By force of will (no hint of instrument!),

Leaving the snob alone and much surprised.

Cousin is heard without; but ere the door

Opens, the story closes. Only this remains,

The last conundrum, hardly guessable

By the unbrowninged mind. Since what it means,

If aught the meaning, means some other thing,

And that thing something else, but this not that,

Nor that the other; we adopt the lines

As most expressing what we fail express,

Our solemn verdict, handkerchief and all,

Upon the book.

......

The meaning, ask you, O ingenuous soul?

Why, were there such for you, what then were left

To puzzle brain with, pump conjecture dry,

And prove you little where the poet’s great?

Great must he be, you therefore little. Go!

The curtain falls, the candles are snuffed out:

End, damned obliquity, lugubrious plot!

Bayard Taylor.

LIFE and the Universe show spontaneity:Down with ridiculous notions of Deity!Churches and creeds are all lost in the mists;Truth must be sought with the Positivists.Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison,Comte, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Morley, and Harrison.Who will adventure to enter the listsWith such a squadron of Positivists?Social arrangements are awful miscarriages;Cause of all crime is our system of marriages.Poets with sonnets, and lovers with trysts,Kindle the ire of the Positivists.Husbands and wives should be all one community,Exquisite freedom with absolute unity.Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists—Such is the creed of the Positivists.There was an ape in the days that were earlier;Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier;Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist—Then he was Man, and a Positivist.If you are pious (mild form of insanity),Bow down and worship the mass of humanity.Other religions are buried in mists;We’re our own Gods, say the Positivists.Mortimer Collins.

LIFE and the Universe show spontaneity:Down with ridiculous notions of Deity!Churches and creeds are all lost in the mists;Truth must be sought with the Positivists.

LIFE and the Universe show spontaneity:

Down with ridiculous notions of Deity!

Churches and creeds are all lost in the mists;

Truth must be sought with the Positivists.

Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison,Comte, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Morley, and Harrison.Who will adventure to enter the listsWith such a squadron of Positivists?

Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison,

Comte, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Morley, and Harrison.

Who will adventure to enter the lists

With such a squadron of Positivists?

Social arrangements are awful miscarriages;Cause of all crime is our system of marriages.Poets with sonnets, and lovers with trysts,Kindle the ire of the Positivists.

Social arrangements are awful miscarriages;

Cause of all crime is our system of marriages.

Poets with sonnets, and lovers with trysts,

Kindle the ire of the Positivists.

Husbands and wives should be all one community,Exquisite freedom with absolute unity.Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists—Such is the creed of the Positivists.

Husbands and wives should be all one community,

Exquisite freedom with absolute unity.

Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists—

Such is the creed of the Positivists.

There was an ape in the days that were earlier;Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier;Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist—Then he was Man, and a Positivist.

There was an ape in the days that were earlier;

Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier;

Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist—

Then he was Man, and a Positivist.

If you are pious (mild form of insanity),Bow down and worship the mass of humanity.Other religions are buried in mists;We’re our own Gods, say the Positivists.Mortimer Collins.

If you are pious (mild form of insanity),

Bow down and worship the mass of humanity.

Other religions are buried in mists;

We’re our own Gods, say the Positivists.

Mortimer Collins.

TO PROFESSOR TYNDALL

JUST take a trifling handful, O philosopher,Of magic matter, give it a slight toss overThe ambient ether, and I don’t see whyYou shouldn’t make a sky.O hours Utopian which we may anticipate!Thick London fog how easy ’tis to dissipate,And make the most pea-soupy day as clearAs Bass’s brightest beer!Poet-professor! now my brain thou kindlest;I am become a most determined Tyndallist.If it is known a fellow can make skies,Why not make bright blue eyes?This to deny, the folly of a dunce it is;Surely a girl as easy as a sunset is.If you can make a halo or eclipse,Why not two laughing lips?The creed of Archimedes, erst of Sicily,And of D’Israeli ...forti nil difficile,Is likewise mine. Pygmalion was a foolWho should have gone to school.Why should an author scribble rhymes or articles?Bring me a dozen tiny Tyndall particles;Therefrom I’ll coin a dinner, Nash’s wine,And a nice girl to dine.Mortimer Collins.

JUST take a trifling handful, O philosopher,Of magic matter, give it a slight toss overThe ambient ether, and I don’t see whyYou shouldn’t make a sky.

JUST take a trifling handful, O philosopher,

Of magic matter, give it a slight toss over

The ambient ether, and I don’t see why

You shouldn’t make a sky.

O hours Utopian which we may anticipate!Thick London fog how easy ’tis to dissipate,And make the most pea-soupy day as clearAs Bass’s brightest beer!

O hours Utopian which we may anticipate!

Thick London fog how easy ’tis to dissipate,

And make the most pea-soupy day as clear

As Bass’s brightest beer!

Poet-professor! now my brain thou kindlest;I am become a most determined Tyndallist.If it is known a fellow can make skies,Why not make bright blue eyes?

Poet-professor! now my brain thou kindlest;

I am become a most determined Tyndallist.

If it is known a fellow can make skies,

Why not make bright blue eyes?

This to deny, the folly of a dunce it is;Surely a girl as easy as a sunset is.If you can make a halo or eclipse,Why not two laughing lips?

This to deny, the folly of a dunce it is;

Surely a girl as easy as a sunset is.

If you can make a halo or eclipse,

Why not two laughing lips?

The creed of Archimedes, erst of Sicily,And of D’Israeli ...forti nil difficile,Is likewise mine. Pygmalion was a foolWho should have gone to school.

The creed of Archimedes, erst of Sicily,

And of D’Israeli ...forti nil difficile,

Is likewise mine. Pygmalion was a fool

Who should have gone to school.

Why should an author scribble rhymes or articles?Bring me a dozen tiny Tyndall particles;Therefrom I’ll coin a dinner, Nash’s wine,And a nice girl to dine.Mortimer Collins.

Why should an author scribble rhymes or articles?

Bring me a dozen tiny Tyndall particles;

Therefrom I’ll coin a dinner, Nash’s wine,

And a nice girl to dine.

Mortimer Collins.

