XIX.BYRON LOQUITUR.

And now, ever famous and beloved Andrew, I must for the moment take my leave of thee. The glory of thy reputation is as a band of light around the foggy isles of Britain, and that benighted Europe knows thee not at all is but atrifle to us, though a loss to Europe. When Hall Caine recently found out that he was not celebrated in Germany he wondered thereat and said the Germans had no taste for English literature. No—not though they are the finest Shakesperian scholars in the world and the most ardent lovers of Byron's poesy. "Benighted Fatherland!" inwardly moaned the writer of "Sagas"—"Benighted country that knoweth not my works! Benighted people that have never heard—ye gods, imagine it!—have never heard the name of Kipling!" Oh, dull, beer-drinking, Wagner-ridden disciples of Goethe, Schiller, and Heine! To be ignorant of Kipling! To be only capable of a bovine questioning stare at Caine! To be impervious to the electric name of Lang! To know nothing about the new "Thucydides," R. L. Stevenson! Heaven forgive them, for I cannot. I abjure the Rhineland till it has been to school with Lang's text-books under its arm. Drop Heine, ye besotted slaves of "lager-bier," and read Kipling.Tryto read him, anyway. Ifyou can't, my friend Andrew will show you how. Andrew will show you anything that can be shown in English journals and newspapers. But beyond these he cannot go. You must not expect him to expand farther. His incubating work belongs solely to the English Press Poultry-yard—his name, his power, his influence avail, alas! as Nothing, out in the wide, wide world!

XIX.

BYRON LOQUITUR.

If I did not believe, or pretend to believe, in Spiritualism, Theosophism, Buddhism, or some other fashionable "ism" which is totally opposed to Christianity, I should not be "in the swim" of things. And of course I would rather perish than not be in the swim of things. I cannot, if I wish to "go" with my time, admit to any belief in God; like Zola's Jean Bearnat, I say, "Rien, rien, rien! Quand on souffle sur le soleil ça sera fini," or, with the reckless Corelli, I propound to myself the startling question, "Suppose God were dead? We see that the works of men live ages after their death—why not the works of God?" The exclamation of "Rien, rien!" isla mode, andthose who are loudest in its utterance generally take to a belief in bogies—Blavatsky bogies, Annie Besant bogies, Sinnett bogies, Florence Marryat bogies, many of which disembodied spirits, by the by, talk bad grammar and lose control over their H's. My jovial acquaintance, Captain Andrew Haggard (brother of Rider), and I, have rejoiced in the society of bogies very frequently. We have called "spirits from the vasty deep," and sometimes, if all the "influences" have been in working order, they have come. We know all about them. Haggard, perhaps, knows more than I do, for I believe he confesses to being enamoured of a rather pretty bogie—feminine, of course. She has no substance, so the little flirtation is quite harmless. I regret to say the "spirits" do not flirt with me. They don't seem to like me, especially since the Tomkins episode. The Tomkins episode occurred in this wise. At a certainséancein which I took a somewhat too obtrusive part a "bogie" appeared who announced himself as Tomkins. Some one asked for his baptismalname, and he said "George." A devil of mischief prompted me to hazard the remark that I once knew a John Tomkins, but he was dead.

"That's me!" said the bogie, hurriedly. "I'm John."

"How did you come to be George?" I demanded.

"My second name was George," replied the prompt bogie.

"That's odd!" I said. "I never knew it."

"You can't expect to know everything," remarked the bogie, sententiously.

"No, I can't," I agreed. "And, what is more, I never knew a Tomkins at all, John or George, living or dead! You are a fraud, my friend!"

Confusion ensued, and I was promptly expelled as an "unbeliever" who disturbed the "influences." And since that affair the "spirits" are shy of me.

Whether the memory of the Tompkins episode haunted me, or whether it was the effect of an excellent dinner enjoyed with "Labby" justpreviously, I do not know, but certain it is that on one never-to-be-forgotten evening I saw a ghost—abonâ-fideghost, who entered my sleeping apartment without permission, and addressed me without the assistance of a "medium." He was a ghost of average height and build, and I observed that he kept one foot very carefully concealed beneath his long, cloudy draperies, which were disposed about him in the fashion of the classic Greek. Upon his head, which was covered with clustering curls fit to adorn the brows of Apollo, he wore a wreath of laurels whose leaves were traced in light, and these cast a brilliant circle of supernatural radiance around him. In one hand he grasped a scroll, and as he turned his face upon me he beckoned with this scroll, slowly and majestically, after the style of Hamlet's father on the battlements of Elsinore. I trembled, but had no power to move. Again he beckoned, and his eyes flashed fire.

"My lord——!" I stammered, shrinking beneath his indignant gaze, and fervently hoping that I was not the object of his evident wrath.

"Lord me no lords!" said a deep voice that seemed to quiver with disdain. "Speak, puny mortal! Knowest thou me?"

Know him! I should think I did. There was no mistaking him. He wasByronall over—Byron, more thoroughly Byronic of aspect than any portrait has ever made him. Involuntarily I thought of the present Lord Wentworth and his occasionally flabby allusions to his "Grandfather," and smiled at the comparison between ancestor and descendant. My ghostly visitant had a sense of humour, and, reading my thoughts, smiled too.

"I see thou hast wit," he was good enough to observe in more pacific accents. "Hear me, therefore, and mark my every word! There are such follies in this age—such literary rascals, such damned rogues of rhymesters—oh, don't be startled! every one swears in Hades—that I have writ some lines and remodelled others, to suit the exigencies of the modern school of Shams. Never did Art stand at a premium in England, but God knows it should not fall to zero as it is rapidly doing.Listen! and move not while I speak; my lines shall burn themselves upon thy brain till thou inscribe and print them for the world to read; then, and then only, having done my bidding, shalt thou again be free!"

I bowed my head submissively and begged the noble Ghost to proceed, whereupon he unfolded his scroll, and read, with infinite gusto, the following:—

"English Scribes and Small Reviewers.

