Vidi tantum.I saw him but three times. Once walking in the garden of his house in theFrauenplan; once going to step into his chariot on a sunshiny day, wearing a cap and a cloak with a red collar. He was caressing at the time a beautiful little golden-haired granddaughter, over whose sweet fair face the earth has long since closed, too.
Any of us who had books or magazines from England sent them to him, and he examined them eagerly.Fraser's Magazinehad recently come out, and I remember he was interested in those admirable outline portraits which appeared for a while in its pages. But there was one, a very ghastly caricature of Mr. Rogers, which, as Madame de Goethe told me, he shut up and put away from him angrily. "They would make me look like that," he said; though, in truth, I can fancy nothing more serene, majestic, andhealthy-looking than the grand old Goethe.
Though his sun was setting, the sky round about was calm and bright, and that little Weimar illumined by it. In every one of those kind salons the talk was still of Art and Letters. The theatre, though possessing no extraordinary actors, was still connected with a noble intelligence and order. The actors read books and were men of letters and gentlemen, holding a not unkindly relationship with theAdel. At Court the conversation was exceedingly friendly, simple, and polished…. In the respect paid by this court to the Patriarch of Letters, there was something ennobling, I think, alike to the subject and the sovereign. With a five-and-twenty years' experience since those happy days of which I write, and an acquaintance with an immense variety of human kind, I think I have never seen a society more simple, charitable, courteous, gentlemanlike, than that of the dear little Saxon city where the good Schiller and the great Goethe lived and lie buried.
LITTLE BILLEE[Sidenote:W.M. Thackeray]
Air—"Il y avait un petit navire"
There were three sailors of Bristol city,Who took a boat and went to sea.But first with beef and captain's biscuitsAnd pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,And the youngest he was little Billee.Now when they got as far as the EquatorThey'd nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,"I am extremely hungaree."To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,"We've nothing left, us must eat we."
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,"With one another we shouldn't agree!There's little Bill, he's young and tender,We're old and tough, so let's eat he.
"Oh, Billy, we're going to kill and eat you,So undo the button of your chimie."When Bill received this information,He used his pocket-handkerchie.
"First let me say my catechismWhich my poor mammy taught to me.""Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy,While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.
So Billy went up to the main-top gallant mast,And down he fell on his bended knee.He scarce had come to the twelfth commandmentWhen up he jumps, "There's land I see.
"Jerusalem and Madagascar,And North and South Amerikee:There's the British flag a-riding at anchor,With Admiral Napier, K.C.B."
So when they got aboard of the Admiral'sHe hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee;But as for little Bill, he made himThe Captain of a Seventy-Three.
THE SOUTH COUNTRY[Sidenote:Hilaire Belloc]
When I am living in the MidlandsThat are sodden and unkind,I light my lamp in the evening:My work is left behind;And the great hills of the South CountryCome back into my mind.
The great hills of the South Country,They stand along the sea:And it's there walking in the high woods,That I could wish to be,And the men that were boys when I was a boy,Walking along with me.
The men that live in North England,I saw them for a day:Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,Their skies are fast and grey;From their castle walls a man may seeThe mountains far away.
The men that live in West EnglandThey see the Severn strong,A-rolling on rough water brownLight aspen leaves along.They have the secret of the rocks,And the oldest kind of song.
But the men that live in the South CountryAre the kindest and most wise,They get their laughter from the loud surf,And the faith in their happy eyesComes surely from our Sister the Spring,When over the sea she flies;The violets suddenly bloom at her feetShe blesses us with surprise.
I never get between the pinesBut I smell the Sussex air;Nor I never come on a belt of sandBut my home is there.And along the sky the line of the DownsSo noble and so bare.
A lost thing could I never find,Nor a broken thing mend:And I fear I shall be all aloneWhen I get towards the end.Who will there be to comfort me,Or who will be my friend?
I will gather and carefully make my friendsOf the men of the Sussex Weald,They watch the stars from silent folds,They stiffly plough the field.By them and the God of the South CountryMy poor soul shall be healed.
