A Satire Anthology

THE PIOUS EDITOR’S CREED

I  DU believe in Freedom’s cause,Ez fur away ez Paris is;I love to see her stick her clawsIn them infarnal Pharisees;It’s wal enough agin a kingTo dror resolves an’ triggers,But libbaty’s a kind o’ thingThat don’t agree with niggers.I du believe the people wantA tax on teas an’ coffees;Thet nothin’ aint extravygunt,Purvidin’ I’m in office;Fer I hev loved my country senceMy eye-teeth fill’d their sockets,An’ Uncle Sam I reverence,Partic’larly his pockets.I du believe in any planO’ levyin’ the taxes,Ez long, ez, like a lumberman,I get jest wut I axes:I go free-trade thru thick an’ thin,Because it kind o’ rousesThe folks to vote – an’ keeps us inOur quiet custom-houses.I du believe it’s wise an’ goodTo send out furrin missions,Thet is, on sartin understoodAn’ orthydox conditions —I mean nine thousan’ dolls. per ann.,Nine thousan’ more fer outfit,An’ me to recommend a manThe place ’ould jest about fit.I du believe in special waysO’ prayin’ an’ convartin’;The bread comes back in many days,An’ butter’d, tu, fer sartin;I mean in preyin’ till one bustsOn wut the party chooses,An’ in convartin’ public trustsTo very privit uses.I du believe hard coin’s the stuffFer ’lectioneers to spout on;The people’s ollers soft enoughTo make hard money out on;Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,An’ gives a good-sized junk to all,I don’t care how hard money is,Ez long ez mine’s paid punctooal.I du believe with all my soulIn the great Press’s freedom,To p’int the people to the goal,An’ in the traces lead ’em.Palsied the arm thet forges yokesAt my fat contracts squintin’,An’ wither’d be the nose thet pokesInter the Gov’ment printin’!I du believe that I should giveWut’s his’n unto Cæsar,For it’s by him I move an’ live,Frum him my bread an’ cheese air;I du believe thet all o’ meDoth bear his souperscription —Will, conscience, honour, honesty,An’ things o’ thet description.I du believe in prayer an’ praiseTo him thet hez the grantin’O’ jobs – in everythin’ thet pays,But most of all in Cantin’;This doth my cup with marcies fill,This lays all thought o’ sin to rest;I don’t believe in princerple,But, oh! I du in interest.I du believe in bein’ thisOr thet, ez it may happen,One way or t’other hendiest isTo ketch the people nappin’.It aint by princerples nor menMy preudunt course is steadied;I scent which pays the best, an’ thenGo into it bald-headed.I du believe thet holdin’ slavesComes nat’ral tu a Presidunt,Let ’lone the rowdedow it savesTo hev a well-broke precedunt;Fer any office, small or gret,I couldn’t ax with no face,Without I’d ben, thru dry an’ wet,Th’ unrizzest kind o’ doughface.I du believe wutever trash’Ill keep the people in blindness,Thet we the Mexicuns can thrashRight inter brotherly kindness;Thet bomb-shells, grape, an’ powder, ’n’ ballAir good-will’s strongest magnets;Thet peace, to make it stick at all,Must be druv in with bagnets.In short, I firmly du believeIn Humbug generally,Fer it’s a thing thet I perceiveTo hev a solid vally;This heth my faithful shepherd ben,In pasture sweet heth led me,An’ this’ll keep the people green,To feed ez they hev fed me.James Russell Lowell.

