A Satire Anthology

A CERTAIN CURE

WHEN I look at my diligent neighbours,Each wholly convinced in his mindThat the fruit of his personal laboursWill be the reform of mankind,When I notice the bland satisfactionThat brightens the features of each —Commendably prudent in action,Though mighty in speech —Observing by dint of persistenceWhat wide reputation they gain,The clew to a happy existenceIs rendered increasingly plain,Because the self-satisfied feelingI covet may quickly be hadBy any one owning (or stealing)A suitable fad.Shall I hotly oppose Vivisection?Grow warm on the Drainage of Flats?Or strive for the Better ProtectionOf Commons, Cathedrals, or Cats?Perhaps in orations that thrill, IFor freedom (and fever) will fight —A portion of small-pox bacilliIs simply our right!However, the choice is a detail;Whatever the fad be about,To trade in it, wholesale and retail,To preach it, in season and out,And so to be reckoned a leader(Although there be little to lead),Yes, that’s, O incredulous reader,The way to succeed!You find that existence is hollow,The fight for position is hard.A remedy? Yes, if you’ll followThis way, to the fad-monger’s yard:Come, here is a hobby – astride itYou settle; I tighten the girth —So-off, and good-luck to you! Ride itFor all it is worth!Anthony C. Deane.

THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE

A FRAGMENT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED EPICHERE, my Amanda, let us seat ourselves;Here let us banish sorrow from our minds,By contemplating the delightful viewWhich stretches all around us. And what joyTo be reminded thus, though far from town,Of that which glorifies our native land,Our British Trade! Gaze first at yonder wood:On every tree is tastefully inscribedIn scarlet letters, “Use Niagara Soap!”Turn to those meadows (at no distant dateBut one uninteresting plain of grass),Each bears a dozen hoardings, striking, bright,Decked in resplendent variegated hues,Telling the reader that Excelsior PillsCure influenza; that Brown’s Tea is best,And costs no more than one-and-six the pound;And that the purchaser, who fain would quaffSmith’s special brand of Sherry, must bewareOf spurious imitations. On that hillA grand gigantic sky-sign testifiesTo Johnson’s Hair Renewer; and beyondYou catch a glimpse of ocean, where the boatsProclaim the message, painted on their sails:“Robbinson’s Boots are Warranted to Wear!”Oh, does not such a view delight the heart?Yea, soon the time will come when every inchOf England shall display advertisements;When newly taught, the birds shall add their notesTo the glad chorus, “Buy Pomponia Paste!”The nightingale shall sing, and all the gladeEcho her music – “Buy Pomponia Paste!”How great a debt of thankfulness we oweTo these the benefactors of our time,Who both contribute to the human raceProductions to our ancestors unknown,And also glorify each rural sceneBy the announcements of their excellence!And how we pity those of olden timeWho praised the country, but so little knewWhat beauty could be added to the sceneBy the artistic advertiser’s aid,To whom the hills, the meadows, and the woodsBrought no glad message, such as we receive,Of Soaps and Sugars, Pens, Pianos, Pills!Anthony C. Deane.

PARADISE

A HINDOO LEGENDA  HINDOO died – a happy thing to doWhen twenty years united to a shrew.Released, he hopefully for entrance criesBefore the gates of Brahma’s Paradise.“Hast been through Purgatory?” Brahma said.“I have been married,” and he hung his head.“Come in, come in, and welcome, too, my son!Marriage and Purgatory are as one.”In bliss extreme he entered heaven’s door,And knew the peace he ne’er had known before.He scarce had entered in the Garden fair,Another Hindoo asked admission there.The self-same question Brahma asked again:“Hast been through Purgatory?” “No; what then?”“Thou canst not enter!” did the god reply.“He that went in was no more there than I.”“Yes, that is true, but he has married been,And so on earth has suffered for all sin.”“Married? ’Tis well; for I’ve been married twice!”“Begone! We’ll have no fools in Paradise!”George Birdseye.