If ever I become a rich man,Or if ever I grow to be old,I will build a house with deep thatchTo shelter me from the cold,And there shall the Sussex songs be sungAnd the story of Sussex told.
I will hold my house in the high woodWithin a walk of the sea,And the men that were boys when I was a boyShall sit and drink with me.
ARAB LOVE-SONG[Sidenote:Francis Thompson]
The hunchèd camels of the night[11]Trouble the brightAnd silver waters of the moon.The Maiden of the Morn will soonThrough Heaven stray and sing,Star gathering.
Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.
Leave thy father, leave thy motherAnd thy brother;Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!Am I not thy father and thy brother,And thy mother?And thou—what needest with thy tribe's black tentsWho hast the red pavilion of my heart?
OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES[Sidenote:Wilfrid Maynell]
As high up in a house as a nestIn a tree,They have gone for the night to their rest,The Babes three.
One will say, when they wake, with arms crossed,"Jesus blest!"One will cry "Mother mine"—and be lostIn that breast.
"Ta-ra-ra," then the littlest maid saith,Two and gay;And loud laughs with the last of her breath,"Boom-de-ay!"
What they say, in their nests, these dear birds,Is all even:For their speech, be whatever their words,Is of Heaven.
THEIR BEST[Sidenote:Wilfrid Maynell]
She is a very simple maid—Nicknamed a "tweeny";The cook's and housemaid's riven aid,Christ-named Irene.And when, in lower regions, sheHears hurled request,She laughs or cries: "Oh, right you be,I'll do my best."
Her very best, be very sure!She holds it fast—Religion undefiled and pure.And, at the last,When Life, from this sad house of her,Flits like a guest,She'll curtsy to the Judge: "O Sir,I did my best."
The Judge, for sure, will bow His head;And, round the throne,Angels will know to God they've ledHis very own.This sentence then shall gently fall:"Irene, youHave done your best: and that is allEven God can do."
MAGNIFICENT ENDS[Sidenote:Disraeli in "Vivian Grey"]
In the plenitude of his ambition he stopped one day to enquire in what manner he could obtain his magnificent ends: "The Bar—pooh! law and bad jokes till we are forty; and then with the most brilliant success, the prospect of gout and a coronet. Besides, to succeed as an advocate, I must be a great lawyer, and to be a great lawyer, I must give up my chance of being a great man. The Services in war time are only fit for desperadoes (and that truly am I); but, in peace, are fit only for fools. The Church is more rational. Let me see: I should certainly like to act Wolsey, but the thousand and one chances against me! and truly I feelmydestiny should not be on a chance. Were I the son of a millionaire, or a noble, I might haveall. Curse on my lot! that the want of a few rascal counters, and the possession of a little rascal blood should mar my fortunes!"
GENIUS, WHEN YOUNG[Sidenote:Disraeli in "Coningsby"]
"Nay," said the stranger; "for life in general there is but one decree. Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle; Old Age a regret. Do not suppose," he added smiling, "that I hold that youth is genius; all that I say is that genius, when young, is divine. Why, the greatest captains of ancient and modern times both conquered Italy at five-and-twenty! Youth, extreme youth, overthrew the Persian Empire. Don John of Austria won Lepanto at twenty-five, the greatest battle of modern time; had it not been for the jealousy of Philip, the next year he would have been Emperor of Mauretania. Gaston de Foix was only twenty-two when he stood a victor on the plain of Ravenna. Every one remembers Condé and Rocroy at the same age. Gustavus Adolphus—look at his captains; that wonderful Duke of Weimar, only thirty-six when he died. Banier himself, after all his miracles, died at forty-five. Cortes was little more than thirty when he gazed upon the golden cupolas of Mexico. When Maurice of Saxony died, at thirty-two, all Europe acknowledged the loss of the greatest captain and the profoundest statesman of the age. Then there is Nelson, Clive; but these are warriors, and perhaps you may think there are greater things than war. I do not: I worship the Lord of Hosts. But take the most illustrious achievements of civil prudence. Innocent III., the greatest of the Popes, was the despot of Christendom at thirty-seven. John de Medici was a Cardinal at fifteen, and, according to Guicciardini, baffled with his statecraft Ferdinand of Aragon himself. He was Pope as Leo X. at thirty-seven. Luther robbed even him of his richest province at thirty-five. Take Ignatius Loyola and John Wesley; they worked with young brains. Ignatius was only thirty when he made his pilgrimage and wrote the "Spiritual Exercises." Pascal wrote a great work at sixteen, and died at thirty-seven, the greatest of Frenchmen.