MY Lord Tomnoddy’s the son of an earl;His hair is straight, but his whiskers curl;His lordship’s forehead is far from wide,But there’s plenty of room for the brains inside.He writes his name with indifferent ease;He’s rather uncertain about the “d’s”;But what does it matter, if three or one,To the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son?My Lord Tomnoddy to college went;Much time he lost, much money he spent;Rules, and windows, and heads, he broke;Authorities wink’d—young men will joke!He never peep’d inside of a book;In two years’ time a degree he took,And the newspapers vaunted the honours wonBy the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.My Lord Tomnoddy came out in the world;Waists were tighten’d and ringlets curl’d;Virgins languish’d, and matrons smil’d.’Tis true, his lordship is rather wild;In very queer places he spends his life;There’s talk of some children by nobody’s wife;But we mustn’t look close into what is doneBy the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.My Lord Tomnoddy must settle down—There’s a vacant seat in the family town!(’Tis time he should sow his eccentric oats)—He hasn’t the wit to apply for votes:He cannot e’en learn his election speech;Three phrases he speaks, a mistake in each,And then breaks down; but the borough is wonFor the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.My Lord Tomnoddy prefers the Guards(The House is a bore), so, it’s on the cards!My lord’s a lieutenant at twenty-three;A captain at twenty-six is he;He never drew sword, except on drill;The tricks of parade he has learnt but ill;A full-blown colonel at thirty-oneIs the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son!My Lord Tomnoddy is thirty-four;The earl can last but a few years more;My Lord in the Peers will take his place;Her Majesty’s councils his words will grace.Office he’ll hold, and patronage sway;Fortunes and lives he will vote away.And what are his qualifications?—ONE!He’s the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.Robert Barnabas Brough.

MY Lord Tomnoddy’s the son of an earl;

His hair is straight, but his whiskers curl;

His lordship’s forehead is far from wide,

But there’s plenty of room for the brains inside.

He writes his name with indifferent ease;

He’s rather uncertain about the “d’s”;

But what does it matter, if three or one,

To the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son?

My Lord Tomnoddy to college went;Much time he lost, much money he spent;Rules, and windows, and heads, he broke;Authorities wink’d—young men will joke!He never peep’d inside of a book;In two years’ time a degree he took,And the newspapers vaunted the honours wonBy the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.

My Lord Tomnoddy to college went;

Much time he lost, much money he spent;

Rules, and windows, and heads, he broke;

Authorities wink’d—young men will joke!

He never peep’d inside of a book;

In two years’ time a degree he took,

And the newspapers vaunted the honours won

By the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.

My Lord Tomnoddy came out in the world;Waists were tighten’d and ringlets curl’d;Virgins languish’d, and matrons smil’d.’Tis true, his lordship is rather wild;In very queer places he spends his life;There’s talk of some children by nobody’s wife;But we mustn’t look close into what is doneBy the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.

My Lord Tomnoddy came out in the world;

Waists were tighten’d and ringlets curl’d;

Virgins languish’d, and matrons smil’d.

’Tis true, his lordship is rather wild;

In very queer places he spends his life;

There’s talk of some children by nobody’s wife;

But we mustn’t look close into what is done

By the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.

My Lord Tomnoddy must settle down—There’s a vacant seat in the family town!(’Tis time he should sow his eccentric oats)—He hasn’t the wit to apply for votes:He cannot e’en learn his election speech;Three phrases he speaks, a mistake in each,And then breaks down; but the borough is wonFor the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.

My Lord Tomnoddy must settle down—

There’s a vacant seat in the family town!

(’Tis time he should sow his eccentric oats)—

He hasn’t the wit to apply for votes:

He cannot e’en learn his election speech;

Three phrases he speaks, a mistake in each,

And then breaks down; but the borough is won

For the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.

My Lord Tomnoddy prefers the Guards(The House is a bore), so, it’s on the cards!My lord’s a lieutenant at twenty-three;A captain at twenty-six is he;He never drew sword, except on drill;The tricks of parade he has learnt but ill;A full-blown colonel at thirty-oneIs the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son!

My Lord Tomnoddy prefers the Guards

(The House is a bore), so, it’s on the cards!

My lord’s a lieutenant at twenty-three;

A captain at twenty-six is he;

He never drew sword, except on drill;

The tricks of parade he has learnt but ill;

A full-blown colonel at thirty-one

Is the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son!

My Lord Tomnoddy is thirty-four;The earl can last but a few years more;My Lord in the Peers will take his place;Her Majesty’s councils his words will grace.Office he’ll hold, and patronage sway;Fortunes and lives he will vote away.And what are his qualifications?—ONE!He’s the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.Robert Barnabas Brough.

My Lord Tomnoddy is thirty-four;

The earl can last but a few years more;

My Lord in the Peers will take his place;

Her Majesty’s councils his words will grace.

Office he’ll hold, and patronage sway;

Fortunes and lives he will vote away.

And what are his qualifications?—ONE!

He’s the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.

Robert Barnabas Brough.

AT dinner she is hostess, I am host.Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keepsThe topic over intellectual deepsIn buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball:It is in truth a most contagious game;Hiding the Skeletonshall be its name.Such play as this the devils might appal!But here’s the greater wonder, in that we,Enamour’d of our acting and our wits,Admire each other like true hypocrites.Warm-lighted glances, Love’s ephemeræ,Shoot gayly o’er the dishes and the wine.We waken envy of our happy lot.Fast, sweet, and golden shows our marriage knot.Dear guests, you now have seen Love’s corpse-light shine!George Meredith.

AT dinner she is hostess, I am host.

Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keeps

The topic over intellectual deeps

In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.

With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball:

It is in truth a most contagious game;

Hiding the Skeletonshall be its name.

Such play as this the devils might appal!

But here’s the greater wonder, in that we,

Enamour’d of our acting and our wits,

Admire each other like true hypocrites.

Warm-lighted glances, Love’s ephemeræ,

Shoot gayly o’er the dishes and the wine.

We waken envy of our happy lot.

Fast, sweet, and golden shows our marriage knot.

Dear guests, you now have seen Love’s corpse-light shine!

George Meredith.

SHE is talking æsthetics, the dear, clever teacher!Upon man, and his functions, she speaks with a smile;Her ideas are divine upon art, upon nature,The sublime, the heroic, and Mr. Carlyle.I no more am found worthy to join in the talk, now,So I follow with my surreptitious cigar;While she leads our poetical friend up the walk, now,Who quotes Wordsworth, and praises her “Thoughts on a Star.”Meanwhile, there is dancing in yonder green bowerA swarm of young midges! They dance high and low;’Tis a sweet little species that lives but one hour,And the eldest was born half an hour ago.One impulsive young midge I hear ardently pouringIn the ear of a shy little wanton in gauze,His eternal devotion, his ceaseless adoring,Which shall last till the universe breaks from its laws.His passion is not, he declares, the mere feverOf a rapturous moment: it knows no control;It will burn in his breast through existence for ever,Immutably fixed in the deeps of his soul!She wavers, she flutters: male midges are fickle;Dare she trust him her future? she asks with a sigh.He implores, and a tear is beginning to trickle.She is weak: they embrace, and . . . the lovers pass by.While they pass me, down here on a rose-leaf has lightedA pale midge, his feelers all drooping and torn;His existence is withered; its future is blighted;His hopes are betrayed, and his breast is forlorn.By the midge his heart trusted his heart is deceived; nowIn the virtue of midges no more he believes;From love in its falsehood, once wildly believed, nowHe will bury his desolate life in the leaves.His friends would console him—the noblest and sagestOf midges have held that a midge lives again;In eternity, say they, the strife thou now wagestWith sorrow, shall cease; but their words were in vain!Can eternity bring back the seconds now wastedIn hopeless desire? or restore to his breastThe belief he has lost, with the bliss he once tasted,Embracing the midge that his being held best?His friends would console him: life yet is before him;Many hundred long seconds he still has to live;In the State yet a mighty career spreads before him;Let him seek in the great world of action to strive!There’s Fame! there’s Ambition! and, grander than either,There is Freedom! the progress and march of the race!But to Freedom his breast beats no longer, and neitherAmbition nor action her loss can replace.If the time had been spent in acquiring æstheticsI have squandered in learning this language of midges,There might, for my friend in her peripatetics,Have been now two asses to help o’er the bridges.As it is, I’ll report her the whole conversation.It would have been longer, but, somehow or other(In the midst of that misanthrope’s long lamentation),A midge in my right eye became a young mother.Since my friend is so clever, I’ll ask her to tell meWhy the least living thing (a mere midge in the egg)Can make a man’s tears flow, as now it befell me.Oh, you dear, clever woman, explain it, I beg!Robert Bulwer Lytton.

