The Re-echo Club

Mrs. Robert Browning was sure that Peter's love for his wife, though perhaps that of a primitive man, was of the true Portuguese stamp, and with this view composed the following pleasing Sonnet:

How do I keep thee? Let me count the ways.I bar up every breadth and depth and heightMy hands can reach, while feeling out of sightFor bolts that stick and hasps that will not raise.I keep thee from the public's idle gaze,I keep thee in, by sun or candle light.I keep thee, rude, as women strive for Right.I keep thee boldly, as they seek for praise,I keep thee with more effort than I'd useTo keep a dry-goods shop or big hotel.I keep thee with a power I seemed to loseWith that last cook. I'll keep thee down the well,Or up the chimney-place! Or if I choose,I shall but keep thee in a Pumpkin shell.

This was, of course, meritorious, though somewhat suggestive of the cave-men, who, we have never been told, were Pumpkin Eaters.

Austin Dobson's version was really more lady-like:

BALLADE OF A PUMPKIN:

Golden-skinned, delicate, bright,Wondrous of texture and hue,Bathed in a soft, sunny light,Pearled with a silvery dew.Fair as a flower to the view,Ripened by summer's soft heat,Basking beneath Heaven's blue,—This is the Pumpkin of Pete.Peter consumed day and night,Pumpkin in pie or in stew;Hinted to Cook that she mightCan it for winter use, too.Pumpkin croquettes, not a few,Peter would happily eat;Knowing content would ensue,—This is the Pumpkin of Pete.Everything went along right,Just as all things ought to do;Till Peter,—unfortunate wight,—Married a girl that he knew.Each day he had to pursueHis runaway Bride down the street,—So her into prison he threw,—This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

L'ENVOI

Lady, a sad lot, 'tis true,Staying your wandering feet;But 'tis the best place for you,—This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Like the other women present Dinah Craik felt the pathos of the situation, and gave vent to her feelings in this tender burst of song:

Could I come back to you, Peter, Peter,From this old pumpkin that I hate;I would be so tender, so loving, Peter,—Peter, Peter, gracious and great.You were not half worthy of me, Peter,Not half worthy the like of I;Now all men beside are not in it, Peter,—Peter, Peter, I feel like a pie.Stretch out your hand to me, Peter, Peter,Let me out of this Pumpkin, do;Peter, my beautiful Pumpkin Eater,Peter, Peter, tender and true.

Mr. Hogg took his own graceful view of the matter, thus:

Lady of wandering,Blithesome, meandering,Sweet was thy flitting o'er moorland and lea;Emblem of restlessness,Blest be thy dwelling place,Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.Peter, though bland and good,Never thee understood,Or he had known how thy nature was free;Goddess of fickleness,Blest be thy dwelling place,Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.

Mr. Kipling grasped at the occasion for a ballad in his best vein. The plot of the story aroused his old-time enthusiasm, and he transplanted the pumpkin eater and his wife to the scenes of his earlier powers:

In a great big Mammoth pumpkinLookin' eastward to the sea,There's a wife of mine a-settin'And I know she's mad at me.For I hear her calling, "Peter!"With a wild hysteric shout:"Come you back, you Punkin Eater,—Come you back and let me out!"For she's in a punkin shell,I have locked her in her cell;But it really is a comfy, well-constructed punkin shell;And there she'll have to dwell,For she didn't treat me well,So I put her in the punkin and I've kept her very well.

Algernon Swinburne was also in one of his early moods, and as a result he wove the story into this exquisite fabric of words:

IN THE PUMPKIN

Leave go my hands. Let me catch breath and see,What is this confine either side of me?Green pumpkin vines about me coil and crawl,Seen sidelong, like a 'possum in a tree,—Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!Oh, my fair love, I charge thee, let me outFrom this gold lush encircling me about;I turn and only meet a pumpkin wall.The crescent moon shines slim,—but I am stout,—Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!Pumpkin seeds like cold sea blooms bring me dreams;Ah, Pete,—too sweet to me,—My Pete, it seemsLove like a Pumpkin holds me in its thrall;And overhead a writhen shadow gleams,—Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