"Still must I hear? ShallSwinburnemouth and screamHis wordy couplets in a drunken dream,And I not sing, lest haply small reviewsShould dub me 'dead' and forthwith damn my muse?No! My proud spirit shall not suffer wrong;'Booms' are my theme—let satire be my song."Through Nature's new-found gift, Magnetic skill,My soul obeys an influential Will,And I from Hades rise to life againTo wield once more mine own especial pen,Which none have rivalled in these sickly daysOf tawdry epics and translated plays,When knavish cliques o'er honest Art prevail,And weigh out judgment by the 'Savile' scale.The petty vices of the time demandAnother scourging from my fearless hand;Still are there flocks of geese for me to chase,Still false pretenders to the 'poet's' place.Who dare to pile detraction on my name,Let such beware, for scribblers are my game!Speed Pegasus! Ye modern pensters small,Watts,Brydges,Morris,Arnold, have at you all!Remember well how once upon a timeI poured along the town a flood of rhymeSo strong and scathing that the little fryOf rhymesters like yourselves were doomed to die!Moved by that triumph past, I still pursueThe self-same road, despite theNew ReviewAndQuarterly, and other journals silly,That take dull articles by Mr.Lilly."Most men serve out their time to every tradeSave book-reviewers—these are ready-made.Crib jokes from Yankee journals, got by rote,With just enough of memory to misquote;Ignore all beauty; find or forge a fault;Revive old puns and call them 'attic salt';Then to the 'Speaker' or toHenleygo(The 'pay' for book-reviews is always low);Fear not to lie—'twill seem a ready hit;Shrink not from blasphemy—'twill pass for wit;Care not for feeling; launch a scurrilous jest,And be a critic with the very best!"Will any own such judgment? No, as soonTrust wavering shadows 'neath th' inconstant moon,Hope that a 'promised' critique will be doneBy bland O'Connor of theSunday Sun,Believe that Hodge's claims will ne'er increase,Believe inGladstone'sschemes for Ireland's peace,Or any other thing that's false, beforeYou trust reviewers, who themselves are sore.Never let thought or fancy be misledByLang'scold heart orAlfred Austin'shead;While such are censors, 'twould be sin to spare;While such are critics, why should I forbear?And yet so near these modern writers run'Tis doubtful whom to seek and whom to shun,Nor know we when to spare or where to strike,The bards and critics are so much alike!"To bygone times my lingering thoughts are cast;Good taste and reason with those times are past!Look round and turn each trifling printed page;Survey the precious works that please the age;This truth at least let satire's self allow,No dearth of pens can be complained of now.The loaded press beneath its labour groans,And printers' devils shake their weary bones,WhileArnold'sepics cram the creaking shelves,AndKipling'sballads shine in hot-pressed twelves'New' schools of twaddle in their turn arise,Where jingling rhymsters grapple for the prize,And for a time these psuedo-bards prevail;Each public 'library' assists their sale,And, hurling lawful genius from its throne,Takes up some puny idol of its own,And judges Poesy as just a cross'TwixtAshby Sterry,Lang, andEdmund Gosse."Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,For notice eager, pass in long review;Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace:Rhyme and romance maintain an equal race.The Grand Old Paradox of HawardenSeizes in haste his too prolific pen,And, heedless how the reading world is bored,Thrusts to the front aMrs. Humphry Ward,With 'Robert Elsmere' frightened out of faith,And 'David Grieve' a-prosing us to death;Next trumpetsCaine's'integrity of aim,'And gives to 'Mademoiselle Ixe' a name.O Gladstone, Gladstone! 'Boom' it not so strongBoomers may 'boom' too often and too long!If thou wilt write on impulse, prithee spare!More vapid authors were too much to bear;But if, in spite of all thy friends can say,Thou still wilt boomwards boom thy frantic way,And in long articles to stupid papersThou still wilt cut thy literary capers,Unhappy Art thy fresh intent may rue;God save us, Gladstone, from thy next 'review'!"Lo, the mild teacher of the Buddhist school,The follower of the tamest blank-verse rule,The simpleArnold, with his 'Asia's Light,'Who wins attention by translation-right;And both by precept and example showsThat prose is verse, and verse is merely prose,Convinced himself, by demonstration plain,There never will be such a book again,And never such a 'marvellous proper' manTo charm the hearts of ladies in Japan!"Who out at Putney on the common strays,Unsocial in his converse and his ways?'TisSwinburne, the Catullus of his day,As sweet but as immoral in his lay.Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns;From grosser incense with disgust she turns.Mend,Swinburne, mend thy morals and thy taste;Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but chaste;Thy borrowed fancies to Villon restore,And use old Scripture similes no more!"Behold! ye cliques; one moment spare the text!Hall Caine'slast work, and worst—until his next!Whether he drafts his 'sagas' into plays,Or damns his brother authors with faint praise,His elephantine style is still the same,Forever turgid, and forever tame.Boom for the 'Scapegoat'! it has been re-writTo suit the measure of the critics' wit;'Bondsman' and 'Deemster' tweak each other's toes,And as a spurious 'genius' Caine doth pose,Taking himself and all his books on trust,And getting photographed with Shakespeare's bust!"Another book of verses? Who againInflicts rhymed doggerel on the sons of men?'Tis OrientKipling, the reviewers' boast,The darling of the Anglo-Indian coast,Who, on cheap praise and cheaper conquest bent,Imports slang 'notions' from the soldier's tent,And crams his lines with 'Tommy Atkins' hereAnd 'Tommy Atkins' diction everywhere—'Barrack-Room Ballads!' come, who'll buy! who'll buy!The precious bargain's low! 'i faith, not I!ForRudyard'sverse, despite his 'boom,' is flat,Though critics bloat him with 'log-rollers'' fat—ORudyard Kipling! Phoebus! What a nameTo fill the speaking-trump of future fame!ORudyard Kipling, for a moment thinkWhat 'chancey' profits spring from pen and ink!Thy name already tires the public ear,One shilling for thy 'Tales' seems monstrous dear;For though they make a decent show of printThe book as book of worth has 'nothing in 't'.ORudyard Kipling! cease to scribble rhymes,And stick toArthur Walterof theTimes;As 'Special Correspondent' or 'Our Own,'But for God's sake leave Poesy alone;Scratch not the surface of the mystic EastWith flippant pen dipped in reporter's yeast,For India's riddle is a riddle stillIn spite of any 'Plain Tale from a Hill,'The silent griefs of conquered tribes and nationsAre not explained in military flirtations,Or 'ditties departmental,' trite of style,(Any 'jongleur' could scrawl them by the mile;)As 'Light that Failed,' thy race is nearly run,Thy goose is cooked; thy stuffing's over-done!"Lo, great 'Thucydides' of Samoa's isleRelieves his inspiration and his bile,And o'er the rolling ocean wide and deepSends thechef-d'œuvresthat make his readers sleep.The 'Wrecker' comes and ponderously heavesO'er weary brains its soothing weight of leaves,And those who never knew that joy beforeYield to the peaceful pleasure of the snore,And drowse in chairs at clubs in open day,Just as they drowsed o'er 'classic' 'Ballantrae.'Hail to 'Thucydides'! and hail the penThat writes him up above all other men;For sleep's a blessing, and whate'er may hapHis works ensure a harmless, perfect nap."Lo, with what pomp the daily prints proclaimThe rival candidates for Attic fame;In grim array thoughHaggard'sZulus rise,Yet 'Q' and dullGrant Allenshare the prize;Then come the little train of 'Pseudonyms'—A set of female faddists full of whims—Who pour their vapid follies o'er the town,Excusing Vice and sneering Virtue down;Next see goodBentley'slist of writers small:I wonder where the deuce he finds them all?Some 'novel new' he issues every week,A fiction of the kind that housemaids seek—Mild tales of goose-love, which he thinks may please,Sure only geese would purchase books like these!Broughton's half-vulgar, half-lascivious stories,And Mrs. Henry Wood's posthumous glories;Here MadamTrollopewhirls her small 'Wild Wheel,'There MistressHennikerunwinds her reel,And silly 'fictionists' of no reputeSpring up like weeds to wither at the root.ExcellentBentley! stay thy lavish hand,Continuous trash were more than we could stand;Give us good authors who deserve their name,And save thy once distinguished firm from shame;Give prominence to Genius—publish less,Or rivals new thy 'house' will dispossess,In spite of folks who think the works of ShelleyInferior to romances byCorelli."Grant Allenhath a 'heaven-sent' tale to tell,But much he fears its utterance would not 'sell'Wherefore, to be quite certain of his cash,He writes (regardless of his 'inspiration') trash;PracticalAllen! Noble, manly heart!Wise huckster of small nothings in the mart,—To what a pitch of prudence dost thou reachTo feel the 'god,' yet give thy thoughts no speech,All for the sake of vulgar pounds and pence!God bless thee,Allen, for thy common sense!"Health to 'lang' Andrew! Heaven preserve his lifeTo flourish on the sacred shores of Fife!Prosper good Andrew! leanest of the trainWhom Scotland feeds upon her fiery grain;Whatever blessings wait a 'brindled' ScotIn double portion swell thy glorious lot!As long as Albion's silly sons submitTo Scottish censorship on English wit,So long shall last thy unmolested rule,And authors, under thee, shall go to school;Behold the 'Savile' band shall aid thy planAnd own thee chieftain of the critic clan.Kiplingshall 'butter' thee, and thou sometimesWilt praise in gratitude his doggerel rhymes,AndHaggard, too, thy eulogies shall seek,And for his book another 'boom' bespeak;And various magazines their aid will lendTo damn thy foe or deify thy friend.Such wondrous honours deck thy proud career,Rhymester and lecturer and pamphleteer,Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway,And may all editors increase thy 'pay'—Yet mark one caution ere thy next reviewFalls heavy on a female who is 'blue.'Grub-street doth whisper that a 'ladye faire'Intends to snatch thee by the brindled hairAnd stab thee through thy tough reviewer's skinWith nothing more important than a pin—A case of 'table turned' and 'biter bit';Heaven save thee, Andrew, from a woman's wit!"What marvel now doth Afric's zone disclose?A solemn book of rank blasphemous prose,Writ by aMistress Schreiner, who electsA Universal Nothing as her text;Whereat theAthenæum, doddering soul!Whimpers about the 'beauty of the whole,'And shrieks, in columns of hysteric praise,How such a work all nations should amaze:'Nothing has ever been or e'er will beLike Dreams'—produced by the blasphemous She;So writes theAthenæumto the fewWho still pay threepence for a bad review,And watch the hatching of the little plotsConceived and carried out by Mr. Watts.Charles Dilke!Come forth from Mrs. Grundy's ban,And show thyself to be the 'leading' man,With one strong effort snap thy social fetterAnd get thy prosy journal managed better!"Great Oscar! Glorious Oscar! Oscar Wilde!Fat and smooth-faced as any sucking child!Bland in self-worship, crowned with self-plucked bays,Sole object of thine own unceasing praise,None can in 'brag' thy spreading fame surpass,And thou dost shine supreme in native brass.Thou hast o'erwhelmed and conquered dead MolièreWith all themotsofLady Windermere;Thou hast swept other novelists awayWith the lascivious life of 'Dorian Gray.'Thine enemies must fly before thy face,Thou bulky glory of the Irish race!Desert us not, O Wilde, desert us not,Because the Censor's 'snub' 'Salome' got,Still let thy presence cheer this foggy isle,Still let us bask in thy 'æsthetic' smile,Still let thy dwelling in our centre be;England would lose all splendour, losing thee!Spare us, great Oscar, from this dire mischance!We'll perish ere we yield thee up to France!"WiseHardy! Thou dost gauge the modern taste:Hence on man's Lust thy latest book is based—A story of Seduction wins success,Thus hast thou well deserved thy cash for 'Tess.'Pure morals are old-fashioned—Virtue's nameIs a mere butt for 'chaff' or vulgar blame,But novels that defy all codes and lawsOf honest cleanness, win the world's applause,And so thy venture sails with favouring winds,Blest with approval from all prurient minds."See where atHorsham, Shelley's muse is crown'd!Two Parsons and a Justice on the ground!What glorious homage doth 'Prometheus' win!—Yet sure if ever parted ghosts can grin,Wild laughter from the Styxian shores must wakeAt such tame honours for the dead bard's sake;AnEdmund Gossedoth make the day's oration,Oh, what a petty mouthpiece for a Nation!AndWilliam Sharp, face-buried in his beard,Thinks his own works should be as much rever'dAs Shelley's, if the world were only wiseAnd viewed him with his own admiring eyes;AndLittle(Stanley) doth withGossecombineTo judge the perish'd Poet line by line,Granting his 'lyrics' admirably done,(Though they could match him easily, each one,)But, on the whole, he filled his 'mission' well;'Agreed!' saysChairman Hurst, J.P., D.L.!"O Shelley! my companion and my friend,Brother in golden song, is this the end?Is this the guerdon for thy glorious thought,Thy dreams of human freedom, lightning-fraught?No larger honours from the world's chief city,Save this half-hearted, slow and dull 'Committee'?Where Names appear upon the muster-rollBut only Names that lack all visible soul;Conspicuous by his absence,Tennyson,TheHorsham'In Memoriam' doth shun;Next,Henry Irving'sname doth much attract(That 'glory' of the stage who cannot act)But even he, the Mime, keeps clear awayFrom personal share in such a 'got-up' day,—And not one 'notable' the eye perceives,Save the Methusaleh of song,Sims Reeves;Alas, dear Shelley! Hast thou fallen so low?And must thy Genius such dishonour know?Is this the way thy Centenary's kept?Better go unremembered and unweptThan be thus 'celebrated' in a hurry,And get 'recited' by anAlma Murray!"Now hold, my Muse, and strive no more to tellThe public what they all should know full well;Zeal for true worth has bid me here engageThe host of idiots that infest the ageAnd spin their meagre prose and verse for hire,Libelling genius if it dare aspire.Let harmlessBarriescrawl a Scottish taleAnd English ears with 'dialect' assail,LetWilliam Archerjudge, and beardedSharpCondemn his betters, enviously carpAt living bards (if any), one and all,Such is the way of versifiers small;LetMorriswhine and steal from Tennyson,The poet King, whose race is nearly run,LetArnolddrivel on, andSwinburnerave,And godlyPatmorechant a stupid stave,LetKipling,Caine, andHardy, and the rest,And all the women-writers unrepressed,Scrawl on till death release us from the strain,Or Art assume her highest rights again;LetHenley, to assert his tawdry muse,Damn other bards by scurrilous reviews,Feeding with rancour his congenial mind,Himself the most cantankerous of his kind;LetAndrew Langundaunted, take his standBeside his favourite bookstalls, secondhand;Let 'Pseudonyms' appear in yellow pairs,Let carefulStannardsell her 'Winter' wares,LetWatts'puff'Swinburne,Swinburnebow toWatts,And Shakespeare be disproved byMrs. Potts;Let all the brawling folly of the timeFind vent in vapid prose and vulgar rhyme;Let scribblers rush into the common martWith all their mutilated blocks of art,And take their share of this ephemeral dayWithCollinsand her 'Ta-ra-Boom-de-ay';And what their end shall be, let others tell;My time is up and I must say farewell,Content at least that I have once agenPoured scorn upon the puny writing menThat chaffer for the laurel wreath of fame,And think their trash deserves a lasting name.Immortal, I behold the passing showOf little witlings ruling things below,And smile to see, repeated o'er and o'er,The literary tricks I lash'd before,And lash again, with satisfaction deep;And other 'rods in pickle' I shall keepFor those who on my memory slanders fling,Envying the songs they have no power to sing!"Gods of Olympus! Comrades of my thought,Where is the fire that once Prometheus broughtTo light the world? It warmedmyardent veins,And still the nations echo forth my strains;Greece still doth hold me as her minstrel dearAnd decks with fragrant myrtle boughs my bier—Englandforgets—but England is no moreThe England that our fathers loved of yore—A huckster's stall—a swarming noisy denOf bargaining, brutal, ignorant, moneyed men—England, historic England! She is dead,And o'er her dust the conquering traders tread,Crowning with shameful glory on her grave,Some greasy Jew or speculating knave;While blunderingGladstone, double-tongued and sly,Rules; the dread 'Struldbrug,'[2]who will never die!"Thus far I've held my undisturbed careerPrepared for rancour—spirits know not fear!Catch me, a Ghost, who can! Who knows the way?Cheer on the pack! The quarry stands at bay;Unmoved by all the 'Savile' logs that roll—I stand supreme, a deathless poet-soul—Careless ofLang'sresentment,Gosse'sspite,Swinburne'ssmall envy,Arnold'sjudgment trite,Henley'sweak scratch, orPall Mallpetty rage,Or the dullSaturday'sunlessoned page—Such 'men in buckram' shall have blows enough,And feel they too are 'penetrable stuff,'And by stern Compensation's law shall beRacked on the judgment-wheel they meant for me!"Adieu! Adieu! I see the spectral sailThat wafts me upwards, trembling in the gale,And many a starry coast and glistening heightAnd fairy paradise will greet my sight,And I shall stray through many a golden climeWhere angels wander, crowned with light sublime;When I am gone away into that landPublish at once this ghostly reprimand,And tell the puling scribblers of the townI yet can hunt 'boomed' reputations down!Yet spurn the rod a critic bids me kiss,Nor care if clubs or cliques applaud or hiss,And though I vanish into finer airThe spirit of my Muse is everywhere;Let all the 'boomed' and 'booming' dunces knowByronstill lives—their dauntless, stubborn Foe!"