SHE is talking æsthetics, the dear, clever teacher!Upon man, and his functions, she speaks with a smile;Her ideas are divine upon art, upon nature,The sublime, the heroic, and Mr. Carlyle.

SHE is talking æsthetics, the dear, clever teacher!

Upon man, and his functions, she speaks with a smile;

Her ideas are divine upon art, upon nature,

The sublime, the heroic, and Mr. Carlyle.

I no more am found worthy to join in the talk, now,So I follow with my surreptitious cigar;While she leads our poetical friend up the walk, now,Who quotes Wordsworth, and praises her “Thoughts on a Star.”

I no more am found worthy to join in the talk, now,

So I follow with my surreptitious cigar;

While she leads our poetical friend up the walk, now,

Who quotes Wordsworth, and praises her “Thoughts on a Star.”

Meanwhile, there is dancing in yonder green bowerA swarm of young midges! They dance high and low;’Tis a sweet little species that lives but one hour,And the eldest was born half an hour ago.

Meanwhile, there is dancing in yonder green bower

A swarm of young midges! They dance high and low;

’Tis a sweet little species that lives but one hour,

And the eldest was born half an hour ago.

One impulsive young midge I hear ardently pouringIn the ear of a shy little wanton in gauze,His eternal devotion, his ceaseless adoring,Which shall last till the universe breaks from its laws.

One impulsive young midge I hear ardently pouring

In the ear of a shy little wanton in gauze,

His eternal devotion, his ceaseless adoring,

Which shall last till the universe breaks from its laws.

His passion is not, he declares, the mere feverOf a rapturous moment: it knows no control;It will burn in his breast through existence for ever,Immutably fixed in the deeps of his soul!

His passion is not, he declares, the mere fever

Of a rapturous moment: it knows no control;

It will burn in his breast through existence for ever,

Immutably fixed in the deeps of his soul!

She wavers, she flutters: male midges are fickle;Dare she trust him her future? she asks with a sigh.He implores, and a tear is beginning to trickle.She is weak: they embrace, and . . . the lovers pass by.

She wavers, she flutters: male midges are fickle;

Dare she trust him her future? she asks with a sigh.

He implores, and a tear is beginning to trickle.

She is weak: they embrace, and . . . the lovers pass by.

While they pass me, down here on a rose-leaf has lightedA pale midge, his feelers all drooping and torn;His existence is withered; its future is blighted;His hopes are betrayed, and his breast is forlorn.

While they pass me, down here on a rose-leaf has lighted

A pale midge, his feelers all drooping and torn;

His existence is withered; its future is blighted;

His hopes are betrayed, and his breast is forlorn.

By the midge his heart trusted his heart is deceived; nowIn the virtue of midges no more he believes;From love in its falsehood, once wildly believed, nowHe will bury his desolate life in the leaves.

By the midge his heart trusted his heart is deceived; now

In the virtue of midges no more he believes;

From love in its falsehood, once wildly believed, now

He will bury his desolate life in the leaves.

His friends would console him—the noblest and sagestOf midges have held that a midge lives again;In eternity, say they, the strife thou now wagestWith sorrow, shall cease; but their words were in vain!

His friends would console him—the noblest and sagest

Of midges have held that a midge lives again;

In eternity, say they, the strife thou now wagest

With sorrow, shall cease; but their words were in vain!

Can eternity bring back the seconds now wastedIn hopeless desire? or restore to his breastThe belief he has lost, with the bliss he once tasted,Embracing the midge that his being held best?

Can eternity bring back the seconds now wasted

In hopeless desire? or restore to his breast

The belief he has lost, with the bliss he once tasted,

Embracing the midge that his being held best?

His friends would console him: life yet is before him;Many hundred long seconds he still has to live;In the State yet a mighty career spreads before him;Let him seek in the great world of action to strive!

His friends would console him: life yet is before him;

Many hundred long seconds he still has to live;

In the State yet a mighty career spreads before him;

Let him seek in the great world of action to strive!

There’s Fame! there’s Ambition! and, grander than either,There is Freedom! the progress and march of the race!But to Freedom his breast beats no longer, and neitherAmbition nor action her loss can replace.

There’s Fame! there’s Ambition! and, grander than either,

There is Freedom! the progress and march of the race!

But to Freedom his breast beats no longer, and neither

Ambition nor action her loss can replace.

If the time had been spent in acquiring æstheticsI have squandered in learning this language of midges,There might, for my friend in her peripatetics,Have been now two asses to help o’er the bridges.

If the time had been spent in acquiring æsthetics

I have squandered in learning this language of midges,

There might, for my friend in her peripatetics,

Have been now two asses to help o’er the bridges.

As it is, I’ll report her the whole conversation.It would have been longer, but, somehow or other(In the midst of that misanthrope’s long lamentation),A midge in my right eye became a young mother.

As it is, I’ll report her the whole conversation.

It would have been longer, but, somehow or other

(In the midst of that misanthrope’s long lamentation),

A midge in my right eye became a young mother.

Since my friend is so clever, I’ll ask her to tell meWhy the least living thing (a mere midge in the egg)Can make a man’s tears flow, as now it befell me.Oh, you dear, clever woman, explain it, I beg!Robert Bulwer Lytton.

Since my friend is so clever, I’ll ask her to tell me

Why the least living thing (a mere midge in the egg)

Can make a man’s tears flow, as now it befell me.

Oh, you dear, clever woman, explain it, I beg!

Robert Bulwer Lytton.

