A Satire Anthology

THE ÆSTHETE

IF you’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line, as a man of culture rare,You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere;You must lie upon the daisies, and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind(The meaning doesn’t matter, if it’s only idle chatter of a transcendental kind).And every one will say,As you walk your mystic way,“If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me,Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!”Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away,And convince ’em, if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture’s palmiest day.Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever’s fresh and new, and declare it’s crude and mean,And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine.And every one will say,As you walk your mystic way,“If that’s not good enough for him which is good enough for me,Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!”Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen,An attachment à la Plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean.Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high æsthetic band,If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval hand.And every one will say,As you walk your flowery way,“If he’s content with a vegetable love, which would certainly not suit me,Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!”W. S. Gilbert.

TOO LATE!

“Ah! si la jeunesse savait, – si la vieillesse pouvait!”THERE sat an old man on a rock,And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,That concern where we all must take stock,Though our vote has no hearing or weight;And the old man sang him an old, old song —Never sang voice so clear and strongThat it could drown the old man’s for long,For he sang the song, “Too late! too late!”When we want, we have for our painsThe promise that if we but waitTill the want has burned out of our brains,Every means shall be present to state;While we send for the napkins, the soup gets cold;While the bonnet is trimming, the face grows old;When we’ve matched our buttons, the pattern is sold,And everything comes too late – too late!“When strawberries seemed like red heavens,Terrapin stew a wild dream,When my brain was at sixes and sevens,If my mother had ‘folks’ and ice-cream,Then I gazed with a lickerish hungerAt the restaurant-man and fruit-monger —But oh! how I wished I were younger,When the goodies all came in a stream – in a stream!“I’ve a splendid blood-horse, and – a liverThat it jars into torture to trot;My row-boat’s the gem of the river —Gout makes every knuckle a knot!I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome,But no palate for ménus, no eyes for a dome —Those belonged to the youth who must tarry at home,When no home but an attic he’d got – he’d got!“How I longed, in that lonest of garrets,Where the tiles baked my brains all July,For ground to grow two pecks of carrots,Two pigs of my own in a sty,A rosebush, a little thatched cottage,Two spoons, love, a basin of pottage!Now in freestone I sit, and my dotage,With a woman’s chair empty close by – close by!“Ah, now, though I sit on a rock,I have shared one seat with the great;I have sat – knowing naught of the clock —On love’s high throne of state;But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed,To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed,And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed,Had they only not come too late – too late!”Fitz-Hugh Ludlow.

LIFE IN LACONICS

GIVEN a roof, and a taste for rations,And you have the key to the “wealth of nations.”Given a boy, a tree, and a hatchet,And virtue strives in vain to match it.Given a pair, a snake, and an apple,You make the whole world need a chapel.Given “no cards,” broad views, and a hovel,You have a realistic novel.Given symptoms and doctors with potion and pill,And your heirs will ere long be contesting your will.That good leads to evil there’s no denying:If it were not for truth there would be no lying.“I’m nobody!” should have a hearse;But then, “I’m somebody!” is worse.“Folks say,” et cetera! Well, they shouldn’t,And if they knew you well, they wouldn’t.When you coddle your life, all its vigor and graceShrink away with the whisper, “We’re in the wrong place.”Mary Mapes Dodge.

DISTICHES

WISELY a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her.This one may love her some day; some day the lover will not.There are three species of creatures who, when they seem coming, are going;When they seem going, they come: Diplomats, women, and crabs.As the meek beasts in the Garden came flocking for Adam to name them,Men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king.What is a first love worth except to prepare for a second?What does the second love bring? Only regret for the first.John Hay.