"Ah, that fatal thirty-seven, which reminds me of Byron, greater even as a man than a writer. Was it experience that guided the pencil of Raphael when he painted the palaces of Rome? He, too, died at thirty-seven. Richelieu was Secretary of State at thirty-one. Well then, there were Bolingbroke and Pitt, both ministers before other men left off cricket. Grotius was in great practice at seventeen, and Attorney-General at twenty-four. And Acquaviva; Acquaviva was General of the Jesuits, ruled every Cabinet in Europe, and colonised America before he was thirty-seven. What a career!" exclaimed the stranger; rising from his chair and walking up and down the room; "the secret sway of Europe! That was indeed a position! But it is needless to multiply instances! The history of Heroes is the history of Youth."
GUARDIAN ANGELS[Sidenote:Disraeli in "Tancred"]
"What should I be without my debts?" he would sometimes exclaim; "dear companions of my life that never desert me! All my knowledge of human nature is owing to them: it is in managing my affairs that I have sounded the depths of the human heart, recognised all the combinations of human character, developed my own powers and mastered the resources of others. What expedient in negotiation is unknown to me? What degree of endurance have I not calculated? What play of the countenance have I not observed? Yes, among my creditors I have disciplined that diplomatic ability that shall some day confound and control Cabinets. Oh, my debts, I feel your presence like that of guardian angels! If I be lazy, you prick me to action; if elate, you subdue me to reflection; and thus it is that you alone can secure that continuous yet controlled energy which conquers mankind."
AN EVENING IN SPAIN[Sidenote:Disraeli to his Mother (1830)]
After dinner you take your siesta. I generally sleep for two hours. I think this practice conducive to health. Old people, however, are apt to carry it to excess. By the time I have risen and arranged my toilette it is time to steal out, and call upon any agreeable family whose Tertullia you may choose to honour, which you do, after the first time, uninvited, and with them you take your tea or chocolate. This is oftenal fresco, under the piazza or colonnade of thepatio. Here you while away the time until it is cool enough for thealamedaor public walk. At Cadiz, and even at Seville, up the Guadalquivir, you are sure of a delightful breeze from the water. The sea-breeze comes like a spirit. The effect is quite magical. As you are lolling in listless languor in the hot and perfumed air, an invisible guest comes dancing into the party and touches them all with an enchanted wand. All start, all smile. It has come; it is the sea-breeze. There is much discussion whether it is as strong, or whether weaker, than the night before. The ladies furl their fans and seize their mantillas, the cavaliers stretch their legs and give signs of life. All rise. I offer my arm to Dolores or Florentina (is not this familiarity strange?), and in ten minutes you are in thealameda. What a change? All is now life and liveliness. Such bowing, such kissing, such fluttering of fans, such gentle criticism of gentle friends! But the fan is the most wonderful part of the whole scene. A Spanish lady with her fan might shame the tactics of a troop of horse. Now she unfurls it with the slow pomp and conscious elegance of a peacock. Now she flutters it with all the languor of a listless beauty, now with all the liveliness of a vivacious one. Now in the midst of a very tornado, she closes it with a whir which makes you start, pop! In the midst of your confusion Dolores taps you on the elbow; you turn round to listen, and Florentina pokes you in your side. Magical instrument! You know that it speaks a particular language, and gallantry requires no other mode to express its most subtle conceits or its most unreasonable demands than this slight, delicate organ. But remember, while you read, that here, as in England, it is not confined to your delightful sex. I also have my fan, which makes my cane extremely jealous. If you think I have grown extraordinarily effeminate, learn that in this scorching clime the soldier will not mount guard without one. Night wears on, we sit, we take apanal, which is as quick work as snapdragon, and far more elegant; again we stroll. Midnight clears the public walks, but few Spanish families retire till two. A solitary bachelor like myself still wanders, or still lounges on a bench in thewarmmoonlight. The last guitar dies away, the cathedral clock wakes up your reverie, you too seek your couch, and amid a gentle, sweet flow of loveliness, and light, and music, and fresh air, thus dies a day in Spain. Adieu, my dearest mother. A thousand loves to all.