HOCH! DER KAISER

DER Kaiser of dis VaterlandUnd Gott on high all dings command —Ve two. Ach! don’t you understand?Myself – und Gott.Vile some men sing der power divine,Mein soldiers sing “Der Wacht am Rhine,”Und drink deir health in Rhenish wineOf Me – und Gott.Dere’s France, she swaggers all aroundt;She’s ausgespielt, of no account;To much ve tink she don’t amount;Myself – und Gott.She vill not dare to fight again;But if she shouldt, I’ll show her blainDot Elsass und (in French) LorraineAre mein – by Gott!Dere’s grandma dinks she’s nicht small beer;Mit Boers und such she interfere;She’ll learn none owns dis hemisphereBut me – und Gott!She dinks, good Frau, fine ships she’s got,Und soldiers mit der scarlet goat.Ach! Ve could knock dem! Pouf! like dot,Myself – mit Gott!In dimes of peace brebare for wars;I bear de spear und helm of Mars,Und care not for a tousand Czars,Myself – mit Gott!In fact, I humour efery vhim,Mit aspect dark und visage grim;Gott pulls mit me, und I mit Him,Myself – und Gott!Rodney Blake.

ON A MAGAZINE SONNET

“SCORN not the sonnet,” though its strength be sapped,Nor say malignant its inventor blundered;The corpse that here in fourteen lines is wrappedHad otherwise been covered with a hundred.Russell Hilliard Loines.

EARTH

IF this little world to-nightSuddenly should fall through spaceIn a hissing, headlong flight,Shrivelling from off its face,As it falls into the sun,In an instant every traceOf the little crawling things —Ants, philosophers, and lice,Cattle, cockroaches, and kings,Beggars, millionaires, and mice,Men and maggots – all as one,As it falls into the sun —Who can say but at the sameInstant, from some planet farA child may watch us, and exclaim:“See the pretty shooting star!”Oliver Herford.

A BUTTERFLY OF FASHION

A  REAL Butterfly, I mean,With Orange-Pointed saffron wings,And coat of inky Velveteen —None of your Fashion-Plated ThingsThat dangle from the Apron-stringsOf Mrs. Grundy, or you seeLoll by the Stage-Door or the Wings,Or sadly flit from Tea to Tea;Not such a Butterfly was he;He lived for Sunshine and the Hour;He did not flit from Tea to Tea,But gayly flew from Flower to Flower.One Day there came a Thunder-Shower;An Open Window he espied;He fluttered in; behold, a Flower!An Azure Rose with petals wide.He did not linger to decideWhich Flower; there was no other there.He calmly settled down insideThat Rose, and no one said “Beware!”There was no Friend to say “Take care!”How ever, then, could he supposeThis Blossom, of such Colour Rare,Was just an Artificial Rose?All might have ended well – who knows? —But just then some one chanced to say:“The very Latest Thing! That RoseIn Paris is the Rage To-day.”No Rose of such a Tint outréWas ever seen in Garden Bed;The Butterfly had such a GayChromatic Sense, it turned his head.“The Very Latest Thing?” he said;“Long have I sighed for something New!O Roses Yellow, White, and Red,Let others sip; mine shall be Blue!”The Flavour was not Nice, ’tis true(He felt a Pain inside his Waist).“It is not well to overdo,”Said he, “a just-acquired taste.”The Shower passed; he joined in hasteHis friends. With condescension great,Said he, “I fear your time you waste;Real Roses are quite out of date.”He argued early, argued late,Till what was erst a HARMLESS POSEGrew to a Fierce, InordinateCraving for Artificial Rose.He haunted Garden Parties, Shows,Wherever Ladies Congregate,And in their Bonnets thrust his noseHis Craving Fierce to Satiate.At last he chanced – sad to relate! —Into a Caterer’s with his Pose,And there Pneumonia was his Fate,From sitting on an Ice-Cream Rose.O Reader, shun the Harmless Pose!They buried him, with scant lament,Beneath a Common Brier-Rose,And wrote:Here Lies a Decadent.Oliver Herford.