THE POET AND THE CRITICS

IF those who wield the rod forget,’Tis truly, Quis custodiet?A certain bard (as bards will do)Dressed up his poems for review.His type was plain, his title clear,His frontispiece by Fourdrinier.Moreover, he had on the backA sort of sheepskin zodiac —A mask, a harp, an owl – in fine,A neat and “classical” design.But the in-side? Well, good or bad,The inside was the best he had.Much memory, more imitation,Some accidents of inspiration,Some essays in that finer fashionWhere fancy takes the place of passion;And some (of course) more roughly wroughtTo catch the advocates of thought.In the less-crowded age of Anne,Our bard had been a favoured man;Fortune, more chary with the sickle,Had ranked him next to Garth or Tickell;He might have even dared to hopeA line’s malignity from Pope!But now, when folks are hard to please,And poets are as thick as – peas,The Fates are not so prone to flatter,Unless, indeed, a friend… No matter.The book, then, had a minor credit.The critics took, and doubtless read it.Said A.: “These little songs displayNo lyric gift, but still a ray,A promise. They will do no harm.”’Twas kindly, if not very warm.Said B.: “The author may, in time,Acquire the rudiments of rhyme;His efforts now are scarcely verse.”This, certainly, could not be worse.Sorely discomfited, our bardWorked for another ten years – hard.Meanwhile the world, unmoved, went on;New stars shot up, shone out, were gone;Before his second volume came,His critics had forgot his name:And who, forsooth, is bound to knowEach laureate in embryo!They tried and tested him, no less,The pure assayers of the Press.Said A.: “The author may, in time..”Or much what B. had said of rhyme.Then B.: “These little songs display..”And so forth, in the sense of A.Over the bard I throw a veil.There is no moral to this tale.Austin Dobson.

THE LOVE-LETTER

“J’ai vu les mœurs de mon temps, et j’ai publié cette lettre.” —La Nouvelle HéloiseIF this should fail, why, then I scarcely knowWhat could succeed. Here’s brilliancy (and banter),Byron ad lib., a chapter of Rousseau;If this should fail, then tempora mutantur;Style’s out of date, and love, as a profession,Acquires no aid from beauty of expression.“The men who think as I, I fear, are few”(Cynics would say ’twere well if they were fewer);“I am not what I seem” – (indeed, ’tis true;Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer);“Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lieMore deep than words” – (as these exemplify).“I will not say when first your beauty’s sunIllumed my life” – (it needs imagination);“For me to see you and to love were one” —(This will account for some precipitation);“Let it suffice that worship more devotedNe’er throbbed,” et cetera. The rest is quoted.“If Love can look with all-prophetic eye” —(Ah, if he could, how many would be single!)“If truly spirit unto spirit cry” —(The ears of some most terribly must tingle!)“Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face.”This next, I think, is more than commonplace.“Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting,Forestall the speech with favour found before?Why should we plead? it were an idle thing,If Love himself be Love’s ambassador!”Blot, as I live! Shall we erase it? No;’Twill show we write currente calamo.“My fate, my fortune, I commit to you” —(In point of fact, the latter’s not extensive);“Without you I am poor indeed” (strike through —’Tis true, but crude; ’twould make her apprehensive);“My life is yours – I lay it at your feet”(Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet).“Give me the right to stand within the shrineWhere never yet my faltering feet intruded;Give me the right to call you wholly mine” —(That is, consols and three-per-cents. included);“To guard your rest from every care that cankers —To keep your life” – (and balance at your banker’s).“Compel me not to long for your reply;Suspense makes havoc with the mind” – (and muscles);“Winged Hope takes flight” (which means that I must fly,Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels);“I cannot wait! My own, my queen – Priscilla!Write by return.” And now for a manilla!“Miss Blank,” at “Blank.” Jemima, let it go;And I, meanwhile, will idle with “Sir Walter.”Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though —’Twill serve again. There’s but the name to alter,And Love, that starves, must knock at every portal,In forma pauperis. We are but mortal!Austin Dobson.

FAME

ALL over the world we sing of Fame,Bright as a bubble, and hollow;With a breath men make it and give it a name;All over the world they sing the same,And the beautiful bubble follow.Its rounded, splendid, gossamer wallsHide more than our fairy fancies:For here, in the vaulted, antique halls,’Mid oriel splendours, a light foot falls,And a fairy figure dances.And men will do for a glancing eye,And foot that tarries never,More, far more than look and sigh;For men will fight, and man will die,But follow it on for ever.James Herbert Morse.