This intense poesy thrilled the heavens, and it was with a sense of relief to their throbbing souls that they listened to Mr. Bret Harte's contribution:

Which I wish to remark,That the lady was plain;And for ways that are darkAnd for tricks that are vainShe had predilections peculiar,And drove Peter nearly insane.Far off, anywhere,She wandered each day;And though Peter would swear,The lady would stray;And whenever he thought he had got her,She was sure to be rambling away.Said Peter, "My Wife,Hereafter you dwellFor the rest of your lifeIn a big Pumpkin Shell."He popped her in one that was handy,And since then he's kept her quite well.Which is why I remark,Though the lady was plain,For ways that are darkAnd tricks that are vainA husband is very peculiar,And the same I am free to maintain.

Oscar Wilde, in a poetic fervor and a lily-like kimono, recited with tremulous intensity this masterpiece of his own:

Oh, Peter! Pumpkin-fed and proud,Ah me; ah me!(Sweet squashes, mother!)Thy woe knells like a stricken cloud;(Ah me; ah me!Hurroo, Hurree!)Lo! vanisht like an anguisht wraith;Ah me; ah me!(Sweet squashes, mother!)Wan hope a dolorous musing saith;(Ah me; ah me!Dum diddle dee!)Hist! dare we soar? The Pumpkin Shell!Ah me; ah me!(Sweet squashes, mother!)Fast and forever! Sooth, 'tis well.(Ah me; ah me!Faloodle dee!)

There was little to be said after this, so the meeting closed with a solo by Lady Arthur Hill, sung with a truly touching touch:

In the pumpkin, oh, my darling,Think not bitterly of me;Though I went away in silence,Though I couldn't set you free.For my heart was filled with longing,For another piece of pie;It was best to leave you there, dear,Best for you and best for I.

At Christmas the members of the Re-Echo Club voiced these pleasant sentiments:

BY MR. TENNYSON:

Give me no more! Though worsted slippers beThe proper gift from woman unto man,Component of the universal plan;But, oh, too many hast thou given me,Give me no more!

BY MR. SHAKESPEARE:

To give or not to give, that is the question;Whether 'tis nobler on the whole to sufferThe old exchange of trinkets, gauds and kickshaws,Or to take arms against this Christmas nuisance,And, by opposing, end it? To buy—to give—No more; and by that gift to say we endThe Christmas obligations to our friendsWe all are heir to! To buy—to give;To give—perchance to get; ay, there's the rub!For in those bundles gay what frights may comeWhen we have shuffled off the ribbon bowsAnd tissue paper! Who would gifts receiveOf foolish books and little silver traps,That make us rather keep the things we buy,Than get these others that we know not of!Thus Christmas doth make cowards of us all,And, notwithstanding our good resolutions,Each year we bandy gifts, and follow outThe same old Christmas programme!

BY MR. WORDSWORTH:

It was the very best of pies,All plummy, thick and sweet;A pie of most prodigious size—And very few to eat.'Twas passing rich, and few folks knowHow rich mince pie can be;But I have eaten it—and, oh,The difference to me!

BY MR. DOBSON:

When she gave me cigars (!)I smiled at the present.Her eyes were like starsWhen she gave me cigars.(I can stand sudden jars.)So I looked very pleasantWhen she gave me cigars (!)I smiled at the present.

BY MR. SWINBURNE:

If you eat turkey stuffing,And I eat hot mince pie,We'll vow that our digestionIs quite beyond all question;But soon we'll quit our bluffingAnd curl us up to die,If you eat turkey stuffing,And I eat hot mince pie.

BY MR. LONGFELLOW:

The day is done, and the darknessFalls on our little flat,As a feather is wafted downwardFrom a lady's mushroom hat.I've a feeling of fullness and sorrowThat is not like being ill,And resembles colic onlyAs a pillow resembles a pill.But the night shall be filled with nightmares,And the food that was left to-dayShall be given to poor street Arabs,Or silently thrown away!