GENERAL SUMMARY

WE are very slightly changedFrom the semi-apes who rangedIndia’s prehistoric clay;Whoso drew the longest bow,Ran his brother down, you know,As we run men down to-day.“Dowb,” the first of all his race,Met the Mammoth face to faceOn the lake or in the cave,Stole the steadiest canoe,Ate the quarry others slew,Died – and took the finest grave.When they scratched the reindeer-bone,Someone made the sketch his own,Filched it from the artist – then,Even in those early days,Won a simple Viceroy’s praiseThrough the toil of other men.Ere they hewed the Sphinx’s visage,Favouritism governed kissage,Even as it does in this age.Who shall doubt the secret hidUnder Cheops’ pyramidWas that the contractor didCheops out of several millions?Or that Joseph’s sudden riseTo Comptroller of SuppliesWas a fraud of monstrous sizeOn King Pharaoh’s swart Civilians?Thus, the artless songs I singDo not deal with anythingNew or never said before.As it was in the beginning,Is to-day official sinning,And shall be for evermore.Rudyard Kipling.

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

WHEN the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew —The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;And he left his lore to the use of his sons, and that was a glorious gainWhen the Devil chuckled, “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West,Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest —Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,And the Devil bubbled below the keel, “It’s human, but is it Art?”They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks, “It’s striking, but is it Art?”The stone was dropped at the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung,While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.The tale is as old as the Eden Tree, and new as the new-cut tooth,For each man knows, ere his lip-thatch grows, he is master of Art and Truth;And each man hears, as the twilight nears to the beat of his dying heart,The Devil drum on the darkened pane, “You did it, but was it Art?”We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg;We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg;We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old, “It’s clever, but is it Art?”When the flicker of London Sun falls faint on the Club-room’s green and gold,The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould;They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start,For the Devil mutters behind the leaves, “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,By the favour of God we might know as much – as our father Adam knew!Rudyard Kipling.

EXTRACTS FROM THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR CAYENNE

WAKE! for the Hack can scatter into flightShakespeare and Dante in a single Night!The Penny-a-Liner is Abroad, and strikesOur Modern Literature with blithering Blight.Before Historical Romances died,Methought a Voice from Art’s Olympus cried,“When all Dumas and Scott is still for Sale,Why nod o’er drowsy Tales, by Tyros tried?”A Book of Limericks – Nonsense, anyhow —Alice in Wonderland, the Purple CowBeside me singing on Fifth Avenue —Ah, this were Modern Literature enow!Ah, my Beloved, write the Book that clearsTo-Day of dreary Debt and sad Arrears;To-morrow! – Why, To-Morrow I may seeMy Nonsense popular as Edward Lear’s.And we, that now within the Editor’s RoomMake merry while we have our little Boom,Ourselves must we give way to next month’s Set —Girls with Three Names, who know not Who from Whom!As then the Poet for his morning SupFills with a Metaphor his mental Cup,Do you devoutly read your ManuscriptsThat Someone may, before you burn them up!And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read,End in the Garbage-Barrel – take no Heed;Think that you are no worse than other Scribes,Who scribble Stuff to meet the Public Need.So, when WHO’S-WHO records your silly Name,You’ll think that you have found the Road to Fame;And though ten thousand other Names are there,You’ll fancy you’re a Genius, just the Same!Why, if an Author can fling Art aside,And in a Book of Balderdash take pride,Were’t not a Shame – were’t not a Shame for himA Conscientious Novel to have tried?And fear not, if the Editor refuseYour work, he has no more from which to choose;The Literary Microbe shall bring forthMillions of Manuscripts too bad to use.The Woman’s Touch runs through our Magazines;For her the Home, and Mother-Tale, and ScenesOf Love-and-Action, Happy at the End —The same old Plots, the same old Ways and Means.But if, in spite of this, you build a PlotWhich these immortal Elements has not,You gaze To-Day upon a Slip, which reads,“The Editor Regrets” – and such-like Rot.Waste not your Ink, and don’t attempt to useThat subtle Touch which Editors refuse;Better be jocund at two cents a word,Than, starving, court an ill-requited Muse!Strange – is it not? – that of the Authors whoPublish in England, such a mighty FewMake a Success, though here they score a Hit?The British Public knows a Thing or Two!The Scribe no question makes of Verse or Prose,But what the Editor demands, he shows;And he who buys three thousand words of Drool,He knows what People want – you Bet He knows!Would but some wingéd Angel bring the NewsOf Critic who reads Books that he Reviews,And make the stern Reviewer do as wellHimself, before he Meed of Praise refuse!Ah, Love, could you and I perchance succeedIn boiling down the Million Books we readInto One Book, and edit that a Bit —There’d be a World’s Best Literature indeed!Gelett Burgess.