OWHAT harper could worthily harp it,Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold(Look out wold) with its wonderful carpetOf emerald, purple, and gold!Look well at it—also look sharp, itIs getting so cold.The purple is heather (erica);The yellow, gorse—call’d sometimes “whin.”Cruel boys on its prickles might spike aGreen beetle as if on a pin.You may roll in it, if you would like aFew holes in your skin.You wouldn’t? Then think of how kind youShould be to the insects who craveYour compassion—and then, look behind youAt yon barley-ears! Don’t they look braveAs they undulate (undulate, mind you,From unda, a wave).The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint itSounds here (on account of our height)!And this hillock itself—who could paint it,With its changes of shadow and light?Is it not—(never, Eddy, say “Ain’t it”)—A marvellous sight?Then yon desolate, eerie morasses,The haunts of the snipe and the hern—(I shall question the two upper classesOn aquatiles, when we return)—Why, I see on them absolute massesOf filix or fern.How it interests e’en a beginner(Or tyro) like dear little Ned!Is he listening? As I am a sinner,He’s asleep—he is wagging his head.Wake up! I’ll go home to my dinner,And you to your bed.The boundless, ineffable prairie;The splendour of mountain and lake,With their hues that seem ever to vary;The mighty pine-forests which shakeIn the wind, and in which the unwaryMay tread on a snake;And this wold with its heathery garmentAre themes undeniably great.But—although there is not any harm in’t—It’s perhaps little good to dilateOn their charms to a dull little varmintOf seven or eight.Charles Stuart Calverley.

OWHAT harper could worthily harp it,

Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold

(Look out wold) with its wonderful carpet

Of emerald, purple, and gold!

Look well at it—also look sharp, it

Is getting so cold.

The purple is heather (erica);The yellow, gorse—call’d sometimes “whin.”Cruel boys on its prickles might spike aGreen beetle as if on a pin.You may roll in it, if you would like aFew holes in your skin.

The purple is heather (erica);

The yellow, gorse—call’d sometimes “whin.”

Cruel boys on its prickles might spike a

Green beetle as if on a pin.

You may roll in it, if you would like a

Few holes in your skin.

You wouldn’t? Then think of how kind youShould be to the insects who craveYour compassion—and then, look behind youAt yon barley-ears! Don’t they look braveAs they undulate (undulate, mind you,From unda, a wave).

You wouldn’t? Then think of how kind you

Should be to the insects who crave

Your compassion—and then, look behind you

At yon barley-ears! Don’t they look brave

As they undulate (undulate, mind you,

From unda, a wave).

The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint itSounds here (on account of our height)!And this hillock itself—who could paint it,With its changes of shadow and light?Is it not—(never, Eddy, say “Ain’t it”)—A marvellous sight?

The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it

Sounds here (on account of our height)!

And this hillock itself—who could paint it,

With its changes of shadow and light?

Is it not—(never, Eddy, say “Ain’t it”)—

A marvellous sight?

Then yon desolate, eerie morasses,The haunts of the snipe and the hern—(I shall question the two upper classesOn aquatiles, when we return)—Why, I see on them absolute massesOf filix or fern.

Then yon desolate, eerie morasses,

The haunts of the snipe and the hern—

(I shall question the two upper classes

On aquatiles, when we return)—

Why, I see on them absolute masses

Of filix or fern.

How it interests e’en a beginner(Or tyro) like dear little Ned!Is he listening? As I am a sinner,He’s asleep—he is wagging his head.Wake up! I’ll go home to my dinner,And you to your bed.

How it interests e’en a beginner

(Or tyro) like dear little Ned!

Is he listening? As I am a sinner,

He’s asleep—he is wagging his head.

Wake up! I’ll go home to my dinner,

And you to your bed.

The boundless, ineffable prairie;The splendour of mountain and lake,With their hues that seem ever to vary;The mighty pine-forests which shakeIn the wind, and in which the unwaryMay tread on a snake;

The boundless, ineffable prairie;

The splendour of mountain and lake,

With their hues that seem ever to vary;

The mighty pine-forests which shake

In the wind, and in which the unwary

May tread on a snake;

And this wold with its heathery garmentAre themes undeniably great.But—although there is not any harm in’t—It’s perhaps little good to dilateOn their charms to a dull little varmintOf seven or eight.Charles Stuart Calverley.

And this wold with its heathery garment

Are themes undeniably great.

But—although there is not any harm in’t—

It’s perhaps little good to dilate

On their charms to a dull little varmint

Of seven or eight.

Charles Stuart Calverley.

STUDY first Propriety, for she is indeed the pole-starWhich shall guide the artless maiden through the mazes of Vanity Fair;Nay, she is the golden chain which holdeth together Society,The lamp by whose light young Psyche shall approach unblamed her Eros.Verily, Truth is as Eve, which was ashamed, being naked;Wherefore doth Propriety dress her with the fair foliage of artifice;And when she is drest, behold, she knoweth not herself again!I walked in the forest, and above me stood the yew—Stood like a slumbering giant, shrouded in impenetrable shade;Then I pass’d into the citizen’s garden, and marked a tree clipt into shape(The giant’s locks had been shorn by the Delilah-shears of Decorum),And I said, “Surely Nature is goodly; but how much goodlier is Art!”I heard the wild notes of the lark floating far over the blue sky,And my foolish heart went after him, and, lo! I blessed him as he rose.Foolish! for far better is the trained boudoir bullfinch,Which pipeth the semblance of a tune, and mechanically draweth up the water;And the reinless steed of the desert, though his neck be clothed with thunder,Must yield to him that danceth and “moveth in the circles” at Astley’s.For verily, O my daughter, the world is a masquerade,And God made thee one thing, that thou mightest make thyself another.A maiden’s heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling upward,And it needed that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of Propriety;He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure;Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of the cork.Charles Stuart Calverley.

STUDY first Propriety, for she is indeed the pole-star

Which shall guide the artless maiden through the mazes of Vanity Fair;

Nay, she is the golden chain which holdeth together Society,

The lamp by whose light young Psyche shall approach unblamed her Eros.

Verily, Truth is as Eve, which was ashamed, being naked;

Wherefore doth Propriety dress her with the fair foliage of artifice;

And when she is drest, behold, she knoweth not herself again!

I walked in the forest, and above me stood the yew—

Stood like a slumbering giant, shrouded in impenetrable shade;

Then I pass’d into the citizen’s garden, and marked a tree clipt into shape

(The giant’s locks had been shorn by the Delilah-shears of Decorum),

And I said, “Surely Nature is goodly; but how much goodlier is Art!”

I heard the wild notes of the lark floating far over the blue sky,

And my foolish heart went after him, and, lo! I blessed him as he rose.

Foolish! for far better is the trained boudoir bullfinch,

Which pipeth the semblance of a tune, and mechanically draweth up the water;

And the reinless steed of the desert, though his neck be clothed with thunder,

Must yield to him that danceth and “moveth in the circles” at Astley’s.