BY MR. MOORE:

'Twas ever thus, from childhood's bawl,I've seen my fondest hopes decay;Whatever I want most of all,I do not get it Christmas Day!

BY MISS PROCTER:

Seated one day at the table,I was stuffy and ill at ease,And my fingers wandered idlyOver the nuts and cheese.I know not what I had eaten,Or what I was eating then,But I struck a delicious flavorThat I'd like to taste again.It linked all elusive savorsInto one perfect taste,Then faded away on my palateWithout any undue haste.I have sought, but I seek it vainly,That one lost taste so fine,That came from the head of the kitchen,And entered into mine.

BY MR. RILEY:

There, little girl, don't cry!You are awfully broke, I know;And of course you've spentFar more than you meant,And lots of bills you owe.But at Christmas time one has to buy—There, little girl, don't cry, don't cry!

The Re-Echo Club met in their pleasant rooms at No. 4, Poetic Mews. Spring had passed, so their fancy was lightly turning to other matters than Love, and it chanced to turn lightly to the Cubist Movement in Art.

"Of course," mused the President, rolling his eyes in an especially fine frenzy, "this movement will strike the poets next."

"Ha," said Dan Rossetti, refraining for a moment from the refrain he was building, "we must be ready for it."

"We must advance to meet it," said Teddy Poe, who was ever of an adventurous nature. "What's it all about?"

"The principles are simple," observed Rob Browning, glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; "in fact, it's much like my own work always has been. I was born cubic. You see, you just symbolize the liquefaction of the essence of an idea into its emotional constituents, and there you are!"

"Dead easy!" declared Lally Tennyson, who went out poeting by the day, and knew how to do any kind. "What's the subject?"

"That's just the point," said the President; "preeminently and exclusively it's subjective, and you must keep it so. On no account allow an object of any kind to creep in. Now, here's one of the Cubist pictures. They call it 'A Nude Descending the Staircase.' They pick names at random out of a hat, I believe. Take this, you fellows, and throw it into poetry."

"Any rules or conditions?" asked Billy Wordsworth.

"Absolutely none. It's the Ruleless School."

Then the Poets opened the aspiration valves, ignited the divine spark plugs, and whiz! went their motor-meters in a whirring, buzzing melody.

Soon their Cubist emotions were splashed upon paper, and the Poets read with justifiable pride these symbolic results.

Ally Swinburne tossed off this poetic gem without a bit of trouble.

Square eyelids that hide like a jewel;Ten heads,—though I sometimes count more;Six mouths that are cubic and cruel;Of mixed arms and legs, twenty-four;Descending in Symbolic gloriesOf lissome triangles and squares;Oh, mystic and subtle Dolores,Our Lady of Stairs.You descend like an army with banners,In a cyclone of wrecked parasols.You look like a mob with mad mannersOr a roystering row of Dutch dolls.Oh, Priestess of Cubical passion,Oh, Deification of Whim,You seem to walk down in the fashionThat lame lobsters swim.

Here we have Mr. P.B. Shelley's noble lines:

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Nude thou never wert.Not from Heaven nor near itBreathed thy cubic heartIn profuse stairs of unintelligible art.What thou art, we know not;What is thee most like?Snakes tied in a bow-knot?Stovepipes on a strike?Or Bellevue inmates on a Suffrage hike!We look before and after,And pine thy face to see;Our sincerest laughterIs aroused by thee.Art thou perchance the sad cube root of 23?

Mr. R. Kipling felt a flash of his old fire, and threw in a high speed:

On an old symbolic staircase,Looking forty ways at once;There's a Cubist Nude descending,With the queerest sort of stunts.For the staircase is a-falling,And the Noodle seems to say:"Though you hear my soul a-calling,You can't see me, anyway!"Oh, this symbol balderdash,And this post-Impression trash;Can't you see their paint a-chunkin in a hotchy-potchy splash?Where the motives bold and brashOf the Cubist painters clash,And the Nude descends like thunder down a staircase gone to smash!