"Still must I hear? ShallSwinburnemouth and scream

His wordy couplets in a drunken dream,

And I not sing, lest haply small reviews

Should dub me 'dead' and forthwith damn my muse?

No! My proud spirit shall not suffer wrong;

'Booms' are my theme—let satire be my song.

"Through Nature's new-found gift, Magnetic skill,My soul obeys an influential Will,And I from Hades rise to life againTo wield once more mine own especial pen,Which none have rivalled in these sickly daysOf tawdry epics and translated plays,When knavish cliques o'er honest Art prevail,And weigh out judgment by the 'Savile' scale.The petty vices of the time demandAnother scourging from my fearless hand;Still are there flocks of geese for me to chase,Still false pretenders to the 'poet's' place.Who dare to pile detraction on my name,Let such beware, for scribblers are my game!Speed Pegasus! Ye modern pensters small,Watts,Brydges,Morris,Arnold, have at you all!Remember well how once upon a timeI poured along the town a flood of rhymeSo strong and scathing that the little fryOf rhymesters like yourselves were doomed to die!Moved by that triumph past, I still pursueThe self-same road, despite theNew ReviewAndQuarterly, and other journals silly,That take dull articles by Mr.Lilly.

"Through Nature's new-found gift, Magnetic skill,

My soul obeys an influential Will,

And I from Hades rise to life again

To wield once more mine own especial pen,

Which none have rivalled in these sickly days

Of tawdry epics and translated plays,

When knavish cliques o'er honest Art prevail,

And weigh out judgment by the 'Savile' scale.

The petty vices of the time demand

Another scourging from my fearless hand;

Still are there flocks of geese for me to chase,

Still false pretenders to the 'poet's' place.

Who dare to pile detraction on my name,

Let such beware, for scribblers are my game!