REVELRY IN INDIA

WE meet ’neath the sounding rafter,And the walls around are bare;As they echo the peals of laughter,It seems that the dead are there;But stand to your glasses steady,We drink to our comrades’ eyes.Quaff a cup to the dead already,And hurrah for the next that dies!Not here are the goblets flowing,Not here is the vintage sweet;’Tis cold, as our hearts are growing,And dark as the doom we meet.But stand to your glasses steady,And soon shall our pulses rise.A cup to the dead already —Hurrah for the next that dies!Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,Not a tear for the friends that sink;We’ll fall, ’midst the wine-cup’s sparkles,As mute as the wine we drink.So stand to your glasses steady,’Tis in this that our respite lies.One cup to the dead already —Hurrah for the next that dies!Time was when we frowned at others;We thought we were wiser then;Ha, ha! let those think of their mothers,Who hope to see them again.No! stand to your glasses steady;The thoughtless are here the wiseA cup to the dead already —Hurrah for the next that dies!There’s many a hand that’s shaking,There’s many a cheek that’s sunk;But soon, though our hearts are breaking,They’ll burn with the wine we’ve drunk.So stand to your glasses steady,’Tis here the revival lies.A cup to the dead already —Hurrah for the next that dies!There’s a mist on the glass congealing,’Tis the hurricane’s fiery breath;And thus does the warmth of feelingTurn ice in the grasp of death.Ho! stand to your glasses steady;For a moment the vapour flies.A cup to the dead already —Hurrah for the next that dies!Who dreads to the dust returning?Who shrinks from the sable shore,Where the high and haughty yearningOf the soul shall sing no more?Ho! stand to your glasses steady;This world is a world of lies.A cup to the dead already —Hurrah for the next that dies!Cut off from the land that bore us,Betrayed by the land we find,Where the brightest have gone before us,And the dullest remain behind —Stand, stand to your glasses steady!’Tis all we have left to prize.A cup to the dead already —And hurrah for the next that dies!Bartholomew Dowling.

A FRAGMENT

HOW hardly doth the cold and careless worldRequite the toil divine of genius-souls,Their wasting cares and agonizing throes!I had a friend, a sweet and precious friend,One passing rich in all the strange and rare,And fearful gifts of song.On one great work,A poem in twelve cantos, she had toiledFrom early girlhood, e’en till she becameAn olden maid.Worn with intensest thought,She sunk at last – just at the “finis” sunk! —And closed her eyes for ever! The soul-gemHad fretted through its casket!As I stoodBeside her tomb, I made a solemn vowTo take in charge that poor, lone orphan work,And edit it!My publisher I sought,A learned man and good. He took the work,Read here and there a line, then laid it down,And said, “It would not pay.” I slowly turned,And went my way with troubled brow, “but moreIn sorrow than in anger.”Grace Greenwood.