Mr. D.G. Rossetti, ever a sweet singer, warbled thus tunefully:

The Blessed Nude at eve leaned outFrom the gold staircase rail;Her paint was deeper than the depthOf waters in a pail.She wore three bonnets on her heads,And seven coats of mail.And still she bowed herself and swayedIn circling cubic charms.And the pigments of her painted soulWere loud as war's alarms.But the staircase lay as if asleepAlong her fourteen arms.(I saw her move!) But soon her pathWas cubes instead of spheres;And then she disappeared amongThe staircase barriers;And, after she was gone, I sawShe'd wept some large paint tears!

Mr. R. Browning found the subject greatly to his liking:

Who will may hear the Staircase story told;All its blobs, splotches, facets,—what you will;The vague Nude, compassed murkily aboutWith ravage of six long sad hundred stairs,Dizzily plunging with tumultuous glee!Whirling the stairdust, hazarding oblique,The moon safe in her pocket! See she treadsCool citric crystals, fierce pyropus stone;While crushing sunbeams in a triple lineSmirk at the insane roses in her hair,And Strojavacca, frowning, looks asquintTo see that trick of toe,—that dizened heel,—As she, the somewhat, hangs 'twixt naught and naught.A perfect Then,—a sub-potential Now—A facile and slabsided centipede.

And here is Mr. B. Jonson's little jingle:

Still to be cubed, still to be square,As you were going down a stair;Still to see lurid pigments sluiced,—Lady, it is to be deduced,Though art's hid causes are not found,All is not square, all is not round.Give me a cube, give me a lineThat makes a whirling maze design;Robes made of sheet-iron, flowing free,—Such sweet device more taketh meThan masterpieces by old RubesWhich charm not eyes attuned to cubes.

And Mr. J.W. Riley sang in his usual comforting strain:

There, Little Nude, don't cry!You've descended the stairs, I know;And the weird wild waysOf the Cubist JaysHave made you a holy show!But Post Impressions will soon pass by.There Little Nude, don't cry, don't cry!

Sir A. Tennyson caught the Cubical spirit neatly thus:

As the staircase is, the Nude is; thou art painted by a freak.And I think that he has knocked thee to the middle of next week.He will paint thee (till this fashion shall expend its foolish force),Something like a rabid dog,—a little larger than a horse.Semblance? Likeness? Scorned of Cubists! This th' evangel that he sings;Any picture's crown of glory is to look like other things!So thou art not seen descending in the ordinary way,But, like fifty motor-cycles, breaking speed laws in Cathay.

Mr. C. Kingsley was greatly interested:

My Cubist Nude, I have no song to give you;I could not pipe you, howsoe'er I tried;But ere I go, I wish that you would teach meThat Staircase Slide!Be skittish, child, and let who will be graceful,Do whizzy whirls whenever you've the chance;And so make life, death and that grand old staircaseOne song and dance.

Oscar Wilde was moody and this was his mood:

Adown the stairs the Nudelet came;(Pale pink cats up a purple tree!)Hark! to the smitten cubes of flame!Ah, me! Ah, jamboree!Her soul seethed in emotions sweet;(Pale pink cats up a purple tree!)Symbolling like a torn-up street;Ah, jamboree! Ah, me!And still the Nude's soul-cubes are there,—(Pale pink cats up a purple tree!)In writhen glory of despair,—Ah, me! Ah, Hully Gee!

Mr. W. Wordsworth was frankly disdainful:

She trod among the untrodden mazeOf Cubists on a spree;A Nude whom there were none to praise,And very few could see.A violet 'neath a mossy stone,Quite hidden from the eye,Is far more easy to discernThan that same Nude to spy.She lived unseen. Though some few fakesPretended her to see;But if she's on the stairs, it makesNo difference to me.

Mr. Longfellow fairly let himself go:

The picture's done! And the staircaseFalls like the crash of night.And the Nude is wafted downwardLike a catapult in flight.There's a feeling of strange emotionThat is not akin to art;And resembles a picture onlyAs a Tartar resembles a tart.Such art has power to rouseOur laughter at any time,And comes like electrocutionThat follows after crime.