For verily, O my daughter, the world is a masquerade,

And God made thee one thing, that thou mightest make thyself another.

A maiden’s heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling upward,

And it needed that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of Propriety;

He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure;

Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of the cork.

Charles Stuart Calverley.

HE stood, a worn-out City clerk—Who’d toil’d, and seen no holiday,For forty years from dawn to dark—Alone beside Caermarthen Bay.He felt the salt spray on his lips;Heard children’s voices on the sands;Up the sun’s path he saw the shipsSail on and on to other lands;And laugh’d aloud. Each sight and soundTo him was joy too deep for tears;He sat him on the beach, and boundA blue bandana round his ears;And thought how, posted near his door,His own green door on Camden Hill,Two bands at least, most likely more,Were mingling at their own sweet willVerdi with Vance. And at the thoughtHe laugh’d again, and softly drewThatMorning Heraldthat he’d boughtForth from his breast, and read it through.Charles Stuart Calverley.

HE stood, a worn-out City clerk—Who’d toil’d, and seen no holiday,For forty years from dawn to dark—Alone beside Caermarthen Bay.

HE stood, a worn-out City clerk—

Who’d toil’d, and seen no holiday,

For forty years from dawn to dark—

Alone beside Caermarthen Bay.

He felt the salt spray on his lips;Heard children’s voices on the sands;Up the sun’s path he saw the shipsSail on and on to other lands;

He felt the salt spray on his lips;

Heard children’s voices on the sands;

Up the sun’s path he saw the ships

Sail on and on to other lands;

And laugh’d aloud. Each sight and soundTo him was joy too deep for tears;He sat him on the beach, and boundA blue bandana round his ears;

And laugh’d aloud. Each sight and sound

To him was joy too deep for tears;

He sat him on the beach, and bound

A blue bandana round his ears;

And thought how, posted near his door,His own green door on Camden Hill,Two bands at least, most likely more,Were mingling at their own sweet will

And thought how, posted near his door,

His own green door on Camden Hill,

Two bands at least, most likely more,

Were mingling at their own sweet will

Verdi with Vance. And at the thoughtHe laugh’d again, and softly drewThatMorning Heraldthat he’d boughtForth from his breast, and read it through.Charles Stuart Calverley.

Verdi with Vance. And at the thought

He laugh’d again, and softly drew

ThatMorning Heraldthat he’d bought

Forth from his breast, and read it through.

Charles Stuart Calverley.

IN a church which is furnish’d with mullion and gable,With altar and reredos, with gargoyle and groin,The penitents’ dresses are sealskin and sable,The odour of sanctity’s eau-de-Cologne.But only could Lucifer, flying from Hades,Gaze down on this crowd with its panniers and paints,He would say, as he look’d at the lords and the ladies,“Oh, where is All-Sinners’, if this is All-Saints’?”Edmund Yates.

IN a church which is furnish’d with mullion and gable,

With altar and reredos, with gargoyle and groin,

The penitents’ dresses are sealskin and sable,

The odour of sanctity’s eau-de-Cologne.

But only could Lucifer, flying from Hades,

Gaze down on this crowd with its panniers and paints,

He would say, as he look’d at the lords and the ladies,

“Oh, where is All-Sinners’, if this is All-Saints’?”

Edmund Yates.

Affectionately dedicated to all “original researchers” who pant for “endowment.”

BLOW, blow your trumpets till they crack,Ye little men of little souls!And bid them huddle at your back,Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!Fill all the air with hungry wails—“Reward us, ere we think or write!Without your gold mere knowledge failsTo sate the swinish appetite!”And, where great Plato paced serene,Or Newton paused with wistful eye,Rush to the chase with hoofs unclean,And Babel-clamour of the sky!Be yours the pay, be theirs the praise;We will not rob them of their due,Nor vex the ghosts of other daysBy naming them along with you.They sought and found undying fame;They toiled not for reward nor thanks;Their cheeks are hot with honest shameFor you, the modern mountebanks,Who preach of justice, plead with tearsThat love and mercy should abound,While marking with complacent earsThe moaning of some tortured hound;Who prate of wisdom—nay, forbear,Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,Trampling, with heel that will not spare,The vermin that beset her path!Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms,Ye idols of a petty clique;Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,And make your penny trumpets squeak;Deck your dull talk with pilfered shredsOf learning from a nobler time,And oil each other’s little headsWith mutual flattery’s golden slime;And when the topmost height ye gain,And stand in glory’s ether clear,And grasp the prize of all your pain—So many hundred pounds a year—Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled!Sing pæans for a victory won!Ye tapers, that would light the world,And cast a shadow on the Sun;Who still shall pour his rays sublime,One crystal flood, from east to west,When ye have burned your little time,And feebly flickered into rest!Lewis Carroll.

BLOW, blow your trumpets till they crack,Ye little men of little souls!And bid them huddle at your back,Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!

BLOW, blow your trumpets till they crack,

Ye little men of little souls!

And bid them huddle at your back,

Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!

Fill all the air with hungry wails—“Reward us, ere we think or write!Without your gold mere knowledge failsTo sate the swinish appetite!”

Fill all the air with hungry wails—

“Reward us, ere we think or write!

Without your gold mere knowledge fails

To sate the swinish appetite!”

And, where great Plato paced serene,Or Newton paused with wistful eye,Rush to the chase with hoofs unclean,And Babel-clamour of the sky!

And, where great Plato paced serene,

Or Newton paused with wistful eye,

Rush to the chase with hoofs unclean,

And Babel-clamour of the sky!

Be yours the pay, be theirs the praise;We will not rob them of their due,Nor vex the ghosts of other daysBy naming them along with you.They sought and found undying fame;They toiled not for reward nor thanks;Their cheeks are hot with honest shameFor you, the modern mountebanks,

Be yours the pay, be theirs the praise;

We will not rob them of their due,

Nor vex the ghosts of other days

By naming them along with you.

They sought and found undying fame;

They toiled not for reward nor thanks;

Their cheeks are hot with honest shame

For you, the modern mountebanks,

Who preach of justice, plead with tearsThat love and mercy should abound,While marking with complacent earsThe moaning of some tortured hound;

Who preach of justice, plead with tears

That love and mercy should abound,

While marking with complacent ears

The moaning of some tortured hound;

Who prate of wisdom—nay, forbear,Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,Trampling, with heel that will not spare,The vermin that beset her path!

Who prate of wisdom—nay, forbear,

Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,

Trampling, with heel that will not spare,

The vermin that beset her path!

Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms,Ye idols of a petty clique;Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,And make your penny trumpets squeak;

Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms,

Ye idols of a petty clique;

Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,

And make your penny trumpets squeak;

Deck your dull talk with pilfered shredsOf learning from a nobler time,And oil each other’s little headsWith mutual flattery’s golden slime;

Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds

Of learning from a nobler time,

And oil each other’s little heads

With mutual flattery’s golden slime;

And when the topmost height ye gain,And stand in glory’s ether clear,And grasp the prize of all your pain—So many hundred pounds a year—Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled!Sing pæans for a victory won!Ye tapers, that would light the world,And cast a shadow on the Sun;

And when the topmost height ye gain,

And stand in glory’s ether clear,

And grasp the prize of all your pain—

So many hundred pounds a year—

Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled!

Sing pæans for a victory won!

Ye tapers, that would light the world,

And cast a shadow on the Sun;

Who still shall pour his rays sublime,One crystal flood, from east to west,When ye have burned your little time,And feebly flickered into rest!Lewis Carroll.

Who still shall pour his rays sublime,

One crystal flood, from east to west,

When ye have burned your little time,

And feebly flickered into rest!

Lewis Carroll.

OLOVE! Love! Love! What times were those,Long ere the age of belles and beaux,And Brussels lace and silken hose,When, in the green Arcadian close,You married Psyche under the rose,With only the grass for bedding!Heart to heart, and hand to hand,You followed Nature’s sweet command,Roaming lovingly through the land,Nor sighed for a Diamond Wedding.So have we read, in classic Ovid,How Hero watched for her belovéd,Impassioned youth, Leander.She was the fairest of the fair,And wrapt him round with her golden hair,Whenever he landed cold and bare,With nothing to eat and nothing to wear,And wetter than any gander;For Love was Love, and better than money;The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey;And kissing was clover, all the world over,Wherever Cupid might wander.So thousands of years have come and gone,And still the moon is shining on,Still Hymen’s torch is lighted;And hitherto, in this land of the West,Most couples in love have thought it bestTo follow the ancient way of the rest,And quietly get united.But now, True Love, you’re growing old—Bought and sold, with silver and gold,Like a house, or a horse and carriage!Midnight talks,Moonlight walks,The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh,The shadowy haunts, with no one by,I do not wish to disparage,But every kissHas a price for its bliss,In the modern code of marriage;And the compact sweetIs not completeTill the high contracting parties meetBefore the altar of Mammon;And the bride must be led to a silver bower,Where pearls and rubies fall in a showerThat would frighten Jupiter Ammon!I need not tellHow it befell,(Since Jenkins has told the storyOver and over and over again,In a style I cannot hope to attain,And covered himself with glory!)How it befell, one summer’s day,The king of the Cubans strolled this way—King January’s his name, they say—And fell in love with the Princess May,The reigning belle of Manhattan;Nor how he began to smirk and sue,And dress as lovers who come to woo,Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do,When they sit full-bloomed in the ladies’ view,And flourish the wondrous baton.He wasn’t one of your Polish nobles,Whose presence their country somehow troubles,And so our cities receive them;Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees,Who ply our daughters with lies and candies,Until the poor girls believe them.No, he was no such charlatan—Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan,Full of gasconade and bravado—But a regular, rich Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado.His was the rental of half Havana,And all Matanzas; and Santa Anna,Rich as he was, could hardly holdA candle to light the mines of goldOur Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers;And broad plantations, that, in round figures,Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers!“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!”The señor swore to carry the day,To capture the beautiful Princess May,With his battery of treasure;Velvet and lace she should not lack;Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black,Genin and Stewart his suit should back,And come and go at her pleasure;Jet and lava, silver and gold,Garnets, emeralds rare to behold,Diamonds, sapphires, wealth untold,All were hers, to have and to hold—Enough to fill a peck measure!He didn’t bring all his forces onAt once, but, like a crafty old Don,Who many a heart had fought and won,Kept bidding a little higher;And every time he made his bid,And what she said, and all they did,’Twas written downFor the good of the town,By Jeems, ofThe Daily Flyer.A coach and horses, you’d think, would buyFor the Don an easy victory;But slowly our Princess yielded.A diamond necklace caught her eye,But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh.She knew the worth of each maiden glance,And, like young colts that curvet and prance,She led the Don a deuce of a dance,In spite of the wealth he wielded.She stood such a fire of silks and laces,Jewels and gold dressing-cases,And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls,That every one of her dainty curlsBrought the price of a hundred common girls;Folks thought the lass demented!But at last a wonderful diamond ring,An infant Kohinoor, did the thing,And, sighing with love, or something the same,(What’s in a name?)The Princess May consented.Ring! ring the bells, and bringThe people to see the marrying!Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poorThrong round the great cathedral door,To wonder what all the hubbub’s for,And sometimes stupidly wonderAt so much sunshine and brightness whichFall from the church upon the rich,While the poor get all the thunder.Ring, ring, merry bells, ring!O fortunate few,With letters blue,Good for a seat and a nearer view!Fortunate few, whom I dare not name;Dilettanti!Crême de la crême!We commoners stood by the street façade,And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade.We saw the brideIn diamond prideWith jewelled maidens to guard her side—Six lustrous maidens in tarlatan.She led the van of the caravan;Close behind her, her mother(Dressed in gorgeousmoire antiqueThat told as plainly as words could speak,She was more antique than the other)Leaned on the arm of Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado.Happy mortal! fortunate man!And Marquis of El Dorado!In they swept, all riches and grace,Silks and satins, jewels and lace;In they swept from the dazzled sun,And soon in the church the deed was done.Three prelates stood on the chancel high:A knot that gold and silver can buy,Gold and silver may yet untie,Unless it is tightly fastened;What’s worth doing at all’s worth doing well,And the sale of a young Manhattan belleIs not to be pushed or hastened;So two Very Reverends graced the scene,And the tall Archbishop stood between,By prayer and fasting chastened.The Pope himself would have come from Rome,But Garibaldi kept him at home.Haply these robed prelates thoughtTheir words were the power that tied the knot;But another power that love-knot tied,And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride—A glistening, priceless, marvellous chain,Coiled with diamonds again and again,As befits a diamond wedding;Yet still ’twas a chain, and I thought she knew it,And half-way longed for the will to undo it,By the secret tears she was shedding.But isn’t it odd to think, wheneverWe all go through that terrible River,Whose sluggish tide alone can sever(The Archbishop says) the Church decree,By floating one in to Eternity,And leaving the other alive as ever,As each wades through that ghastly stream,The satins that rustle and gems that gleam,Will grow pale and heavy, and sink awayTo the noisome river’s bottom-clay!Then the costly bride and her maidens sixWill shiver upon the bank of the Styx,Quite as helpless as they were born—Naked souls, and very forlorn.The Princess, then, must shift for herself,And lay her royalty on the shelf;She, and the beautiful empress yonder,Whose robes are now the wide world’s wonderAnd even ourselves, and our dear little wives,Who calico wear each morn of their lives,And the sewing-girls, andles chiffonniers,In rags and hunger—a gaunt array—And all the grooms of the caravan—Aye, even the great Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado—That gold-encrusted, fortunate man—All will land in naked equality;The lord of a ribboned principalityWill mourn the loss of hiscordon.Nothing to eat and nothing to wearWill certainly be the fashion there!Ten to one, and I’ll go it alone,Those most used to a rag and bone,Though here on earth they labour and groan,Will stand it best, as they wade abreastTo the other side of Jordan.Edmund Clarence Stedman.