BALLADE OF EXPANSION

1899TIME was he sang the British Brute,The ruthless lion’s grasping greed,The European Law of Loot,The despot’s devastating deed;But now he sings the heavenly creedOf saintly sword and friendly fist,He loves you, though he makes you bleed —The Ethical Expansionist!He loves you, Heathen! Though his footMay kick you like a worthless weedFrom that wild field where you have root,And scatter to the winds your seed;He’s just the government you need;If you object, why, he’ll insist,And, on your protest, “draw a bead” —The Ethical Expansionist!He’ll take you to him coute que coute!He’ll win you, though you fight and plead.His guns shall urge his ardent suit,Relentless fire his cause shall speed.In time you’ll learn to write and read,(That is, if you should then exist!)You won’t, if you his course impede —The Ethical Expansionist!ENVIOHeathen, you must, you shall be freed!It’s really useless to resist;To save your life, you’d better heedThe Ethical Expansionist!Hilda Johnson.

FRIDAY AFTERNOON AT THE BOSTON SYMPHONY HALL

SINCE Bach so well his clavier tuned, since Palestrina wrote his Masses,Since Modes Ecclesiastical began to puzzle music-classes,All Anglo-Saxondom has tried, by teaching of its lads and lasses,The gift of Orpheus to acquire,Whilst substituting for his lyreThe concert-room’s imposing choir – string-orchestra, wood, wind, and brasses.Hallé in Free Trade Hall I heard when first I took the music craze on;Later, in Sydney, New South Wales, I listened to Roberto Hazon;Berlin’s “Philharmonie,” which plays the winter through alternate days on,Took my spare cash from time to time,And I may add, for sake of rhyme,Richter at Bradford, quite sublime! Pauer and Colonne in the Saison.Lest I should make the list too short, and show a lack of erudition,I’d better mention Cowan, who ruled at the Melbourne Exhibition,Villiers Stanford, Auguste Mannés, and Thomas, whose keen intuitionCarried him westward from New YorkTo the Metropolis of Pork,Where, thanks to his devoted work, Beethoven found superb rendition.All these I’ve heard, and others, too – poor Seidl, who has talked with Charon;Nikisch, whose eager gestures make it difficult to keep your hair on;Then there’s a chap whose name I’ve lost (I think he wrote “The Rose of Sharon”);Wood, of Queen’s Hall, in London Town;Strauss, for his programme-music known;Dozens whose brains the genius own that’s common to the seed of Aaron.But if good music is the thing your inmost soul would fain get fat on,Avoid, I pray, good Boston town, where, though no male may keep his hat on,The ladies talk the whole show through, and you will certainly be sat onIf you protest, for they will say“We have the right to, if we payEach for a seat, and chat away in time with the conductor’s baton.”Oft that October day I see – delightful month, June’s elder sister;The splendid Hall was opened, and a poem read by Owen Wister(So kind the Muse, ’twas plain to see in Philadelphia he had kissed her).Missa Solennis, then, in B,Proud to be in such companyOf fair-clad girls, and panoply of bright new paint without a blister.Nowhere on this broad earth, I grant, is music played to such perfection;Even strict Apthorp will admit that false notes are a rare exception;But what avail such wond’rous play, when to the Hall for friend’s inspectionEach lady takes some little thing —New-purchased pocket-book, or ring —Or in loud voice the matrons sing the dangers of small-pox infection.To Mendelssohn’s Scotch Symphony I’ve heard of Johnny’s scarlet fever;Bizet’s Arlesienne Suites I link with Kate’s sore throat that wouldn’t leave her;Oft to Wagnerian strains I’ve heard eager dispute of seal and beaver,To clasp fair Mabel’s dainty throat,Or make for Madge a winter coat,As seen on transatlantic boat, from Messrs. Robinson and Cleaver.Pray do not think that Boston girls all talk such feeble stuff as this is;To Glazounoff’s inspiring notes they’ll quote from Phillips’s “Ulysses”;To Massenet’s caressing phrase admire Burne-Jones’s long-necked misses;Ask what of Ibsen you