Speed Pegasus! Ye modern pensters small,

Watts,Brydges,Morris,Arnold, have at you all!

Remember well how once upon a time

I poured along the town a flood of rhyme

So strong and scathing that the little fry

Of rhymesters like yourselves were doomed to die!

Moved by that triumph past, I still pursue

The self-same road, despite theNew Review

AndQuarterly, and other journals silly,

That take dull articles by Mr.Lilly.

"Most men serve out their time to every tradeSave book-reviewers—these are ready-made.Crib jokes from Yankee journals, got by rote,With just enough of memory to misquote;Ignore all beauty; find or forge a fault;Revive old puns and call them 'attic salt';Then to the 'Speaker' or toHenleygo(The 'pay' for book-reviews is always low);Fear not to lie—'twill seem a ready hit;Shrink not from blasphemy—'twill pass for wit;Care not for feeling; launch a scurrilous jest,And be a critic with the very best!

"Most men serve out their time to every trade

Save book-reviewers—these are ready-made.

Crib jokes from Yankee journals, got by rote,

With just enough of memory to misquote;

Ignore all beauty; find or forge a fault;

Revive old puns and call them 'attic salt';

Then to the 'Speaker' or toHenleygo

(The 'pay' for book-reviews is always low);

Fear not to lie—'twill seem a ready hit;

Shrink not from blasphemy—'twill pass for wit;

Care not for feeling; launch a scurrilous jest,

And be a critic with the very best!

"Will any own such judgment? No, as soonTrust wavering shadows 'neath th' inconstant moon,Hope that a 'promised' critique will be doneBy bland O'Connor of theSunday Sun,Believe that Hodge's claims will ne'er increase,Believe inGladstone'sschemes for Ireland's peace,Or any other thing that's false, beforeYou trust reviewers, who themselves are sore.Never let thought or fancy be misledByLang'scold heart orAlfred Austin'shead;While such are censors, 'twould be sin to spare;While such are critics, why should I forbear?And yet so near these modern writers run'Tis doubtful whom to seek and whom to shun,Nor know we when to spare or where to strike,The bards and critics are so much alike!

"Will any own such judgment? No, as soon

Trust wavering shadows 'neath th' inconstant moon,

Hope that a 'promised' critique will be done

By bland O'Connor of theSunday Sun,

Believe that Hodge's claims will ne'er increase,

Believe inGladstone'sschemes for Ireland's peace,

Or any other thing that's false, before

You trust reviewers, who themselves are sore.

Never let thought or fancy be misled

ByLang'scold heart orAlfred Austin'shead;

While such are censors, 'twould be sin to spare;

While such are critics, why should I forbear?

And yet so near these modern writers run

'Tis doubtful whom to seek and whom to shun,

Nor know we when to spare or where to strike,

The bards and critics are so much alike!

"To bygone times my lingering thoughts are cast;Good taste and reason with those times are past!Look round and turn each trifling printed page;Survey the precious works that please the age;This truth at least let satire's self allow,No dearth of pens can be complained of now.The loaded press beneath its labour groans,And printers' devils shake their weary bones,WhileArnold'sepics cram the creaking shelves,AndKipling'sballads shine in hot-pressed twelves'New' schools of twaddle in their turn arise,Where jingling rhymsters grapple for the prize,And for a time these psuedo-bards prevail;Each public 'library' assists their sale,And, hurling lawful genius from its throne,Takes up some puny idol of its own,And judges Poesy as just a cross'TwixtAshby Sterry,Lang, andEdmund Gosse.

"To bygone times my lingering thoughts are cast;

Good taste and reason with those times are past!

Look round and turn each trifling printed page;

Survey the precious works that please the age;

This truth at least let satire's self allow,

No dearth of pens can be complained of now.

The loaded press beneath its labour groans,

And printers' devils shake their weary bones,

WhileArnold'sepics cram the creaking shelves,

AndKipling'sballads shine in hot-pressed twelves

'New' schools of twaddle in their turn arise,

Where jingling rhymsters grapple for the prize,

And for a time these psuedo-bards prevail;

Each public 'library' assists their sale,

And, hurling lawful genius from its throne,

Takes up some puny idol of its own,

And judges Poesy as just a cross

'TwixtAshby Sterry,Lang, andEdmund Gosse.

"Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,For notice eager, pass in long review;Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace:Rhyme and romance maintain an equal race.The Grand Old Paradox of HawardenSeizes in haste his too prolific pen,And, heedless how the reading world is bored,Thrusts to the front aMrs. Humphry Ward,With 'Robert Elsmere' frightened out of faith,And 'David Grieve' a-prosing us to death;Next trumpetsCaine's'integrity of aim,'And gives to 'Mademoiselle Ixe' a name.O Gladstone, Gladstone! 'Boom' it not so strongBoomers may 'boom' too often and too long!If thou wilt write on impulse, prithee spare!More vapid authors were too much to bear;But if, in spite of all thy friends can say,Thou still wilt boomwards boom thy frantic way,And in long articles to stupid papersThou still wilt cut thy literary capers,Unhappy Art thy fresh intent may rue;God save us, Gladstone, from thy next 'review'!

"Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,

For notice eager, pass in long review;

Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace:

Rhyme and romance maintain an equal race.

The Grand Old Paradox of Hawarden

Seizes in haste his too prolific pen,

And, heedless how the reading world is bored,

Thrusts to the front aMrs. Humphry Ward,

With 'Robert Elsmere' frightened out of faith,

And 'David Grieve' a-prosing us to death;

Next trumpetsCaine's'integrity of aim,'

And gives to 'Mademoiselle Ixe' a name.

O Gladstone, Gladstone! 'Boom' it not so strong

Boomers may 'boom' too often and too long!

If thou wilt write on impulse, prithee spare!

More vapid authors were too much to bear;

But if, in spite of all thy friends can say,

Thou still wilt boomwards boom thy frantic way,

And in long articles to stupid papers

Thou still wilt cut thy literary capers,

Unhappy Art thy fresh intent may rue;

God save us, Gladstone, from thy next 'review'!

"Lo, the mild teacher of the Buddhist school,The follower of the tamest blank-verse rule,The simpleArnold, with his 'Asia's Light,'Who wins attention by translation-right;And both by precept and example showsThat prose is verse, and verse is merely prose,Convinced himself, by demonstration plain,There never will be such a book again,And never such a 'marvellous proper' manTo charm the hearts of ladies in Japan!

"Lo, the mild teacher of the Buddhist school,

The follower of the tamest blank-verse rule,

The simpleArnold, with his 'Asia's Light,'

Who wins attention by translation-right;

And both by precept and example shows

That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose,

Convinced himself, by demonstration plain,

There never will be such a book again,

And never such a 'marvellous proper' man

To charm the hearts of ladies in Japan!

"Who out at Putney on the common strays,Unsocial in his converse and his ways?'TisSwinburne, the Catullus of his day,As sweet but as immoral in his lay.Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns;From grosser incense with disgust she turns.Mend,Swinburne, mend thy morals and thy taste;Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but chaste;Thy borrowed fancies to Villon restore,And use old Scripture similes no more!

"Who out at Putney on the common strays,

Unsocial in his converse and his ways?

'TisSwinburne, the Catullus of his day,

As sweet but as immoral in his lay.

Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,

Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.

Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns;

From grosser incense with disgust she turns.

Mend,Swinburne, mend thy morals and thy taste;

Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but chaste;

Thy borrowed fancies to Villon restore,

And use old Scripture similes no more!

"Behold! ye cliques; one moment spare the text!Hall Caine'slast work, and worst—until his next!Whether he drafts his 'sagas' into plays,Or damns his brother authors with faint praise,His elephantine style is still the same,Forever turgid, and forever tame.Boom for the 'Scapegoat'! it has been re-writTo suit the measure of the critics' wit;'Bondsman' and 'Deemster' tweak each other's toes,And as a spurious 'genius' Caine doth pose,Taking himself and all his books on trust,And getting photographed with Shakespeare's bust!

"Behold! ye cliques; one moment spare the text!

Hall Caine'slast work, and worst—until his next!

Whether he drafts his 'sagas' into plays,

Or damns his brother authors with faint praise,

His elephantine style is still the same,

Forever turgid, and forever tame.

Boom for the 'Scapegoat'! it has been re-writ

To suit the measure of the critics' wit;

'Bondsman' and 'Deemster' tweak each other's toes,

And as a spurious 'genius' Caine doth pose,

Taking himself and all his books on trust,

And getting photographed with Shakespeare's bust!