FIVE LIVES

FIVE mites of monads dwelt in a round dropThat twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun.To the naked eye they lived invisible;Specks, for a world of whom the empty shellOf a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky.One was a meditative monad, called a sage;And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought:“Tradition, handed down for hours and hours,Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world,Is slowly dying. What if, seconds henceWhen I am very old, yon shimmering doomComes drawing down and down, till all things end?”Then with a wizen smirk he proudly feltNo other mote of God had ever gainedSuch giant grasp of universal truth.One was a transcendental monad; thinAnd long and slim of mind; and thus he mused:“Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls!Made in the image” – a horse frog croaks from the pool,“Hark! ’twas some god, voicing his glorious thoughtIn thunder-music. Yea, we hear their voice,And we may guess their minds from ours, their work.Some taste they have like ours, some tendencyTo wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum.”He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas,That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone.One was a barren-minded monad, calledA positivist, and he knew positively:“There was no world beyond this certain drop.Prove me another! Let the dreamers dreamOf their faint gleams, and noises from without,And higher and lower; life is life enough.”Then swaggering half a hair’s-breath hungrily,He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed.One was a tattered monad, called a poet,And with a shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang:“Oh, little female monad’s lips!Oh, little female monad’s eyes!Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!”The last was a strong-minded monadess,Who dashed amid the infusoria,Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove,Till the dizzy others held their breath to see.But while they led their wondrous little lives,Æonian moments had gone wheeling by,The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed;A glistening film – ’twas gone; the leaf was dry.The little ghost of an inaudible squeakWas lost to the frog that goggled from his stone;Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful oxComing to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged,Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still.Edward Rowland Sill.

HE AND SHE

WHEN I am dead you’ll find it hard,Said he,To ever find another manLike me.What makes you think, as I supposeYou do,I’d ever want another manLike you?Eugene Fitch Ware.

WHAT WILL WE DO?

WHAT will we do when the good days come —When the prima donna’s lips are dumb,And the man who reads us his “little things”Has lost his voice like the girl who sings;When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man,And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan;When our neighbours’ children have lost their drums —Oh, what will we do when the good time comes?Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time,When the tramp will work – oh, thing sublime!And the scornful dame who stands on your feetWill “Thank you, sir,” for the proffered seat;And the man you hire to work by the day,Will allow you to do his work your way;And the cook who trieth your appetiteWill steal no more than she thinks is right;When the boy you hire will call you “Sir,”Instead of “Say” and “Guverner”;When the funny man is humorsome —How can we stand the millennium?Robert J. Burdette.

THE TOOL

THE man of brains, of fair repute and birth,Who loves high place above all else of earth —Who loves it so, he’ll go without the power,If he may hold the semblance but an hour;Willing to be some sordid creature’s tool,So he but seem a little while to rule —On him even moral pigmies would look down;Were prizes given for shame, he’d wear the crown.Richard Watson Gilder.

GIVE ME A THEME

“GIVE me a theme,” the little poet cried,“And I will do my part.”“’Tis not a theme you need,” the world replied;“You need a heart.”Richard Watson Gilder.

THE POEM, TO THE CRITIC

WEIGH me, if you’re fain;Measure me, if it is your plan;Know your little thimble-brainHold me never can.Richard Watson Gilder.

BALLADE OF LITERARY FAME

“All these for fourpence.”OH, where are the endless romancesOur grandmothers used to adore?The knights with their helms and their lances,Their shields and the favours they wore?And the monks with their magical lore?They have passed to oblivion and Nox;They have fled to the shadowy shore —They are all in the Fourpenny Box!And where the poetical fanciesOur fathers rejoiced in, of yore?The lyric’s melodious expanses,The epics in cantos a score.They have been, and are not. No moreShall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,Nor the ladies their languors deplore —They are all in the Fourpenny Box!And the music! The songs and the dances?The tunes that time may not restore?And the tomes where divinity prances?And the pamphlets where heretics roar?They have ceased to be even a bore, —The divine, and the sceptic who mocks;They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core,They are all in the Fourpenny Box!EnvoiSuns beat on them; tempests downpour,On the chest without cover or locks,Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door —They are all in the Fourpenny Box!Andrew Lang.