may think,Of Nietzsche or of Maeterlinck,And tell, to score of Humperdink, Buddha’s most esoteric blisses.A concert it is hard to turn into a conversazione,Except with consequences which would make the softest heart quite stony,Unless ’tis done in restaurant where foreigners eat macaroni,And greasy dago tips a stave,Or where the blue Atlantic wave,While pallid shop-girls misbehave, doth cool the verdant Isle of Coney.Forgive me if I criticise; I love you none the less, Priscilla,And when the concert’s o’er, we’ll go where Huyler serves his best vanilla;Talk as you will, I love you still; I’d live with you in flat or villa,For never, never you’d commitA split infinitive, and itIs certain you would not omit in proper place the French cedilla.Faulkner Armytage.

WAR IS KIND

DO not weep, maiden, for war is kind.Because your lover threw wild hands towards the sky,And the affrighted steed ran on alone,Do not weep.War is kind.Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,Little souls who thirst for fight,These men were born to drill and die.The unexplained glory flies above them,Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom —A field where a thousand corpses lie.Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,Raged at his breast, gulped and died,Do not weep.War is kind.Swift-blazing flag of the regiment,Eagle with crest of red and gold,These men were born to drill and die.Point for them the virtue of slaughter;Make plain to them the excellence of killing,And a field where a thousand corpses lie.Mother, whose heart hung humble as a buttonOn the bright splendid shroud of your son,Do not weep.War is kind.Stephen Crane.

LINES

A  LITTLE ink more or less!It surely can’t matter?Even the sky and the opulent sea,The plains and the hills, aloof,Hear the uproar of all these books.But it is only a little ink more or less.A  MAN said to the universe,“Sir, I exist!”“However,” replied the universe,“The fact has not created in meA sense of obligation.”THE Wayfarer,Perceiving the pathway to truth,Was struck with astonishment.It was thickly grown with weeds.“Ha,” he said,“I see that none has passed hereIn a long time.”Later he saw that each weedWas a singular knife.“Well,” he mumbled at last,“Doubtless there are other roads.”“HAVE you ever made a just man?”“Oh, I have made three,” answered God,“But two of them are dead,And the third —Listen! listen,And you will hear the thud of his defeat.”THREE little birds in a rowSat musing.A man passed near that place.Then did the little birds nudge each other.They said, “He thinks he can sing.”They threw back their heads to laugh.With quaint countenancesThey regarded him.They were very curious,Those three little birds in a row.A  YOUTH, in apparel that glittered,Went to walk in a grim forest.There he met an assassinAttired all in garb of old days;He, scowling through the thickets,And dagger poised quivering,Rushed upon the youth.“Sir,” said the latter,“I am enchanted, believe me,To die thusIn this mediæval fashion,According to the best legends;Ah, what joy!”Then took he the wound, smiling,And died, content.A  MAN saw a ball of gold in the sky;He climbed for it,And eventually he achieved it;It was clay.Now this is the strange part:When the man went to the earthAnd looked again,Lo, there was the ball of gold.Now this is the strange part:It was a ball of gold.Aye, by the heavens, it was a ball of gold.“THINK as I think,” said a man,“Or you are abominably wicked;You are a toad.”And after I had thought of it,I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”UPON the road of my life,Passed me many fair creatures,Clothed all in white, and radiant;To one, finally, I made speech:“Who art thou?”But she, like the others,Kept cowled her face,And answered in haste, anxiously,“I am Good Deed, forsooth;You have often seen me.”“Not uncowled,” I made reply.And with rash and strong hand,Though she resisted,I drew away the veil,And gazed at the features of Vanity.She, shamefaced, went on;And after I had mused a time,I said of myself, “Fool!”Stephen Crane.