OLOVE! Love! Love! What times were those,

Long ere the age of belles and beaux,

And Brussels lace and silken hose,

When, in the green Arcadian close,

You married Psyche under the rose,

With only the grass for bedding!

Heart to heart, and hand to hand,

You followed Nature’s sweet command,

Roaming lovingly through the land,

Nor sighed for a Diamond Wedding.

So have we read, in classic Ovid,How Hero watched for her belovéd,Impassioned youth, Leander.She was the fairest of the fair,And wrapt him round with her golden hair,Whenever he landed cold and bare,With nothing to eat and nothing to wear,And wetter than any gander;For Love was Love, and better than money;The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey;And kissing was clover, all the world over,Wherever Cupid might wander.

So have we read, in classic Ovid,

How Hero watched for her belovéd,

Impassioned youth, Leander.

She was the fairest of the fair,

And wrapt him round with her golden hair,

Whenever he landed cold and bare,

With nothing to eat and nothing to wear,

And wetter than any gander;

For Love was Love, and better than money;

The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey;

And kissing was clover, all the world over,

Wherever Cupid might wander.

So thousands of years have come and gone,And still the moon is shining on,Still Hymen’s torch is lighted;And hitherto, in this land of the West,Most couples in love have thought it bestTo follow the ancient way of the rest,And quietly get united.

So thousands of years have come and gone,

And still the moon is shining on,

Still Hymen’s torch is lighted;

And hitherto, in this land of the West,

Most couples in love have thought it best

To follow the ancient way of the rest,

And quietly get united.

But now, True Love, you’re growing old—Bought and sold, with silver and gold,Like a house, or a horse and carriage!Midnight talks,Moonlight walks,The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh,The shadowy haunts, with no one by,I do not wish to disparage,But every kissHas a price for its bliss,In the modern code of marriage;And the compact sweetIs not completeTill the high contracting parties meetBefore the altar of Mammon;And the bride must be led to a silver bower,Where pearls and rubies fall in a showerThat would frighten Jupiter Ammon!I need not tellHow it befell,(Since Jenkins has told the storyOver and over and over again,In a style I cannot hope to attain,And covered himself with glory!)How it befell, one summer’s day,The king of the Cubans strolled this way—King January’s his name, they say—And fell in love with the Princess May,The reigning belle of Manhattan;Nor how he began to smirk and sue,And dress as lovers who come to woo,Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do,When they sit full-bloomed in the ladies’ view,And flourish the wondrous baton.

But now, True Love, you’re growing old—

Bought and sold, with silver and gold,

Like a house, or a horse and carriage!

Midnight talks,

Moonlight walks,

The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh,

The shadowy haunts, with no one by,

I do not wish to disparage,

But every kiss

Has a price for its bliss,

In the modern code of marriage;

And the compact sweet

Is not complete

Till the high contracting parties meet

Before the altar of Mammon;

And the bride must be led to a silver bower,

Where pearls and rubies fall in a shower

That would frighten Jupiter Ammon!

I need not tell

How it befell,

(Since Jenkins has told the story

Over and over and over again,

In a style I cannot hope to attain,

And covered himself with glory!)

How it befell, one summer’s day,

The king of the Cubans strolled this way—

King January’s his name, they say—

And fell in love with the Princess May,

The reigning belle of Manhattan;

Nor how he began to smirk and sue,

And dress as lovers who come to woo,

Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do,

When they sit full-bloomed in the ladies’ view,

And flourish the wondrous baton.

He wasn’t one of your Polish nobles,Whose presence their country somehow troubles,And so our cities receive them;Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees,Who ply our daughters with lies and candies,Until the poor girls believe them.No, he was no such charlatan—Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan,Full of gasconade and bravado—But a regular, rich Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado.His was the rental of half Havana,And all Matanzas; and Santa Anna,Rich as he was, could hardly holdA candle to light the mines of goldOur Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers;And broad plantations, that, in round figures,Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers!

He wasn’t one of your Polish nobles,

Whose presence their country somehow troubles,

And so our cities receive them;

Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees,

Who ply our daughters with lies and candies,

Until the poor girls believe them.

No, he was no such charlatan—

Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan,

Full of gasconade and bravado—

But a regular, rich Don Rataplan

Santa Claus de la Muscovado

Señor Grandissimo Bastinado.

His was the rental of half Havana,

And all Matanzas; and Santa Anna,

Rich as he was, could hardly hold

A candle to light the mines of gold

Our Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers;

And broad plantations, that, in round figures,

Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers!

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!”The señor swore to carry the day,To capture the beautiful Princess May,With his battery of treasure;Velvet and lace she should not lack;Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black,Genin and Stewart his suit should back,And come and go at her pleasure;Jet and lava, silver and gold,Garnets, emeralds rare to behold,Diamonds, sapphires, wealth untold,All were hers, to have and to hold—Enough to fill a peck measure!

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!”

The señor swore to carry the day,

To capture the beautiful Princess May,

With his battery of treasure;

Velvet and lace she should not lack;

Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black,

Genin and Stewart his suit should back,

And come and go at her pleasure;

Jet and lava, silver and gold,

Garnets, emeralds rare to behold,

Diamonds, sapphires, wealth untold,

All were hers, to have and to hold—

Enough to fill a peck measure!

He didn’t bring all his forces onAt once, but, like a crafty old Don,Who many a heart had fought and won,Kept bidding a little higher;And every time he made his bid,And what she said, and all they did,’Twas written downFor the good of the town,By Jeems, ofThe Daily Flyer.

He didn’t bring all his forces on

At once, but, like a crafty old Don,

Who many a heart had fought and won,

Kept bidding a little higher;

And every time he made his bid,

And what she said, and all they did,

’Twas written down

For the good of the town,

By Jeems, ofThe Daily Flyer.

A coach and horses, you’d think, would buyFor the Don an easy victory;But slowly our Princess yielded.A diamond necklace caught her eye,But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh.She knew the worth of each maiden glance,And, like young colts that curvet and prance,She led the Don a deuce of a dance,In spite of the wealth he wielded.She stood such a fire of silks and laces,Jewels and gold dressing-cases,And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls,That every one of her dainty curlsBrought the price of a hundred common girls;Folks thought the lass demented!But at last a wonderful diamond ring,An infant Kohinoor, did the thing,And, sighing with love, or something the same,(What’s in a name?)The Princess May consented.