NOTHING TO WEAR

MISS Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square,Has made three separate journeys to Paris;And her father assures me, each time she was there,That she and her friend Mrs. Harris(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history,But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery)Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping,In one continuous round of shopping;Shopping alone, and shopping together,At all hours of the day and in all sorts of weather;For all manner of things that a woman can putOn the crown of her head or the sole of her foot,Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist,Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced,Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,In front or behind, above or below;For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls;Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls;Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in,Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in;Dresses in which to do nothing at all;Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall —All of them different in colour and pattern,Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin,Brocade, and broadcloth, and other materialQuite as expensive and much more ethereal:In short, for all things that could ever be thought of,Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of,From ten-thousand-francs robes to twenty-sous frills;In all quarters of Paris, and to every store,While McFlimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore,They footed the streets, and he footed the bills.The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Argo,Formed, McFlimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo,Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest,Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest,Which did not appear on the ship’s manifest,But for which the ladies themselves manifestedSuch particular interest that they investedTheir own proper persons in layers and rowsOf muslins, embroideries, worked underclothes,Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those;Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties,Gave good-by to the ship, and go-by to the duties.Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt,Miss Flora had grown so enormously stoutFor an actual belle and a possible bride;But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out,And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods beside,Which, in spite of collector and custom-house sentry,Had entered the port without any entry.And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the dayThis merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway,This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square,The last time we met, was in utter despair,Because she had nothing whatever to wear!Nothing To Wear! Now, as this is a true ditty,I do not assert – this you know is between us —That she’s in a state of absolute nudity,Like Powers’s Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus,But I do mean to say I have heard her declare,When at the same moment she had on a dressWhich cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less,And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess,That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear!I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora’sTwo hundred and fifty or sixty adorers,I had just been selected as he who should throw allThe rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowalOn myself, after twenty or thirty rejections,Of those fossil remains which she called her “affections,”And that rather decayed but well-known work of art,Which Miss Flora persisted in styling “her heart.”So we were engaged. Our troth had been plightedNot by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove,But in a front parlour, most brilliantly lighted,Beneath the gas-fixtures we whispered our love —Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs,Without any tears in Miss Flora’s blue eyes,Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions;It was one of the quietest business transactions,With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any,And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany.On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss,She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis,And by way of putting me quite at my ease,“You know, I’m to polka as much as I please,And flirt when I like – now stop – don’t you speak —And you must not come here more than twice in the week,Or talk to me either at party or ball,But a’ways be ready to come when I call:So don’t prose to me about duty and stuff —If we don’t break this off, there will be time enoughFor that sort of thing; but the bargain must be,That as long as I choose I am perfectly free:For this is a sort of engagement, you see,Which is binding on you, but not binding on me.”Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey, and gained her,With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her,I had, as I thought, a contingent remainderAt least in the property, and the best rightTo appear as its escort by day and by night;And it being the week of the Stuckups’ grand ball —Their cards had been out for a fortnight or so,And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe —I considered it only my duty to callAnd see if Miss Flora intended to go.I found her – as ladies are apt to be foundWhen the time intervening between the first soundOf the bell and the visitor’s entry is shorterThan usual – I found – I won’t say I caught – herIntent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaningTo see if perhaps it didn’t need cleaning.She turned as I entered. “Why, Harry, you sinner,I thought that you went to the Flashers’ to dinner!”“So I did,” I replied; “but the dinner is swallowed,And digested, I trust; for ’tis now nine or more:So being relieved from that duty, I followedInclination, which led me, you see, to your door.And now will your Ladyship so condescendAs just to inform me if you intendYour beauty and graces and presence to lend(Al’ of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow)To the Stuckups, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?”The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air,And answered quite promptly, “Why, Harry, mon cher,I should like above all things to go with you there;But really and truly, I’ve nothing to wear.”“Nothing to wear? Go just as you are:Wear the dress you have on, and you’ll be by far,I engage, the most bright and particular starOn the Stuckup horizon.” I stopped, for her eye,Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery,Opened on me at once a most terrible batteryOf scorn and amazement. She made no reply,But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say,“How absurd that any sane man should supposeThat a lady would go to a ball in the clothes,No matter how fine, that she wears every day!”So I ventured again, “Wear your crimson brocade.”(Second turn-up of nose). “That’s too dark by a shade.”“Your blue silk.” “That’s too heavy.” “Your pink – ” “That’s too light.”“Wear tulle over satin.” “I can’t endure white.”“Your rose-coloured, then, the best of the batch.”“I haven’t a thread of point lace to match.”“Your brown moire-antique.” “Yes, and look like a Quaker.”“The pearl-coloured – ” “I would, but that plaguy dressmakerHas had it a week.” “Then that exquisite lilac,In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock.”(Here the nose took again the same elevation):“I wouldn’t wear that for the whole of creation.”“Why not? It’s my fancy, there’s nothing could strike itAs more comme il faut.” “Yes, but, dear me, that leanSophronia Stuckup has got one just like it,And I won’t appear dressed like a chit of sixteen.”“Then that splendid purple, that sweet mazarine,That superb point d’aiguille, that imperial green,That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine – ”“Not one of all which is fit to be seen,”Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed.“Then wear,” I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushedOpposition, “that gorgeous toilette which you sportedIn Paris last spring, at the grand presentation,When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation;And by all the grand court were so very much courted.”The end of the nose was portentously tipped up,And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation,As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation,“I have worn it three times at the least calculation,And that and most of my dresses are ripped up!”Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash —Quite innocent, though; but, to use an expressionMore striking than classic, it “settled my hash,”And proved very soon the last act of our session.“Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceilingDoesn’t fall down and crush you! Oh, you men have no feeling.You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures,Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers,Your silly pretence – why, what a mere guess it is!Pray, what do you know of a woman’s necessities?I have told you and shown you I’ve nothing to wear,And it’s perfectly plain you not only don’t care,But you do not believe me” (here the nose went still higher):“I suppose, if you dared, you would call me a liar.Our engagement is ended, sir – yes, on the spot;You’re a brute, and a monster, and – I don’t know what.”I mildly suggested the words Hottentot,Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief,As gentle expletives which might give relief;But this only proved as a spark to the powder,And the storm I had raised came faster and louder;It blew, and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailedInterjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failedTo express the abusive, and then its arrearsWere brought up all at once by a torrent of tears;And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs-Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs.Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too,Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo,In lieu of expressing the feelings which layQuite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say;Then, without going through the form of a bow,Found myself in the entry – I hardly knew how —On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square,At home and up-stairs, in my own easy chair;Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze,And said to myself, as I lit my cigar:Supposing a man had the wealth of the CzarOf the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days,On the whole, do you think he would have much to spareIf he married a woman with nothing to wear?William Allen Butler.