A MALTESE SENSATION[Sidenote:Disraeli to his Father (1830)]
I had no need of letters of introduction here, and have already "troops of friends." The fact is, in our original steam-packet there were some agreeable fellows, officers, whom I believe I never mentioned to you. They have been long expecting your worship's offspring, and have gained great fame in repeating his third-rate stories at second hand; so in consequence of these messengers I am received with branches of palm. Here the younkers do nothing but play rackets, billiards, and cards, race and smoke. To govern men, you must either excel them in their accomplishments, or despise them. Clay does one, I do the other, and we are both equally popular. Affectation tells here even better than wit. Yesterday, at the racket court, sitting in the gallery among strangers, the ball entered, and lightly struck me and fell at my feet. I picked it up, and observing a young rifleman excessively stiff, I humbly requested him to forward its passage into the court, as I really had never thrown a ball in my life. This incident has been the general subject of conversation at all the messes to-day!
HIS FUTURE WIFE[Sidenote:Disraeli to his Sister (1832)]
The soirée last night at Bulwer's was really brilliant, much more so than the first. There were a great many dames of distinction, and no blues. I should, perhaps, except Sappho, who was quite changed; she had thrown off Greco-Bromptonian costume and was perfectlyà la Françaiseand really looked pretty. At the end of the evening I addressed a few words to her, of the value of which she seemed sensible. I was introduced, "by particular desire," to Mrs. Wyndham Lewis, a pretty little woman, a flirt and a rattle; indeed, gifted with a volubility I should think unequalled, and of which I can convey no idea. She told me that she liked "silent, melancholy men." I answered that "I had no doubt of it."
KNOWSLEY OR THE PARTHENON[Sidenote:Disraeli to Mrs. Brydges Willyams (1862)]
They say the Greeks, resolved to have an English King, in consequence of the refusal of Prince Alfred to be their monarch, intend to elect Lord Stanley. If he accepts the charge, I shall lose a powerful friend and colleague. It is a dazzling adventure for the House of Stanley, but they are not an imaginative race, and I fancy they will prefer Knowsley to the Parthenon, and Lancashire to the Attic plains. It is a privilege to live in this age of rapid and brilliant events. What an error to consider it a utilitarian age! It is one of infinite romance. Thrones tumble down, and crowns are offered like a fairy tale; and the most powerful people in the world, male and female, a few years ago were adventurers, exiles, and demireps.
JENNY KISSED ME[Sidenote:Leigh Hunt]
Jenny kissed me when we met,Jumping from the chair she sat in;Time, you thief, who love to getSweets into your list, put that in:Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,Say that health and wealth have missed me,Say I'm growing old, but add,Jenny kissed me.
THE WAR, WEEK BY WEEK[Sidenote:Walter Emanuel in "Punch"]
August 12-October 7
The foresight of the British Public in refusing to subscribe the large amount of money asked of them for the Olympic Sports in Berlin is now apparent.
* * * * *
Wilhelm II is said to be extremely annoyed in his capacity as a British Admiral that he is not being kept fully informed as to the movements of our Fleet.