CHORUS OF ANGLOMANIACS

IT is positively false to call us frantic,For the soundness of our mental state is sure,Yet we look upon this side of the AtlanticAs a tract of earth unpleasant to endure.We consider dear old England as the fountainOf all institutions reputably sane;We abominate and loathe a Rocky Mountain;We regard a rolling prairie with disdain.We assiduously imitate the polishThat we notice round the English nabob hang;We unfailingly endeavour to abolishFrom our voices any trace of nasal twang.Every patriotic duty we leave undone,With aversion such as Hebrews hold for pork,Since we venerate the very name of LondonIn proportion to our hatred of New York.No treaty could in any manner softenOur contempt for native tailors when we dress;If we bet, we “lay a guinea,” rather often,And we always say “I farncy” for “I guess.”We esteem the Revolution as illegal;If you mention Bunker Hill to us, we sigh;We particularly execrate an eagle,And we languish on the fourth day of July.We are not prepared in any foolish mannerThe vulgarities of Uncle Sam to screen;We dislike to hear that dull “Star-Spangled Banner,”But we thoroughly respect “God save the Queen.”We revere the Prince of Wales, though he should prick usWith a sneer at the republic we obey!We would rather let his Royal Highness kick usThan have been the bosom friend of Henry Clay!Edgar Fawcett.From “The Buntling Ball.”

THE NET OF LAW

THE net of law is spread so wide,No sinner from its sweep may hide.Its meshes are so fine and strong,They take in every child of wrong.O wondrous web of mystery!Big fish alone escape from thee!James Jeffrey Roche.

A BOSTON LULLABY

BABY’S brain is tired of thinkingOn the Wherefore and the Whence;Baby’s precious eyes are blinkingWith incipient somnolence.Little hands are weary turningHeavy leaves of lexicon;Little nose is fretted learningHow to keep its glasses on.Baby knows the laws of natureAre beneficent and wise;His medulla oblongataBids my darling close his eyesAnd his pneumogastrics tell himQuietude is always bestWhen his little cerebellumNeeds recuperative rest.Baby must have relaxation,Let the world go wrong or right.Sleep, my darling – leave CreationTo its chances for the night.James Jeffrey Roche.

THE V-A-S-E

FROM the madding crowd they stand apart,The maidens four and the Work of Art;And none might tell from sight aloneIn which had culture ripest grown —The Gotham Millions fair to see,The Philadelphia Pedigree,The Boston Mind of azure hue,Or the Soulful Soul from Kalamazoo;For all loved Art in a seemly way.With an earnest soul and a capital A.…Long they worshipped; but no one brokeThe sacred stillness, until up spokeThe Western one from the nameless place,Who, blushing, said, “What a lovely vace!”Over three faces a sad smile flew,And they edged away from Kalamazoo.But Gotham’s haughty soul was stirredTo crush the stranger with one small word;Deftly hiding reproof in praise,She cries, “’Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!”But brief her unworthy triumph, whenThe lofty one from the home of Penn,With the consciousness of two grandpapas,Exclaims, “It is quite a lovely vahs!”And glances round with an anxious thrill,Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me!“I did not catch your remark, becauseI was so entranced with that charming vaws!”Dies erit prægelidaSinistra quum Bostonia.James Jeffrey Roche.

THURSDAY

THE sun was setting, and vespers done;From chapel the monks came one by one,And down they went thro’ the garden trim,In cassock and cowl, to the river’s brim.Ev’ry brother his rod he took;Ev’ry rod had a line and a hook;Ev’ry hook had a bait so fine,And thus they sang in the even shine:“Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll fish the stream to-day!Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll fish the stream to-day!Benedicite!”So down they sate by the river’s brim,And fish’d till the light was growing dim;They fish’d the stream till the moon was high,But never a fish came wand’ring by.They fish’d the stream in the bright moonshine,But not one fish would he come to dine.And the Abbot said, “It seems to meThese rascally fish are all gone to sea.And to-morrow will be Friday, but we’ve caught no fish to-day;Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, but we’ve caught no fish to-day!Maledicite!”So back they went to the convent gate,Abbot and monks disconsolate;For they thought of the morrow with faces white,Saying, “Oh, we must curb our appetite!But down in the depths of the vault belowThere’s Malvoisie for a world of woe!”So they quaff their wine, and all declareThat fish, after all, is but gruesome fare.“Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll warm our souls to-day!Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll warm our souls to-day!Benedicite!”Frederick Edward Weatherly.