A REVIEW

THE INN ALBUM, BY ROBERT BROWNINGWHAT’S this, a book? 16mo. Osgood’s page,Fair, clear, Olympian-typed, and save a scantO’ the margin, stiff i’ the hurried binding, good!Intituled how? – “The Inn Album, Robert Browning, Author.”Why should he not say, as well,The Hotel Register?– cis-Atlantic term!Nay, an he should, the action might purveyTo lower comprehensions: so not he!Reflect, ’tis Browning! he neglects, prepense,All forms of form: what he gives must we take,Sweet, bitter, sour, absinthean, adipose,Conglomerate, jellied, potted, salt, or dried,As the mood holds him; ours is not to choose!Well (here huge sighs be heard), commending usTo Heaven’s high mercy, let us read.Three hours:The end is reached; but who begins review,Forgetful o’ beginning, with the end?Turn back! – why, here’s a line supplies us withCurt comment on the whole, though travesty —“Hail, calm obliquity, lugubrious plot!..”Yea, since obliquity the straight path is,And Passion worships as her patron saintThe Holy Vitus, and from Language fallThe rusty chains of rhythm and harmony,Why not exclaim, “Hail, sham obliquity!”“Too hard,” you murmur, sweet, submissive minds?But take a bite o’ the original pie! Set teeth,’Ware cherry-stones, and if a herring-spineStick crosswise i’ the throat, go gulp, shed tears,But blame us not! So runs the opening:…This bard’s a Browning! there’s no doubt of that;But, ah, ye gods, the sense! Are we so sureIf sense be sense unto our common-sense,Low sense to higher, high to low, no senseAll sense to those, all sense no sense to these?That’s where your poet tells! and you’ve no right(Insensate sense with sensuous thought being mixed)To ask analysis! How can else review,Save in the dialect of his verse, be writ?So write we: (would we might foresee the end!)So has he taught us, i’ “The Ring and the Book,”De gustibus, concerning taste, non estThere’s no – disputing, disputandum (Ha!’Tis not so difficult) – and we submit.…This Album-book —“Hail, sham obliquity, lugubrious plot!” —Is well-nigh read; you end the tangle, smash!Here’s Browning’s recipe: take heaps o’ hate,Take boundless love, hydraulic-pressed, in bales,Distilments keen of baseness and of pride,And innocence and cunning; mix ’em well,And put a body round ’em! Add the moreO’ this, or that, you have another – stay!The sex don’t count; make female of the male,Male female, all the better; let them meet,Talk, love, hate, cross, till satisfied; then, kill!So here: lord, finding situation tough(Between two fires, hate and a horsewhip-threat),Writes i’ the Album, goes without and waits.Superb One, having read, takes hand of snob,Accepts his love till death; then lord comes back.What did he write? “Refinement every inch,From brow to boot-end” – ’twas a threat to tellThe country curate of his wife’s disgrace —He, the disgracer! Snob gets wild at that,Screams, jumps, and clutches.All at once we seeOne character dead, but how, we don’t quite know.Then she, Superb One, writes in Album, diesBy force of will (no hint of instrument!),Leaving the snob alone and much surprised.Cousin is heard without; but ere the doorOpens, the story closes. Only this remains,The last conundrum, hardly guessableBy the unbrowninged mind. Since what it means,If aught the meaning, means some other thing,And that thing something else, but this not that,Nor that the other; we adopt the linesAs most expressing what we fail express,Our solemn verdict, handkerchief and all,Upon the book.…The meaning, ask you, O ingenuous soul?Why, were there such for you, what then were leftTo puzzle brain with, pump conjecture dry,And prove you little where the poet’s great?Great must he be, you therefore little. Go!The curtain falls, the candles are snuffed out:End, damned obliquity, lugubrious plot!Bayard Taylor.