* * * * *
The coming generation would certainly seem to be all right. Even children are taking part in the fray. The Boy Scouts are helping manfully here, and at Liège the Germans, we are told, used nippers for cutting wire entanglements.
* * * * *
The London Museum is open again. The Curator, we understand, would be glad to add to his collection of curiosities any Londoner who is still in favour of a small Navy.
* * * * *
"Cambridge public-houses," we read, "are to close at 9 p.m." Such dons as are still up for the Long Vacation are said to be taking it gamely in spite of the inconvenience of accustoming themselves to the new regulation.
Reports still continue to come in as to the outbursts of rage which took place in Germany when the news of our participation in the War reached that country. Seeing that we had merely been asked to allow our friends to be robbed and murdered, our interference is looked upon as peculiarly gratuitous.
There would seem to be no end to the social horrors of the War. The Teuton journal,Manufakturist, is now prophesying that one of its results will be the substitution of German for French fashions.
* * * * *
According to theEvening Newsthree elephants have been requisitioned from the Zoo at the White City by the military authorities. In Berlin, no doubt, this will be taken to signify that our heavy cavalry mounts are giving out.
* * * * *
A somewhat illiterate correspondent writes to say that he considers that the French ought to have allowed the Mad Dog to retain Looneyville.
* * * * *
The German papers publish the statement that a Breslau merchant has offered 30,000 marks to the German soldier who, weapon in hand, shall be the first to place his feet on British soil. By a characteristic piece of sharp practice the reward, it will be noted, is offered to the man personally and would not be payable to his next-of-kin.
* * * * *
It is reported that the Kaiser is proceeding to East Prussia to assume the chief command there. In Petrograd the news is only credited by extreme optimists.
* * * * *
Mr. Lloyd George's statement that "The Prussian Junker is the road-hogof modern Europe" has, we hear, had a curious and satisfactory sequel.Large numbers of adepts in the art of pig-sticking are joining theSportsman's Battalion, which is now in process of formation.
* * * * *
A regrettable mistake is reported from South London. A thoroughly patriotic man was sat upon by a Cockney crowd for declaring that the Kaiser was a Nero.
* * * * *
The Germans have had a bright, new idea, and are calling us a nation of shop-keepers. Certainly we have been fairly successful so far in repelling their counter-attacks.
THE K.A. BOYS[Sidenote:Jessie Pope in the "Daily Mail"]
Dr-rud—dr-rud—dr-rud—dr-rud—Kitchener's Army on the marchThrough Marylebone and Marble Arch,Men in motley, so to speak,Been in training about a week,Swinging easy, toe and heel,Game and gay, and keen as steel.
Dr-rud—dr-rud—dr-rud—dr-rud—Norfolk jackets, city suits,Some in shoes and some in boots;Clerk and sportsman, tough and nut,Reach-me-downs, and Bond-street cut;Typical kit of every kind,To show the life they've left behind.
Dr-rud—dr-rud—dr-rud—dr-rud—Marching by at an easy pace,The great adventure in every face,Raw if you like, but full of grit,Snatching the chance to do their bit.Oh, I want to cheer and I want to cryWhen Kitchener's Boys go marching by.
A SCOTSWOMAN IN FRANCE[Sidenote:From the "Times," Sept. 24, 1914]
A valued contributor writes: "Would you like this new Scotch reel, inspired by the pipes of the bonny Highlanders, who for a week made a little Scotland of Melun? On Wednesday, the 2nd, I was in the town and saw the good women rush from the streets into their houses, crying in dreadful voices, 'Les Allemands!' And there, by the old church, round the corner, came the Highlanders! I stood still on the pavement and sang 'Scots wha hae' at the top of my old cracked voice, and they, appreciating the welcome, and excusing the minstrelsy, waved their hands to me. The Staff was here, the Flying Corps, three regiments, English and Scottish—such brave, bright, orderly, kind young men. On September 6 the cannon sounded very near. I went into the street and said to a demure, douce young Highlander, 'Do ye think the Germans are coming?' And he replied, 'I'fe been hearing, Matam, that the Chermans will hafe been hafing a pit of a set-pack.' It was in this modest manner that I heard of the victory of the Marne."