FROM THE HOUSE OF A HUNDRED LIGHTS

WHAT! doubt the Master Workman’s handBecause my fleshly ills increase?No; for there still remains one chanceThat I am not His masterpiece.Out of all Epicurus’ trainI wonder which class is sincerest,The drones, or workers, who believeThis doctrine of “Believe-the-Nearest.”You invalids who cannot drinkMuch wine or love, I say to you,“Content yourselves with laughing atThe antics of the fools who do.”Bad-liver says each morning’s sunIs but to him a juggling bawd,That opens up for man’s deceitOnly another chest of fraud.Old Ash-in-Blood still deals adviceTo Rose-of-Youth, and as he deals it,Rolls piously his eyes; but ah,He knows the pain whose body feels it.In youth my head was hollow, likeA gourd, not knowing good from ill;Now, though ’tis long since then, I’m likeA reed – wind-shaken, hollow still.Said one young foolish mouth with wordsAs many as the desert sands,“My grandfather took daily bathsIn rose-water; just smell my hands!”And now young poets will ariseAnd burst earth’s fetters link by link,And mount the skies of poesy,And daub Time’s helpless wings with ink!In youth I wrote a song so great,I thought that, like a flaring taper,’Twould shine abroad; and so it did,To the four corners of the – paper.And, poet, should you think your songsMust, or even will, be read,Bethink thee, friend, what fine springs riseImpotently from the sea’s bed.I marvelled at the speaker’s tongue,And marvelled more as he unrolled it.How strange a thing it was, and yetHow much more strange if he could hold it!A little judge once said to me,“Behold, my friend, I caused these laws!”But I knew One who, strange to say,Had been the Causer of this Cause.See fathoms deep, midst gold and gems,Life sits and weeps on ocean’s floor;But though on land no treasure is,Life laughs and stands. I’ll stay on shore.This mess of cracked ice, stones and bread,Of sweetness savours not a bit,And yet, my friends, I’m satisfied,For lo! I – I – invented it!Frederic Ridgely Torrence.

THE BRITISH VISITOR

ARRIV’D, at last, Niagara to scan,He walks erect and feels himself a man;Surveys the cataract with a “critic’s eye,”Resolv’d to pass no “imperfections by” —Niag’ra, wonder of the Deity,Where God’s own spirit reigns in majesty.With sullen roar the foaming billows sweep;A world of waters thunders o’er the steep;The unmingled colours laugh upon the spray,And one eternal rainbow gilds the day.Oh, glorious God! Oh, scene surpassing all!“True, true,” quoth he, “’tis something of a fall.”Now, shall unpunish’d such a vagrant band,Pour like the plagues of Egypt on the land,Eyeing each fault, to all perfection blind,Shedding the taint of a malignant mind?From the Trollopiad.