"Another book of verses? Who againInflicts rhymed doggerel on the sons of men?'Tis OrientKipling, the reviewers' boast,The darling of the Anglo-Indian coast,Who, on cheap praise and cheaper conquest bent,Imports slang 'notions' from the soldier's tent,And crams his lines with 'Tommy Atkins' hereAnd 'Tommy Atkins' diction everywhere—'Barrack-Room Ballads!' come, who'll buy! who'll buy!The precious bargain's low! 'i faith, not I!ForRudyard'sverse, despite his 'boom,' is flat,Though critics bloat him with 'log-rollers'' fat—ORudyard Kipling! Phoebus! What a nameTo fill the speaking-trump of future fame!ORudyard Kipling, for a moment thinkWhat 'chancey' profits spring from pen and ink!Thy name already tires the public ear,One shilling for thy 'Tales' seems monstrous dear;For though they make a decent show of printThe book as book of worth has 'nothing in 't'.ORudyard Kipling! cease to scribble rhymes,And stick toArthur Walterof theTimes;As 'Special Correspondent' or 'Our Own,'But for God's sake leave Poesy alone;Scratch not the surface of the mystic EastWith flippant pen dipped in reporter's yeast,For India's riddle is a riddle stillIn spite of any 'Plain Tale from a Hill,'The silent griefs of conquered tribes and nationsAre not explained in military flirtations,Or 'ditties departmental,' trite of style,(Any 'jongleur' could scrawl them by the mile;)As 'Light that Failed,' thy race is nearly run,Thy goose is cooked; thy stuffing's over-done!

"Another book of verses? Who again

Inflicts rhymed doggerel on the sons of men?

'Tis OrientKipling, the reviewers' boast,

The darling of the Anglo-Indian coast,

Who, on cheap praise and cheaper conquest bent,

Imports slang 'notions' from the soldier's tent,

And crams his lines with 'Tommy Atkins' here

And 'Tommy Atkins' diction everywhere—

'Barrack-Room Ballads!' come, who'll buy! who'll buy!

The precious bargain's low! 'i faith, not I!

ForRudyard'sverse, despite his 'boom,' is flat,

Though critics bloat him with 'log-rollers'' fat—

ORudyard Kipling! Phoebus! What a name

To fill the speaking-trump of future fame!

ORudyard Kipling, for a moment think

What 'chancey' profits spring from pen and ink!

Thy name already tires the public ear,

One shilling for thy 'Tales' seems monstrous dear;

For though they make a decent show of print

The book as book of worth has 'nothing in 't'.

ORudyard Kipling! cease to scribble rhymes,

And stick toArthur Walterof theTimes;

As 'Special Correspondent' or 'Our Own,'

But for God's sake leave Poesy alone;

Scratch not the surface of the mystic East

With flippant pen dipped in reporter's yeast,

For India's riddle is a riddle still

In spite of any 'Plain Tale from a Hill,'

The silent griefs of conquered tribes and nations

Are not explained in military flirtations,

Or 'ditties departmental,' trite of style,

(Any 'jongleur' could scrawl them by the mile;)

As 'Light that Failed,' thy race is nearly run,

Thy goose is cooked; thy stuffing's over-done!

"Lo, great 'Thucydides' of Samoa's isleRelieves his inspiration and his bile,And o'er the rolling ocean wide and deepSends thechef-d'œuvresthat make his readers sleep.The 'Wrecker' comes and ponderously heavesO'er weary brains its soothing weight of leaves,And those who never knew that joy beforeYield to the peaceful pleasure of the snore,And drowse in chairs at clubs in open day,Just as they drowsed o'er 'classic' 'Ballantrae.'Hail to 'Thucydides'! and hail the penThat writes him up above all other men;For sleep's a blessing, and whate'er may hapHis works ensure a harmless, perfect nap.

"Lo, great 'Thucydides' of Samoa's isle

Relieves his inspiration and his bile,

And o'er the rolling ocean wide and deep

Sends thechef-d'œuvresthat make his readers sleep.

The 'Wrecker' comes and ponderously heaves

O'er weary brains its soothing weight of leaves,

And those who never knew that joy before

Yield to the peaceful pleasure of the snore,

And drowse in chairs at clubs in open day,

Just as they drowsed o'er 'classic' 'Ballantrae.'

Hail to 'Thucydides'! and hail the pen

That writes him up above all other men;

For sleep's a blessing, and whate'er may hap

His works ensure a harmless, perfect nap.

"Lo, with what pomp the daily prints proclaimThe rival candidates for Attic fame;In grim array thoughHaggard'sZulus rise,Yet 'Q' and dullGrant Allenshare the prize;Then come the little train of 'Pseudonyms'—A set of female faddists full of whims—Who pour their vapid follies o'er the town,Excusing Vice and sneering Virtue down;Next see goodBentley'slist of writers small:I wonder where the deuce he finds them all?Some 'novel new' he issues every week,A fiction of the kind that housemaids seek—Mild tales of goose-love, which he thinks may please,Sure only geese would purchase books like these!

"Lo, with what pomp the daily prints proclaim

The rival candidates for Attic fame;

In grim array thoughHaggard'sZulus rise,

Yet 'Q' and dullGrant Allenshare the prize;

Then come the little train of 'Pseudonyms'—

A set of female faddists full of whims—

Who pour their vapid follies o'er the town,

Excusing Vice and sneering Virtue down;

Next see goodBentley'slist of writers small:

I wonder where the deuce he finds them all?

Some 'novel new' he issues every week,

A fiction of the kind that housemaids seek—

Mild tales of goose-love, which he thinks may please,

Sure only geese would purchase books like these!

Broughton's half-vulgar, half-lascivious stories,And Mrs. Henry Wood's posthumous glories;Here MadamTrollopewhirls her small 'Wild Wheel,'There MistressHennikerunwinds her reel,And silly 'fictionists' of no reputeSpring up like weeds to wither at the root.ExcellentBentley! stay thy lavish hand,Continuous trash were more than we could stand;Give us good authors who deserve their name,And save thy once distinguished firm from shame;Give prominence to Genius—publish less,Or rivals new thy 'house' will dispossess,In spite of folks who think the works of ShelleyInferior to romances byCorelli.

Broughton's half-vulgar, half-lascivious stories,

And Mrs. Henry Wood's posthumous glories;

Here MadamTrollopewhirls her small 'Wild Wheel,'

There MistressHennikerunwinds her reel,

And silly 'fictionists' of no repute

Spring up like weeds to wither at the root.

ExcellentBentley! stay thy lavish hand,

Continuous trash were more than we could stand;

Give us good authors who deserve their name,

And save thy once distinguished firm from shame;

Give prominence to Genius—publish less,

Or rivals new thy 'house' will dispossess,

In spite of folks who think the works of Shelley

Inferior to romances byCorelli.

"Grant Allenhath a 'heaven-sent' tale to tell,But much he fears its utterance would not 'sell'Wherefore, to be quite certain of his cash,He writes (regardless of his 'inspiration') trash;PracticalAllen! Noble, manly heart!Wise huckster of small nothings in the mart,—To what a pitch of prudence dost thou reachTo feel the 'god,' yet give thy thoughts no speech,All for the sake of vulgar pounds and pence!God bless thee,Allen, for thy common sense!

"Grant Allenhath a 'heaven-sent' tale to tell,

But much he fears its utterance would not 'sell'

Wherefore, to be quite certain of his cash,

He writes (regardless of his 'inspiration') trash;

PracticalAllen! Noble, manly heart!

Wise huckster of small nothings in the mart,—

To what a pitch of prudence dost thou reach

To feel the 'god,' yet give thy thoughts no speech,

All for the sake of vulgar pounds and pence!

God bless thee,Allen, for thy common sense!

"Health to 'lang' Andrew! Heaven preserve his lifeTo flourish on the sacred shores of Fife!Prosper good Andrew! leanest of the trainWhom Scotland feeds upon her fiery grain;Whatever blessings wait a 'brindled' ScotIn double portion swell thy glorious lot!As long as Albion's silly sons submitTo Scottish censorship on English wit,So long shall last thy unmolested rule,And authors, under thee, shall go to school;Behold the 'Savile' band shall aid thy planAnd own thee chieftain of the critic clan.Kiplingshall 'butter' thee, and thou sometimesWilt praise in gratitude his doggerel rhymes,AndHaggard, too, thy eulogies shall seek,And for his book another 'boom' bespeak;And various magazines their aid will lendTo damn thy foe or deify thy friend.Such wondrous honours deck thy proud career,Rhymester and lecturer and pamphleteer,Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway,And may all editors increase thy 'pay'—Yet mark one caution ere thy next reviewFalls heavy on a female who is 'blue.'Grub-street doth whisper that a 'ladye faire'Intends to snatch thee by the brindled hairAnd stab thee through thy tough reviewer's skinWith nothing more important than a pin—A case of 'table turned' and 'biter bit';Heaven save thee, Andrew, from a woman's wit!