A NEW SCOTCH REEL[Sidenote:From the "Times" Sept. 24, 1914]
Dance, since ye're dancing, William,Dance up and doon,Set to your partners, William,We'll play the tune!See, make a bow to Paris,Here's Antwerp-toon;Off to the Gulf of Riga,Back to Verdun—Ay, but I'm thinking, laddie,Ye'll use your shoon!
Dance, since ye're dancing, William,Dance up and doon,Set to your partners, William,We'll play the tune!What! Wad ye stop the pipers?Nay, 'tis ower-soon!Dance, since ye're dancing, William,Dance, ye puir loon!Dance till ye're dizzy, William,Dance till ye swoon!Dance till ye're dead, my laddie!We play the tune!
DESPATCHES[Sidenote:"Touchstone" in the "Daily Mail"]
Swift as a bullet out of a gunHe passed me by with an inch to spare,Raising a dust-cloud thick and dunWhile the stench of lubricant filled the air.I must admit that I did not likeThe undergrad on his motor-bike.
I have seen him, too, at the wayside inn,A strapping lad scarce out of his teens,Grimy, but wearing a cheerful grin;A young enthusiast, full of beans,While his conversation was little betterThan pure magneto and carburetter.
Now he has got the chance of his life,The chance of earning glorious scars,And I picture him scouring a land of strife,Crouching over his handle-bars,His open exhaust, with its roar and stench,Like a Maxim gun in a British trench.
Lad, when we met in that country laneNeither foresaw the days to come,But I know that if ever we meet againMy heart will throb to your engine's hum,And to-day, as I read, I catch my breathAt the thought of your ride through the hail of death!
But to you it is just a glorious lark;Scorn of danger is still your creed.As you open her out and advance your sparkAnd humour the throttle to get more speed,Life has only one end for you,To carry your priceless message through!
BURGOMASTER MAX[Sidenote:H.B.]
Our children will sing with delight for all timeOf the Briton, the French, and the Russian,But most of the man who with humour sublimePulled the goose-stepping leg of the Prussian.
NEWS FROM THE FRONT[Sidenote:C.E.B. in the "Evening News"]
This so-remarkable letter on-a-battlefield-up-picked the real feeling of the British private soldier demonstrates. Its publication by the Berlin Official News Bureau is authorised. The words parenthesised are of some obscurity, but apparently are exclamations of a disgustful kind.
Our sojers they was weepin'The night we went awayFor some one whispered we was offThe Germans for to slay.To shoot them cultured BoschesWould make a Briton shrinkAnd so our 'earts was sad to go(Idon'tthink).
An' when we met them blightersOf course we turned and ran,An' Tubby French 'e shouted out"All save theirselves as can";An' when the big Jack Johnsons bangedWe didn't cheer and larfAn' pump the Bosches full o' lead(No, not 'arf).
An' w'en our foes retreatedWe knowed we couldn't winFor they was out, that artful like,To lure us to Berlin.But touch that 'ome of culture?We'd rather far be shot;We simply worship Kaiser Bill(P'raps, p'raps not).
FALL IN![Sidenote:H.B.]
What will you lack, sonny, what will you lackWhen the girls line up the street,Shouting their love to the lads come backFrom the foe they rushed to beat?Will you send a strangled cheer to the skyAnd grin till your cheeks are red?But what will you lack when your mates go byWith a girl who cuts you dead?
Where will you look, sonny, where will you lookWhen your children yet to beClamour to learn of the part you tookIn the War that kept men free?Will you say it was naught to you if FranceStood up to her foe or bunked?But where will you look when they give the glanceThat tells you they know you funked?
