Nothing equals the marriage of the Green Grasshopper, of which I cannot speak here, for it is doubtful whether even the Latin language possesses the words needed to describe it as it should be described.
Nothing equals the marriage of the Green Grasshopper, of which I cannot speak here, for it is doubtful whether even the Latin language possesses the words needed to describe it as it should be described.
The fiercest realist yet produced by the younger generations of Chicago and Greenwich Village is a mere trifler compared to the immortal Fabre.
* * * * *
We are rather startled to find, on beginning to read Edward Lear’s immortalNonsense Booksto our Archurchin, that liquor plays a considerable rôle in his waggishness. This phase of Lear’s works we had quite forgotten, although it may have played a subtle part in undermining our character when young. But what are we to do, we ask, when, in reading aloud we come upon such distressing testaments as this:
Bwas a Bottle blue,which was not very small;Papa he filled it full of beer,And then he drank it all.
Bwas a Bottle blue,which was not very small;Papa he filled it full of beer,And then he drank it all.
Bwas a Bottle blue,which was not very small;Papa he filled it full of beer,And then he drank it all.
Bwas a Bottle blue,
which was not very small;
Papa he filled it full of beer,
And then he drank it all.
Or this:
There was an Old Man with an Owl,Who continued to bother and howl;He sat on a rail, and imbibed bitter ale,Which refreshed that Old Man and his Owl.
There was an Old Man with an Owl,Who continued to bother and howl;He sat on a rail, and imbibed bitter ale,Which refreshed that Old Man and his Owl.
There was an Old Man with an Owl,Who continued to bother and howl;He sat on a rail, and imbibed bitter ale,Which refreshed that Old Man and his Owl.
There was an Old Man with an Owl,
Who continued to bother and howl;
He sat on a rail, and imbibed bitter ale,
Which refreshed that Old Man and his Owl.
Or this:
There was an old person of Sheen,Whose expression was calm and serene;He sate in the water, and drank bottled porter,That placid old person of Sheen.
There was an old person of Sheen,Whose expression was calm and serene;He sate in the water, and drank bottled porter,That placid old person of Sheen.
There was an old person of Sheen,Whose expression was calm and serene;He sate in the water, and drank bottled porter,That placid old person of Sheen.
There was an old person of Sheen,
Whose expression was calm and serene;
He sate in the water, and drank bottled porter,
That placid old person of Sheen.
Now, of course, in reading these passages we can improvise variations: we can say that Papa’s blue bottle was filled with tea; we can substitute “ginger ale” for “bitter ale”; we can make the old person of Sheen sit in the porter and drink bottled water; but beforevery long our audience will begin to read the book for himself, and when he finds that we have implanted a false version in his mind there will be a swift succession of logical inquiries. The Old Soak’s problem is far easier:hissons are grown up and become “revenooers”; their minds were long since formed on this topic. But what is the comparatively Young Soak to do in the matter of explaining literature to his offspring?
Only in one place, as far as we can see, does Mr. Lear refer to drink with any tinge of moral or reprobatory feeling. Thus:
Twas a tumbler fullOf Punch all hot and good;Papa he drank it up, when inThe middle of a wood.
Twas a tumbler fullOf Punch all hot and good;Papa he drank it up, when inThe middle of a wood.
Twas a tumbler fullOf Punch all hot and good;Papa he drank it up, when inThe middle of a wood.
Twas a tumbler full
Of Punch all hot and good;
Papa he drank it up, when in
The middle of a wood.
We shall have to lean heavily upon that cautionary stanza in reading to the Urchin. We will not try to bias him, of course; but by grave and solemn repetition surely the idea will pierce his meninges—that no matter how excellent the libation, it must be performed in secret and far from scrutiny.
* * * * *
Not long ago, in the garage at Salamis run by our friend Fred Seaman, we were admiring and examining a very beautiful sedan. Not that we had any idea of ever abandoning our cherished Dame Quickly, who means more to us than any other vehicle ever will or can. But, just in a contemplative spirit, and as afrustrated lover of luxury, we were admiring this sedan, and saying to ourself that if we were a person of wealth and standing that would be just about the kind of car we would like to own. And we gazed entranced at its opulent upholstery, its cut-glass carnation-vase, its little 8-day clock, cigar-holder, and all the other gauds and trinkets. Just in idle curiosity we inquired the price. Then we went over the hill to our home.
A day or so later a cheerful Polish friend of ours, who is so kind as to call for the washing weekly, and who used to do odd jobs round our estate, and with whom we boarded our admirable catPepyswhile we were in town, called at our house. Titania had always represented this person to us as being in the last agony of financial dissolution and a worthy object of charity.
“I want to show you my new boat,” said he.
We thought at first that he meant an actual boat, down in the harbour, and were interested. But he pointed out to the front of the house. There was the very sedan we had admired. He insisted on our going down to listen to the engine. “Paid all cash for it,” he said proudly.