A coach and horses, you’d think, would buy

For the Don an easy victory;

But slowly our Princess yielded.

A diamond necklace caught her eye,

But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh.

She knew the worth of each maiden glance,

And, like young colts that curvet and prance,

She led the Don a deuce of a dance,

In spite of the wealth he wielded.

She stood such a fire of silks and laces,

Jewels and gold dressing-cases,

And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls,

That every one of her dainty curls

Brought the price of a hundred common girls;

Folks thought the lass demented!

But at last a wonderful diamond ring,

An infant Kohinoor, did the thing,

And, sighing with love, or something the same,

(What’s in a name?)

The Princess May consented.

Ring! ring the bells, and bringThe people to see the marrying!Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poorThrong round the great cathedral door,To wonder what all the hubbub’s for,And sometimes stupidly wonderAt so much sunshine and brightness whichFall from the church upon the rich,While the poor get all the thunder.

Ring! ring the bells, and bring

The people to see the marrying!

Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poor

Throng round the great cathedral door,

To wonder what all the hubbub’s for,

And sometimes stupidly wonder

At so much sunshine and brightness which

Fall from the church upon the rich,

While the poor get all the thunder.

Ring, ring, merry bells, ring!O fortunate few,With letters blue,Good for a seat and a nearer view!Fortunate few, whom I dare not name;Dilettanti!Crême de la crême!We commoners stood by the street façade,And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade.We saw the brideIn diamond prideWith jewelled maidens to guard her side—Six lustrous maidens in tarlatan.She led the van of the caravan;Close behind her, her mother(Dressed in gorgeousmoire antiqueThat told as plainly as words could speak,She was more antique than the other)Leaned on the arm of Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado.Happy mortal! fortunate man!And Marquis of El Dorado!

Ring, ring, merry bells, ring!

O fortunate few,

With letters blue,

Good for a seat and a nearer view!

Fortunate few, whom I dare not name;

Dilettanti!Crême de la crême!

We commoners stood by the street façade,

And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade.

We saw the bride

In diamond pride

With jewelled maidens to guard her side—

Six lustrous maidens in tarlatan.

She led the van of the caravan;

Close behind her, her mother

(Dressed in gorgeousmoire antique

That told as plainly as words could speak,

She was more antique than the other)

Leaned on the arm of Don Rataplan

Santa Claus de la Muscovado

Señor Grandissimo Bastinado.

Happy mortal! fortunate man!

And Marquis of El Dorado!

In they swept, all riches and grace,Silks and satins, jewels and lace;In they swept from the dazzled sun,And soon in the church the deed was done.Three prelates stood on the chancel high:A knot that gold and silver can buy,Gold and silver may yet untie,Unless it is tightly fastened;What’s worth doing at all’s worth doing well,And the sale of a young Manhattan belleIs not to be pushed or hastened;So two Very Reverends graced the scene,And the tall Archbishop stood between,By prayer and fasting chastened.The Pope himself would have come from Rome,But Garibaldi kept him at home.Haply these robed prelates thoughtTheir words were the power that tied the knot;But another power that love-knot tied,And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride—A glistening, priceless, marvellous chain,Coiled with diamonds again and again,As befits a diamond wedding;Yet still ’twas a chain, and I thought she knew it,And half-way longed for the will to undo it,By the secret tears she was shedding.

In they swept, all riches and grace,

Silks and satins, jewels and lace;

In they swept from the dazzled sun,

And soon in the church the deed was done.

Three prelates stood on the chancel high:

A knot that gold and silver can buy,

Gold and silver may yet untie,

Unless it is tightly fastened;

What’s worth doing at all’s worth doing well,

And the sale of a young Manhattan belle

Is not to be pushed or hastened;

So two Very Reverends graced the scene,

And the tall Archbishop stood between,

By prayer and fasting chastened.

The Pope himself would have come from Rome,

But Garibaldi kept him at home.

Haply these robed prelates thought

Their words were the power that tied the knot;

But another power that love-knot tied,

And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride—

A glistening, priceless, marvellous chain,

Coiled with diamonds again and again,

As befits a diamond wedding;

Yet still ’twas a chain, and I thought she knew it,

And half-way longed for the will to undo it,

By the secret tears she was shedding.

But isn’t it odd to think, wheneverWe all go through that terrible River,Whose sluggish tide alone can sever(The Archbishop says) the Church decree,By floating one in to Eternity,And leaving the other alive as ever,As each wades through that ghastly stream,The satins that rustle and gems that gleam,Will grow pale and heavy, and sink awayTo the noisome river’s bottom-clay!Then the costly bride and her maidens sixWill shiver upon the bank of the Styx,Quite as helpless as they were born—Naked souls, and very forlorn.The Princess, then, must shift for herself,And lay her royalty on the shelf;She, and the beautiful empress yonder,Whose robes are now the wide world’s wonderAnd even ourselves, and our dear little wives,Who calico wear each morn of their lives,And the sewing-girls, andles chiffonniers,In rags and hunger—a gaunt array—And all the grooms of the caravan—Aye, even the great Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado—That gold-encrusted, fortunate man—All will land in naked equality;The lord of a ribboned principalityWill mourn the loss of hiscordon.Nothing to eat and nothing to wearWill certainly be the fashion there!Ten to one, and I’ll go it alone,Those most used to a rag and bone,Though here on earth they labour and groan,Will stand it best, as they wade abreastTo the other side of Jordan.Edmund Clarence Stedman.

But isn’t it odd to think, whenever

We all go through that terrible River,

Whose sluggish tide alone can sever

(The Archbishop says) the Church decree,

By floating one in to Eternity,

And leaving the other alive as ever,

As each wades through that ghastly stream,

The satins that rustle and gems that gleam,

Will grow pale and heavy, and sink away

To the noisome river’s bottom-clay!

Then the costly bride and her maidens six

Will shiver upon the bank of the Styx,

Quite as helpless as they were born—

Naked souls, and very forlorn.

The Princess, then, must shift for herself,

And lay her royalty on the shelf;

She, and the beautiful empress yonder,

Whose robes are now the wide world’s wonder

And even ourselves, and our dear little wives,

Who calico wear each morn of their lives,

And the sewing-girls, andles chiffonniers,

In rags and hunger—a gaunt array—

And all the grooms of the caravan—

Aye, even the great Don Rataplan

Santa Claus de la Muscovado

Señor Grandissimo Bastinado—

That gold-encrusted, fortunate man—

All will land in naked equality;

The lord of a ribboned principality

Will mourn the loss of hiscordon.

Nothing to eat and nothing to wear

Will certainly be the fashion there!

Ten to one, and I’ll go it alone,

Those most used to a rag and bone,

Though here on earth they labour and groan,

Will stand it best, as they wade abreast

To the other side of Jordan.

Edmund Clarence Stedman.

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