"Health to 'lang' Andrew! Heaven preserve his life

To flourish on the sacred shores of Fife!

Prosper good Andrew! leanest of the train

Whom Scotland feeds upon her fiery grain;

Whatever blessings wait a 'brindled' Scot

In double portion swell thy glorious lot!

As long as Albion's silly sons submit

To Scottish censorship on English wit,

So long shall last thy unmolested rule,

And authors, under thee, shall go to school;

Behold the 'Savile' band shall aid thy plan

And own thee chieftain of the critic clan.

Kiplingshall 'butter' thee, and thou sometimes

Wilt praise in gratitude his doggerel rhymes,

AndHaggard, too, thy eulogies shall seek,

And for his book another 'boom' bespeak;

And various magazines their aid will lend

To damn thy foe or deify thy friend.

Such wondrous honours deck thy proud career,

Rhymester and lecturer and pamphleteer,

Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway,

And may all editors increase thy 'pay'—

Yet mark one caution ere thy next review

Falls heavy on a female who is 'blue.'

Grub-street doth whisper that a 'ladye faire'

Intends to snatch thee by the brindled hair

And stab thee through thy tough reviewer's skin

With nothing more important than a pin—

A case of 'table turned' and 'biter bit';

Heaven save thee, Andrew, from a woman's wit!

"What marvel now doth Afric's zone disclose?A solemn book of rank blasphemous prose,Writ by aMistress Schreiner, who electsA Universal Nothing as her text;Whereat theAthenæum, doddering soul!Whimpers about the 'beauty of the whole,'And shrieks, in columns of hysteric praise,How such a work all nations should amaze:'Nothing has ever been or e'er will beLike Dreams'—produced by the blasphemous She;So writes theAthenæumto the fewWho still pay threepence for a bad review,And watch the hatching of the little plotsConceived and carried out by Mr. Watts.Charles Dilke!Come forth from Mrs. Grundy's ban,And show thyself to be the 'leading' man,With one strong effort snap thy social fetterAnd get thy prosy journal managed better!

"What marvel now doth Afric's zone disclose?

A solemn book of rank blasphemous prose,

Writ by aMistress Schreiner, who elects

A Universal Nothing as her text;

Whereat theAthenæum, doddering soul!

Whimpers about the 'beauty of the whole,'

And shrieks, in columns of hysteric praise,

How such a work all nations should amaze:

'Nothing has ever been or e'er will be

Like Dreams'—produced by the blasphemous She;

So writes theAthenæumto the few

Who still pay threepence for a bad review,

And watch the hatching of the little plots

Conceived and carried out by Mr. Watts.

Charles Dilke!Come forth from Mrs. Grundy's ban,

And show thyself to be the 'leading' man,

With one strong effort snap thy social fetter

And get thy prosy journal managed better!

"Great Oscar! Glorious Oscar! Oscar Wilde!Fat and smooth-faced as any sucking child!Bland in self-worship, crowned with self-plucked bays,Sole object of thine own unceasing praise,None can in 'brag' thy spreading fame surpass,And thou dost shine supreme in native brass.Thou hast o'erwhelmed and conquered dead MolièreWith all themotsofLady Windermere;Thou hast swept other novelists awayWith the lascivious life of 'Dorian Gray.'Thine enemies must fly before thy face,Thou bulky glory of the Irish race!Desert us not, O Wilde, desert us not,Because the Censor's 'snub' 'Salome' got,Still let thy presence cheer this foggy isle,Still let us bask in thy 'æsthetic' smile,Still let thy dwelling in our centre be;England would lose all splendour, losing thee!Spare us, great Oscar, from this dire mischance!We'll perish ere we yield thee up to France!

"Great Oscar! Glorious Oscar! Oscar Wilde!

Fat and smooth-faced as any sucking child!

Bland in self-worship, crowned with self-plucked bays,

Sole object of thine own unceasing praise,

None can in 'brag' thy spreading fame surpass,

And thou dost shine supreme in native brass.

Thou hast o'erwhelmed and conquered dead Molière

With all themotsofLady Windermere;

Thou hast swept other novelists away

With the lascivious life of 'Dorian Gray.'

Thine enemies must fly before thy face,

Thou bulky glory of the Irish race!

Desert us not, O Wilde, desert us not,

Because the Censor's 'snub' 'Salome' got,

Still let thy presence cheer this foggy isle,

Still let us bask in thy 'æsthetic' smile,

Still let thy dwelling in our centre be;

England would lose all splendour, losing thee!

Spare us, great Oscar, from this dire mischance!

We'll perish ere we yield thee up to France!

"WiseHardy! Thou dost gauge the modern taste:Hence on man's Lust thy latest book is based—A story of Seduction wins success,Thus hast thou well deserved thy cash for 'Tess.'Pure morals are old-fashioned—Virtue's nameIs a mere butt for 'chaff' or vulgar blame,But novels that defy all codes and lawsOf honest cleanness, win the world's applause,And so thy venture sails with favouring winds,Blest with approval from all prurient minds.

"WiseHardy! Thou dost gauge the modern taste:

Hence on man's Lust thy latest book is based—

A story of Seduction wins success,

Thus hast thou well deserved thy cash for 'Tess.'

Pure morals are old-fashioned—Virtue's name

Is a mere butt for 'chaff' or vulgar blame,

But novels that defy all codes and laws

Of honest cleanness, win the world's applause,

And so thy venture sails with favouring winds,

Blest with approval from all prurient minds.

"See where atHorsham, Shelley's muse is crown'd!Two Parsons and a Justice on the ground!What glorious homage doth 'Prometheus' win!—Yet sure if ever parted ghosts can grin,Wild laughter from the Styxian shores must wakeAt such tame honours for the dead bard's sake;AnEdmund Gossedoth make the day's oration,Oh, what a petty mouthpiece for a Nation!AndWilliam Sharp, face-buried in his beard,Thinks his own works should be as much rever'dAs Shelley's, if the world were only wiseAnd viewed him with his own admiring eyes;AndLittle(Stanley) doth withGossecombineTo judge the perish'd Poet line by line,Granting his 'lyrics' admirably done,(Though they could match him easily, each one,)But, on the whole, he filled his 'mission' well;'Agreed!' saysChairman Hurst, J.P., D.L.!

"See where atHorsham, Shelley's muse is crown'd!

Two Parsons and a Justice on the ground!

What glorious homage doth 'Prometheus' win!—

Yet sure if ever parted ghosts can grin,

Wild laughter from the Styxian shores must wake

At such tame honours for the dead bard's sake;

AnEdmund Gossedoth make the day's oration,

Oh, what a petty mouthpiece for a Nation!

AndWilliam Sharp, face-buried in his beard,

Thinks his own works should be as much rever'd

As Shelley's, if the world were only wise

And viewed him with his own admiring eyes;

AndLittle(Stanley) doth withGossecombine

To judge the perish'd Poet line by line,

Granting his 'lyrics' admirably done,

(Though they could match him easily, each one,)

But, on the whole, he filled his 'mission' well;

'Agreed!' saysChairman Hurst, J.P., D.L.!

"O Shelley! my companion and my friend,Brother in golden song, is this the end?Is this the guerdon for thy glorious thought,Thy dreams of human freedom, lightning-fraught?No larger honours from the world's chief city,Save this half-hearted, slow and dull 'Committee'?Where Names appear upon the muster-rollBut only Names that lack all visible soul;Conspicuous by his absence,Tennyson,TheHorsham'In Memoriam' doth shun;Next,Henry Irving'sname doth much attract(That 'glory' of the stage who cannot act)But even he, the Mime, keeps clear awayFrom personal share in such a 'got-up' day,—And not one 'notable' the eye perceives,Save the Methusaleh of song,Sims Reeves;Alas, dear Shelley! Hast thou fallen so low?And must thy Genius such dishonour know?Is this the way thy Centenary's kept?Better go unremembered and unweptThan be thus 'celebrated' in a hurry,And get 'recited' by anAlma Murray!