When we see a large, glimmering limousine pass us on the road, hereafter, we shall always wonder whether it is some thrifty washerman and his family.
* * * * *
Really thoroughly bad verse (as Mr. Hilaire Belloc pointed out in an essay) has a magic and an attraction all its own. It has (he said) “something of the poignantand removed from common experience which you get also in poetry. Great pits strike one with horror, as do the mountains with their sublimity.”
A philosophic friend of ours, whose dolorous task it is to examine manuscripts for a large publishing house, sent us the other day a collection of verses that had been submitted to his firm. We have had considerable diversion in examining them; though compositions of this sort lead one also to melancholy. It is sad to think that the accident of rhyme, which has been the occasion of so much verbal loveliness, has also been responsible for so many atrocities.
We shall not say who wrote the verses in question, except that he lives in a Southern State, but we will quote a few stanzas from a poem called “Love’s Progress.” After several pages describing the sorrows of a pair of lovers, we arrive at this:
They broke to break their breaking breach,Which both have caused, because of eachFailing to procure, or reach,The longing goal they did beseech.They sought to seek their seeking truth,Which all do crave, and never boot;They kept their cadence to a flute,Which only wisdom seeks to mute.They slid to slide their sliding sleighToward goals, but met a fray;And, striking, struck the striking broil;And found themselves to winds a spoil.They swung to swing their swinging lifeTo higher spheres and lusty fife;But flung against the sturdy cliff,And sunk beneath the brutal grief.They shed their shedding tears in vain,Fruitless as the dismal rain;And pined their pine, and pined it more;And reaped their crop they sowed to store.Defying fies have they defied;Lying lies have they belied;Brisky thought did both deride;Happy hope had both denied!
They broke to break their breaking breach,Which both have caused, because of eachFailing to procure, or reach,The longing goal they did beseech.They sought to seek their seeking truth,Which all do crave, and never boot;They kept their cadence to a flute,Which only wisdom seeks to mute.They slid to slide their sliding sleighToward goals, but met a fray;And, striking, struck the striking broil;And found themselves to winds a spoil.They swung to swing their swinging lifeTo higher spheres and lusty fife;But flung against the sturdy cliff,And sunk beneath the brutal grief.They shed their shedding tears in vain,Fruitless as the dismal rain;And pined their pine, and pined it more;And reaped their crop they sowed to store.Defying fies have they defied;Lying lies have they belied;Brisky thought did both deride;Happy hope had both denied!
They broke to break their breaking breach,Which both have caused, because of eachFailing to procure, or reach,The longing goal they did beseech.
They broke to break their breaking breach,
Which both have caused, because of each
Failing to procure, or reach,
The longing goal they did beseech.
They sought to seek their seeking truth,Which all do crave, and never boot;They kept their cadence to a flute,Which only wisdom seeks to mute.
They sought to seek their seeking truth,
Which all do crave, and never boot;
They kept their cadence to a flute,
Which only wisdom seeks to mute.
They slid to slide their sliding sleighToward goals, but met a fray;And, striking, struck the striking broil;And found themselves to winds a spoil.
They slid to slide their sliding sleigh
Toward goals, but met a fray;
And, striking, struck the striking broil;
And found themselves to winds a spoil.
They swung to swing their swinging lifeTo higher spheres and lusty fife;But flung against the sturdy cliff,And sunk beneath the brutal grief.
They swung to swing their swinging life
To higher spheres and lusty fife;
But flung against the sturdy cliff,
And sunk beneath the brutal grief.
They shed their shedding tears in vain,Fruitless as the dismal rain;And pined their pine, and pined it more;And reaped their crop they sowed to store.
They shed their shedding tears in vain,
Fruitless as the dismal rain;
And pined their pine, and pined it more;
And reaped their crop they sowed to store.
Defying fies have they defied;Lying lies have they belied;Brisky thought did both deride;Happy hope had both denied!
Defying fies have they defied;
Lying lies have they belied;
Brisky thought did both deride;
Happy hope had both denied!
You see how low rhyme can bring a man.
Of the following, our friend the publisher’s reader observes: “Alas, poor Henley—’twas an excellent fellow: I knew him well!”
I Am
I am the tutor of my mind;I am the pastor of my soul;All that pass, I leave behind,And focus straight upon my goal.
I am the tutor of my mind;I am the pastor of my soul;All that pass, I leave behind,And focus straight upon my goal.
I am the tutor of my mind;I am the pastor of my soul;All that pass, I leave behind,And focus straight upon my goal.
I am the tutor of my mind;
I am the pastor of my soul;
All that pass, I leave behind,
And focus straight upon my goal.
Until we read that we felt sorry for the author; but indeed it takes him out of the sphere of charity.