A BIRD IN THE HAND

THERE were three young maids of Lee;They were fair as fair can be,And they had lovers three times three,For they were fair as fair can be,These three young maids of Lee.But these young maids they cannot findA lover each to suit her mind;The plain-spoke lad is far too rough,The rich young lord is not rich enough,The one is too poor, and one is too tall,And one just an inch too short for them all.“Others pick and choose, and why not we?We can very well wait,” said the maids of Lee.There were three young maids of Lee;They were fair as fair can be,And they had lovers three times threeFor they were fair as fair can be,These three young maids of Lee.There are three old maids of Lee,And they are old as old can be,And one is deaf, and one cannot see,And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree,These three old maids of Lee.Now, if any one chanced – ’tis a chance remote —One single charm in these maids to note,He need not a poet nor handsome be,For one is deaf and one cannot see;He need not woo on his bended knee,For they all are willing as willing can be.He may take the one, or the two, or the three,If he’ll only take them away from Lee.There are three old maids at Lee;They are cross as cross can be;And there they are, and there they’ll beTo the end of the chapter, one, two, three,These three old maids of Lee.Frederick Edward Weatherly.

AN ADVANCED THINKER

THIS modern scientist – a word uncouth —Who calls himself a seeker after truth,And traces man through monkey back to frog,Seeing a Plato in each pollywog,Ascribes all things unto the power of Matter.The woman’s anguish, and the baby’s chatter —The soldier’s glory, and his country’s need —Self-sacrificing love – self-seeking greed —The false religion some vain bigots prize,Which seeks to win a soul by telling lies —And even pseudo-scientific clatter —All these, he says, are but the work of Matter.Thus, self-made science, like a self-made man,Deems naught uncomprehended in its plan;Sees naught he can’t explain by his own laws.The time has come, at length, to bid him pause,Before he strive to leap the unknown chasmReft wide ’twixt awful God and protoplasm.Brander Matthews.

A THOUGHT

IF all the harm that women have doneWere put in a bundle and rolled into one,Earth would not hold it,The sky could not enfold it,It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun;Such masses of evilWould puzzle the devil,And keep him in fuel while Time’s wheels run.But if all the harm that’s been done by menWere doubled, and doubled, and doubled again,And melted and fused into vapour, and thenWere squared and raised to the power of ten,There wouldn’t be nearly enough, not near,To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.J. K. Stephen.

A SONNET

TWO voices are there: one is of the deep;It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody,Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:And one is of an old, half-witted sheep,Which bleats articulate monotony,And indicates that two and one are three,That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep;And, Wordsworth, both are thine. At certain timesForth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst;At other times – good Lord! I’d rather beQuite unacquainted with the A B C,Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.J. K. Stephen.

THEY SAID

BECAUSE thy prayer hath never fedDark Atë with the food she craves;Because thou dost not hate, they said,Nor joy to step on foemen’s graves;Because thou canst not hate, as we,How poor a creature thou must be!Thy veins as pale as ours are red!Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Because by thee no snare was spreadTo baffle Love – if Love should stray;Because thou dost not watch, they said,To strictly compass Love each way;Because thou dost not watch, as we,Nor jealous Care hath lodged with thee,To strew with thorns a restless bed —Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Because thy feet were not misledTo jocund ground, yet all infirm;Because thou art not fond, they said,Nor dost exact thine heyday term;Because thou art not fond, as we,How dull a creature thou must be!Thy pulse how slow, yet shrewd thy head!Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Because thou hast not roved to wedWith those to Love averse or strange;Because thou hast not roved, they said,Nor ever studied artful change;Because thou hast not roved, as we,Love paid no ransom rich for thee,Nor, seeking thee, unwearied sped.Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Aye, so! because thou thought’st to treadLove’s ways, and all his bidding do;Because thou hast not tired, they said,Nor ever wert to Love untrue;Because thou hast not tired, as we,How tedious must thy service be;Love with thy zeal is surfeited!Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Because thou hast not wanton shedOn every hand thy heritage;Because thou art not flush, they said,But hast regard to meagre age;Because thou art not flush, as we,How strait thy cautious soul must be!How well thy thrift stands thee in stead!Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.And therefore look thou not for bread —For wine and bread from Love’s deep store,Because thou hast no need, they said;But us he’ll feast forevermore!Because thou hast no need, as we,Sit in his purlieus, thou, and seeHow with Love’s bounty we are fed.Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Edith M. Thomas.