"O Shelley! my companion and my friend,

Brother in golden song, is this the end?

Is this the guerdon for thy glorious thought,

Thy dreams of human freedom, lightning-fraught?

No larger honours from the world's chief city,

Save this half-hearted, slow and dull 'Committee'?

Where Names appear upon the muster-roll

But only Names that lack all visible soul;

Conspicuous by his absence,Tennyson,

TheHorsham'In Memoriam' doth shun;

Next,Henry Irving'sname doth much attract

(That 'glory' of the stage who cannot act)

But even he, the Mime, keeps clear away

From personal share in such a 'got-up' day,—

And not one 'notable' the eye perceives,

Save the Methusaleh of song,Sims Reeves;

Alas, dear Shelley! Hast thou fallen so low?

And must thy Genius such dishonour know?

Is this the way thy Centenary's kept?

Better go unremembered and unwept

Than be thus 'celebrated' in a hurry,

And get 'recited' by anAlma Murray!

"Now hold, my Muse, and strive no more to tellThe public what they all should know full well;Zeal for true worth has bid me here engageThe host of idiots that infest the ageAnd spin their meagre prose and verse for hire,Libelling genius if it dare aspire.Let harmlessBarriescrawl a Scottish taleAnd English ears with 'dialect' assail,LetWilliam Archerjudge, and beardedSharpCondemn his betters, enviously carpAt living bards (if any), one and all,Such is the way of versifiers small;LetMorriswhine and steal from Tennyson,The poet King, whose race is nearly run,LetArnolddrivel on, andSwinburnerave,And godlyPatmorechant a stupid stave,LetKipling,Caine, andHardy, and the rest,And all the women-writers unrepressed,Scrawl on till death release us from the strain,Or Art assume her highest rights again;LetHenley, to assert his tawdry muse,Damn other bards by scurrilous reviews,Feeding with rancour his congenial mind,Himself the most cantankerous of his kind;LetAndrew Langundaunted, take his standBeside his favourite bookstalls, secondhand;Let 'Pseudonyms' appear in yellow pairs,Let carefulStannardsell her 'Winter' wares,LetWatts'puff'Swinburne,Swinburnebow toWatts,And Shakespeare be disproved byMrs. Potts;Let all the brawling folly of the timeFind vent in vapid prose and vulgar rhyme;Let scribblers rush into the common martWith all their mutilated blocks of art,And take their share of this ephemeral dayWithCollinsand her 'Ta-ra-Boom-de-ay';And what their end shall be, let others tell;My time is up and I must say farewell,Content at least that I have once agenPoured scorn upon the puny writing menThat chaffer for the laurel wreath of fame,And think their trash deserves a lasting name.Immortal, I behold the passing showOf little witlings ruling things below,And smile to see, repeated o'er and o'er,The literary tricks I lash'd before,And lash again, with satisfaction deep;And other 'rods in pickle' I shall keepFor those who on my memory slanders fling,Envying the songs they have no power to sing!

"Now hold, my Muse, and strive no more to tell

The public what they all should know full well;

Zeal for true worth has bid me here engage

The host of idiots that infest the age

And spin their meagre prose and verse for hire,

Libelling genius if it dare aspire.

Let harmlessBarriescrawl a Scottish tale

And English ears with 'dialect' assail,

LetWilliam Archerjudge, and beardedSharp

Condemn his betters, enviously carp

At living bards (if any), one and all,

Such is the way of versifiers small;

LetMorriswhine and steal from Tennyson,

The poet King, whose race is nearly run,

LetArnolddrivel on, andSwinburnerave,

And godlyPatmorechant a stupid stave,

LetKipling,Caine, andHardy, and the rest,

And all the women-writers unrepressed,

Scrawl on till death release us from the strain,

Or Art assume her highest rights again;

LetHenley, to assert his tawdry muse,

Damn other bards by scurrilous reviews,

Feeding with rancour his congenial mind,

Himself the most cantankerous of his kind;

LetAndrew Langundaunted, take his stand

Beside his favourite bookstalls, secondhand;

Let 'Pseudonyms' appear in yellow pairs,

Let carefulStannardsell her 'Winter' wares,

LetWatts'puff'Swinburne,Swinburnebow toWatts,

And Shakespeare be disproved byMrs. Potts;

Let all the brawling folly of the time

Find vent in vapid prose and vulgar rhyme;

Let scribblers rush into the common mart

With all their mutilated blocks of art,

And take their share of this ephemeral day

WithCollinsand her 'Ta-ra-Boom-de-ay';

And what their end shall be, let others tell;

My time is up and I must say farewell,

Content at least that I have once agen

Poured scorn upon the puny writing men

That chaffer for the laurel wreath of fame,

And think their trash deserves a lasting name.

Immortal, I behold the passing show

Of little witlings ruling things below,

And smile to see, repeated o'er and o'er,

The literary tricks I lash'd before,

And lash again, with satisfaction deep;

And other 'rods in pickle' I shall keep

For those who on my memory slanders fling,

Envying the songs they have no power to sing!

"Gods of Olympus! Comrades of my thought,Where is the fire that once Prometheus broughtTo light the world? It warmedmyardent veins,And still the nations echo forth my strains;Greece still doth hold me as her minstrel dearAnd decks with fragrant myrtle boughs my bier—Englandforgets—but England is no moreThe England that our fathers loved of yore—A huckster's stall—a swarming noisy denOf bargaining, brutal, ignorant, moneyed men—England, historic England! She is dead,And o'er her dust the conquering traders tread,Crowning with shameful glory on her grave,Some greasy Jew or speculating knave;While blunderingGladstone, double-tongued and sly,Rules; the dread 'Struldbrug,'[2]who will never die!

"Gods of Olympus! Comrades of my thought,

Where is the fire that once Prometheus brought

To light the world? It warmedmyardent veins,

And still the nations echo forth my strains;

Greece still doth hold me as her minstrel dear

And decks with fragrant myrtle boughs my bier—

Englandforgets—but England is no more

The England that our fathers loved of yore—

A huckster's stall—a swarming noisy den

Of bargaining, brutal, ignorant, moneyed men—

England, historic England! She is dead,

And o'er her dust the conquering traders tread,

Crowning with shameful glory on her grave,

Some greasy Jew or speculating knave;

While blunderingGladstone, double-tongued and sly,

Rules; the dread 'Struldbrug,'[2]who will never die!

"Thus far I've held my undisturbed careerPrepared for rancour—spirits know not fear!Catch me, a Ghost, who can! Who knows the way?Cheer on the pack! The quarry stands at bay;Unmoved by all the 'Savile' logs that roll—I stand supreme, a deathless poet-soul—Careless ofLang'sresentment,Gosse'sspite,Swinburne'ssmall envy,Arnold'sjudgment trite,Henley'sweak scratch, orPall Mallpetty rage,Or the dullSaturday'sunlessoned page—Such 'men in buckram' shall have blows enough,And feel they too are 'penetrable stuff,'And by stern Compensation's law shall beRacked on the judgment-wheel they meant for me!

"Thus far I've held my undisturbed career

Prepared for rancour—spirits know not fear!

Catch me, a Ghost, who can! Who knows the way?

Cheer on the pack! The quarry stands at bay;

Unmoved by all the 'Savile' logs that roll—

I stand supreme, a deathless poet-soul—

Careless ofLang'sresentment,Gosse'sspite,

Swinburne'ssmall envy,Arnold'sjudgment trite,

Henley'sweak scratch, orPall Mallpetty rage,

Or the dullSaturday'sunlessoned page—

Such 'men in buckram' shall have blows enough,

And feel they too are 'penetrable stuff,'

And by stern Compensation's law shall be

Racked on the judgment-wheel they meant for me!

"Adieu! Adieu! I see the spectral sailThat wafts me upwards, trembling in the gale,And many a starry coast and glistening heightAnd fairy paradise will greet my sight,And I shall stray through many a golden climeWhere angels wander, crowned with light sublime;When I am gone away into that landPublish at once this ghostly reprimand,And tell the puling scribblers of the townI yet can hunt 'boomed' reputations down!Yet spurn the rod a critic bids me kiss,Nor care if clubs or cliques applaud or hiss,And though I vanish into finer airThe spirit of my Muse is everywhere;Let all the 'boomed' and 'booming' dunces knowByronstill lives—their dauntless, stubborn Foe!"