How will you fare, sonny, how will you fareIn the far-off winter night,When you sit by the fire in an old man's chairAnd your neighbours talk of the fight?Will you slink away, as it were from a blow,Your old head shamed and bent?Or say—I was not with the first to go,But I went, thank God, I went!
Why do they call, sonny, why do they callFor men who are brave and strong?Is it naught to you if your country fall,And Right is smashed by Wrong?Is it football still and the picture show,The pub and the betting odds,When your brothers stand to the tyrant's blowAnd England's call is God's?
DIES IRAE[Sidenote:Owen Seaman in "Punch"]
To the German Kaiser
Amazing Monarch! who at various times,Posing as Europe's self-appointed saviour,Afforded copy for our ribald rhymesBy your behaviour;
We nursed no malice; nay, we thanked you much,Because your head-piece, swollen like a tumour,Lent to a dullish world the needed touchOf saving humour.
What with your wardrobes stuffed with warrior gear,Your gander-step parades, your prancing Prussians,Your menaces that shocked the deafened sphereWith rude concussions;
Your fist that turned the pinkest rivals paleAlike with sceptre, chisel, pen or palette,And could at any moment, gloved in mail,Smite like a mallet;
Master of all the Arts, and, what was more,Lord of the limelight-blaze that let us know it—You seemed a gift designed on purpose forThe flippant poet.
Time passed and put to these old jests an end;Into our open hearts you found admission,Ate of our bread and pledged us like a friendAbove suspicion.
You shared our griefs with seeming-gentle eyes;You moved among us, cousinly entreated,Still hiding, under that fair outward guise,A heart that cheated.
And now the mask is down, and forth you standKnown for a King whose word is no great matter,A traitor proved, for every honest handTo strike and shatter.
This was the "Day" foretold by yours and youIn whispers here, and there with beery clamours—You and your rat-hole spies and blustering crewOf loud Potsdamers.
And lo, there dawns another, swift and stern,When on the wheels of wrath, by Justice' tokenBreaker of God's own Peace, you shall in turnYourself be broken.
FOR THE RED CROSS[Sidenote:Owen Seaman in "Punch"]
Ye that have gentle hearts and fainTo succour men in need,There is no voice could ask in vainWith such a cause to plead—The cause of those that in your care,Who know the debt to honour due,Confide the wounds they proudly wear,The wounds they took for you.
Out of the shock of shattering spears,Of screaming shell and shard,Snatched from the smoke that blinds and searsThey come with bodies scarred,And count the hours that idly toll,Restless until their hurts be healed,And they may fare, made strong and whole,To face another field.
And yonder where the battle's wavesBroke yesterday o'erhead,Where now the swift and shallow gravesCover our English dead,Think how your sisters play their part,Who serve as in a holy shrine,Tender of hand and brave of heart,Under the Red Cross sign.
Ah, by that symbol, worshipped still,Of life-blood sacrificed,That lonely Cross on Calvary's hillRed with the wounds of Christ;By that free gift to none denied,Let Pity pierce you like a sword,And Love go out to open wideThe gate of life restored.
The Red Cross Society is in need of help. Gifts should be addressedto Lord Rothschild at Devonshire House, Piccadilly.
[Footnote 1: "Dooiney-molla—man-praiser—the friend who backs the suitor."]
[Footnote 2: Certain publishers.]
[Footnote 3: Port of Peace.]
[Footnote 4: Solace.]
[Footnote 5: She was born at Chatham on March 28th, 1774.]
[Footnote 6: Probably he was nearly twenty-four.]
[Footnote 7: Written in 1829.]
[Footnote 8: "The Epicure!" said R.L.S.]
[Footnote 9: A musical festival which took place in Westminster Abbey.]
[Footnote 10: "To pill" was a cant expression used a good deal by "the set," meaning, apparently, to talk, either pompously or trivially.]
[Footnote 11: The cloud-shapes often observed by travellers in theEast.]
End of Project Gutenberg's The Bed-Book of Happiness, by Harold Begbie