THE POSITIVISTS

LIFE and the Universe show spontaneity:Down with ridiculous notions of Deity!Churches and creeds are all lost in the mists;Truth must be sought with the Positivists.Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison,Comte, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Morley, and Harrison.Who will adventure to enter the listsWith such a squadron of Positivists?Social arrangements are awful miscarriages;Cause of all crime is our system of marriages.Poets with sonnets, and lovers with trysts,Kindle the ire of the Positivists.Husbands and wives should be all one community,Exquisite freedom with absolute unity.Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists —Such is the creed of the Positivists.There was an ape in the days that were earlier;Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier;Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist —Then he was Man, and a Positivist.If you are pious (mild form of insanity),Bow down and worship the mass of humanity.Other religions are buried in mists;We’re our own Gods, say the Positivists.Mortimer Collins.

SKY-MAKING

TO PROFESSOR TYNDALLJUST take a trifling handful, O philosopher,Of magic matter, give it a slight toss overThe ambient ether, and I don’t see whyYou shouldn’t make a sky.O hours Utopian which we may anticipate!Thick London fog how easy ’tis to dissipate,And make the most pea-soupy day as clearAs Bass’s brightest beer!Poet-professor! now my brain thou kindlest;I am become a most determined Tyndallist.If it is known a fellow can make skies,Why not make bright blue eyes?This to deny, the folly of a dunce it is;Surely a girl as easy as a sunset is.If you can make a halo or eclipse,Why not two laughing lips?The creed of Archimedes, erst of Sicily,And of D’Israeli … forti nil difficile,Is likewise mine. Pygmalion was a foolWho should have gone to school.Why should an author scribble rhymes or articles?Bring me a dozen tiny Tyndall particles;Therefrom I’ll coin a dinner, Nash’s wine,And a nice girl to dine.Mortimer Collins.

MY LORD TOMNODDY

MY Lord Tomnoddy’s the son of an earl;His hair is straight, but his whiskers curl;His lordship’s forehead is far from wide,But there’s plenty of room for the brains inside.He writes his name with indifferent ease;He’s rather uncertain about the “d’s”;But what does it matter, if three or one,To the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son?My Lord Tomnoddy to college went;Much time he lost, much money he spent;Rules, and windows, and heads, he broke;Authorities wink’d – young men will joke!He never peep’d inside of a book;In two years’ time a degree he took,And the newspapers vaunted the honours wonBy the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.My Lord Tomnoddy came out in the world;Waists were tighten’d and ringlets curl’d;Virgins languish’d, and matrons smil’d.’Tis true, his lordship is rather wild;In very queer places he spends his life;There’s talk of some children by nobody’s wife;But we mustn’t look close into what is doneBy the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.My Lord Tomnoddy must settle down —There’s a vacant seat in the family town!(’Tis time he should sow his eccentric oats) —He hasn’t the wit to apply for votes:He cannot e’en learn his election speech;Three phrases he speaks, a mistake in each,And then breaks down; but the borough is wonFor the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.My Lord Tomnoddy prefers the Guards(The House is a bore), so, it’s on the cards!My lord’s a lieutenant at twenty-three;A captain at twenty-six is he;He never drew sword, except on drill;The tricks of parade he has learnt but ill;A full-blown colonel at thirty-oneIs the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son!My Lord Tomnoddy is thirty-four;The earl can last but a few years more;My Lord in the Peers will take his place;Her Majesty’s councils his words will grace.Office he’ll hold, and patronage sway;Fortunes and lives he will vote away.And what are his qualifications? – ONE!He’s the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.Robert Barnabas Brough.

HIDING THE SKELETON

AT dinner she is hostess, I am host.Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keepsThe topic over intellectual deepsIn buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball:It is in truth a most contagious game;Hiding the Skeleton shall be its name.Such play as this the devils might appal!But here’s the greater wonder, in that we,Enamour’d of our acting and our wits,Admire each other like true hypocrites.Warm-lighted glances, Love’s ephemeræ,Shoot gayly o’er the dishes and the wine.We waken envy of our happy lot.Fast, sweet, and golden shows our marriage knot.Dear guests, you now have seen Love’s corpse-light shine!George Meredith.