"Adieu! Adieu! I see the spectral sail

That wafts me upwards, trembling in the gale,

And many a starry coast and glistening height

And fairy paradise will greet my sight,

And I shall stray through many a golden clime

Where angels wander, crowned with light sublime;

When I am gone away into that land

Publish at once this ghostly reprimand,

And tell the puling scribblers of the town

I yet can hunt 'boomed' reputations down!

Yet spurn the rod a critic bids me kiss,

Nor care if clubs or cliques applaud or hiss,

And though I vanish into finer air

The spirit of my Muse is everywhere;

Let all the 'boomed' and 'booming' dunces know

Byronstill lives—their dauntless, stubborn Foe!"

Enunciating the last two lines with tremendous emphasis, the noble Ghost folded up his scroll. I noticed that in the course of his reading he frequently repeated his former self, and borrowed largely from an already published world-famousSatire; and I ventured to say as much in a mildsotto voce.

"What does that matter?" he demanded angrily. "Do not the names of the New school of literary goslings fit into my lines as well as the Old?"

I made haste to admit that they did, with really startling accuracy of rhythm.

"Well, then, don't criticise," he continued; "any ass can do that! Write down what I have read and publish it—or——"

What fearful alternative he had in store for me I never knew, for just then he began to dissolve. Slowly, like a melting mist, he grew more and more transparent, till he completely disappeared into nothingness, though for some minutes I fancied I still saw the reflection of his glittering laurel wreath playing in a lambent circle on the floor. Awed and much troubled in mind, I went to bed and tried to forget my spectral visitor. In vain! I could not sleep. The lines recited by the disembodied Poet burned themselves into my memoryas he had said they would, and I had to get up again and write them down. Then, and not till then, did I feel relieved; and though I thought I heard a muttered "Swear!" from some a "fellow in the cellarage," I knew I had done my duty too thoroughly to yield to coward fear. And I can only say that if any of the highly distinguished celebrities mentioned by the ghost in his wrathful outburst feel sore concerning his expressed opinion of them, they had better at once look up a good "medium," call forth the noble lord, and have it out with him themselves. I am not to blame. I cannot possibly hold myself responsible for "spiritual" manifestations. No one can. When "spooks" clutch your hand and make you write things, what are you to do? You must yield. It is no good fighting the air. Ask people who are qualified to know about "influences" and "astral bodies" and other uncanny bits of supernatural business, and they will tell you that when the spirits seize you you must resign yourself. Even so I have resigned myself. Only I do notconsider I am answerable for a ghost's estimate of the various literary lustres of the age:—

"Byron's opinions these, in every line;For God's sake, reader, take them not for mine!"

"Byron's opinions these, in every line;

For God's sake, reader, take them not for mine!"

FOOTNOTE:[2]The "Struldbrugs" were a race of beings who inhabited the "Island of Laputa," and were born with a spot on the forehead, a sign which indicated their total exemption from death. (See Dean Swift's "Gulliver's Travels.")

[2]The "Struldbrugs" were a race of beings who inhabited the "Island of Laputa," and were born with a spot on the forehead, a sign which indicated their total exemption from death. (See Dean Swift's "Gulliver's Travels.")

XX.

MAKETH EXIT.

The hour grows late, dear friends, and I am getting bored. So are you, no doubt. But though, as I said in the beginning, I take delight in boring you because I think the majority of you deserve it, I have an objection to boring myself. Besides, I notice that some of you have begun to hate me; I can see a few biliously-rolling eyes, angry frowns, and threatening hands directed towards my masked figure, as I leisurely begin to make my way out of your noisy, tumultuous, malodorous social throng. Spare yourselves, good people! Keep cool! I am going. I have had enough of you, just as you have had enough of me. I told you, when I first started these"remarks aside," that I did not wish to offend any of you; but it is quite probable that, considering the overweening opinion you have of your own virtues and excellencies, you are somewhat thin-skinned, and apt to take merely general observations as personal ones. Do not err in this respect, I beseech you! If any fool finds a fool's cap that fits him, I do not ask him to put it on. I assure you that for Persons I have neither liking nor disliking, and one of you is no more and no less than t'other. Loathe me an' you choose, I shall care little; love me, I shall care less. Both your loathing and your love are sentiments that can only be awakened by questions of self-interest; and you will gain nothing and lose nothing by me, as I am the very last person in the world to be "of use" to anybody. I do not intend to be of use. A useful person is one who is willing to lie down in the mud for others to walk dryshod over him, or who will amiably carry a great hulking sluggard across a difficulty pick-a-back. Now, I object to being"walked over," and if any one wanted to try "pick-a-back" with me, he would find himself flung in the nearest gutter. Wherefore, you observe, I am not "Christianly" disposed, and should not be an advantageous acquaintance. Though, if I were to tell you all the full extent of my income, I dare say you would offer me many delicate testimonies of affectionate esteem. Sweet women's eyes might smile upon me, and manly hands might grip mine in that warm grasp of true friendship which is the result of a fat balance at the banker's. But, all the same, these attentions would not affect me. I am not one to be relied upon for "dinner invitations" or "good introductions," and I never "lend out" my horses. I keep my opera-box to myself too, with an absolutely heartless disregard of other people's desires. I learned the gospel of "looking after Number One" when I was poor; rich folks taught it me. They never did anything for me or for anybody else without a leading personal motive, and I now follow their wise example. Ilive my life as I choose, thinking the thoughts that come naturally to me, my mind not being the humble reflex of any one morning or evening newspaper; so I am not surprised that some of you, whose opinions are the mere mirror of journalism, hang back and look askance at me, the while I pass by and take amused observation of your cautious attitudes through the eye-holes of my domino. Certes, by all the codes of social "sets" you ought to respect me. I am the member of a House, the adherent of a Party, and the promoter of a Cause, and your biggest men, both in politics and literature, know me well enough. I might even claim to have a "mission," if I were only properly "boomed"—that is, of course, if the Grand OldStruldbrug, as the irreverent ghost of Lord Byron calls him, Gladdy, were to rub his noddle against that of Knowles, and emit intellectual sparks about me in theNineteenth Century. But I don't suppose I could ever live "up" to such a dazzling height of fame as this. It would be a wild jump to the topmostpeak of Parnassus, such as few mortals would have strength to endure. So on the whole I think I am better and safer where I am, as an "unboomed" nobody. And where am I? Dear literary brothers and sisters, dear "society" friends, I am just now in your very midst; but I am retiring from among you because—well, because I do not feel at home in a human menagerie. The noise is as great, the ferocity is as general, the greed is as unsatisfied, and the odour is as bad as in any den of the lower animals. I want air and freedom. I would like to see a few real men and women just by way of a change—men who are manly, women who are womanly. Such ideal beings may be found in Mars perhaps. Some scientists assure us there are great discoveries pending there. Let us hope so. We really require a new planet, for we have almost exhausted this.

And now adieu! Who is this that clutches me and says, will I unmask? What, Labby? Now, Labby, you know very well I would doanything to please you; but on this occasion I must, for the first time in my life, refuse a request of yours. Presently, my dear fellow, presently! The domino I wear shall be flung off in your pleasant study in Old Palace Yard on the earliest possible occasion. Believe it! It would be worse than useless to try to hide myself from your eagle ken. The "lady with the lamp" on the cover ofTruthshall flash her glittering searchlight into my eyes, and discover there a friendly smile enough. Meanwhile, permit me to pass. That's kind of you! A thousand thanks! And now, with a few steps more, I leave the crowd behind me, and, loitering on its outskirts, look back and pause. I note its wild confusion with a smile; I hear its frantic uproar with a sigh. And with the smile still on my lips, and the sigh still in my heart, I slowly glide away from the social and literary treadmill where the prisoners curse each other and groan—away and back to whence I came, out into the wide open spaces of unfettered thought, the "glorious liberty of the free." Iwave my hand to you, dear friends and enemies, in valediction. I have often laughed at you, but upon my soul, when I come to think of the lives you lead, full of small effronteries and shams, I cannot choose but pity you all the same. I would not change my estate with yours for millions of money. Many of you have secured what in these trifling days is called fame; many others rejoice in what are pleasantly termed "world-wide" reputations; but I doubt if there is any one among you who is as thoroughly happy, as careless, as independent, and as indifferent to opinion, fate, and fortune, as the idle masquerader who has strolled casually through your midst, seeking no favours at your hands, and making no apologies for existence, and who now leaves you without regret, bidding you a civil "Farewell!"

Remaining in unabashed candour and good faith, one who is neither your friend nor enemy,

THE SILVER DOMINO.

The Gresham Press,UNWIN BROTHERS,CHILWORTH AND LONDON.

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