And Mr. Bunner's poetic gem has a charm all its own:

It was an old, old, old, old lady,On a staircase at half-past three;And the way she was painted togetherWas beautiful for to see.She wasn't visible any,And the staircase, no more was he;For it was a Cubist pictureWith a feeling of deep skewgee.'Twas a symbol of soul expression,Though you'd never have known it to be!That emotional old, old ladyOn a staircase at half-past three.

Mr. Wordsworth treated the subject boldly, thus:

She was a phantom of a frightWhen first she burst upon my sight;A Cubist apparition meantTo symbolize a Nude's descent.Her eyes like soft-shell crabs aflareLike loads of brick her dusky hair;And all things else about her drawnAs by one coming home at dawn.A fearsome shape, an image fierce,To haunt, to startle, and to pierce.I saw her upon nearer view,Like a symbolic oyster stew;A countenance in which did meetThe paving blocks from some old street;The staircase, floating fancy-free,With steps of Cubic liberty.A perfect lady, nobly built,Constructed like a crazy quilt.Or a volcano on a spree,Or herd of elephants at tea.The staircase, by a bombshell wrecked,With something of a burst effect.

What do you think of A. Dobson's triolet:

Oh, see the NudeDescend the Stair!Fear not, oh, prude,To see the Nude;For by the rood,She isn't there!Oh, see the NudeDescend the Stair!

Of course, no one is a sweeter poetess than Miss A.A. Proctor:

Seated one day at my easel,I was hungry and somewhat faint,And my fingers wandered idlyOver the tubes of paint.I know not what I was drawing,Or what I was painting there,But I splotched a Cubic Symbol!Like a Nude Descending a Stair!It flooded the crimson canvasWith the gush of a broken dam;And it lay in sticky massesLike upset gooseberry jam.It rioted blazing color,Like love ballyragging strife;It seemed the loquacious echoOf our discordant wife.It linked all Futurist meaningsInto one perfect cube,And broke itself up into facetsLike a wreck in a Hudson Tube.I seek, but I seek it vainly,That vast, symbolic line,That came from the head of the staircaseAnd entered into mine.It may be that Pab PicassoHas painted the thing before,And it may be that only in BedlamI shall paint that Nude some more.

And now the admirers of Mr. Poe will enjoy this:

It was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom made of squares,That a Lady lived whom you may knowAs the Nude Descending the Stairs,And the lady lived with no other home,But those racketty-packetty stairs!And the moon never beamsWithout jarring the seamsOf those cubic triangular stairs;And the earth never quakesWithout bringing the shakesTo those wigglety-wagglety stairs.And neither the artists in circles above,Or critics who view the débris,Can ever dissever the Nude from the Stairs,For both are so hobble-de-gee,So hobble-de-wobble-de-gee!

Mr. A. Tennyson is quite frank in his opinions, and it would seem that he does not altogether admire the lady:

Lady Clara Stair de Stair,Of me you shall not win renown.You thought to charm the country's heartAs you the staircase tumbled down.At me you splashed; but unabashed,I saw you in your paint attired;You daughter of a hundred cubes,You are not one to be desired!Lady Clara Stair de Stair,I care not for these wild études;A simple Titian in a frameIs worth a hundred Staircase Nudes.Howe'er it be, it seems to meIt isn't noble to be fools;Fine arts are more than Futurists,And simple lines than Cubist Schools.

At one meeting of The Re-Echo Club, it chanced that there was no one present but Omar Khayyam. He had mistaken the date, and came to the clubroom, only to find it empty. Absent-mindedly, he picked up paper and pen, and, on leaving, left behind these additional Rubáiyát:

RUBÁIYÁT OF WALL STREET

Now the New Hope reviving dying fires,The Thoughtful Soul to speculate aspires;And the lean Hand of Shylock and his KinPuts out some Money, which he gladly Hires.Myself, when Young, did eagerly FrequentBroker and Broke; and heard Great ArgumentAbout it and about. Yet evermoreCame out far Shrewder than when in I went.With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,And then I thought I'd sure be in The Know;And this is all the Wisdom that I gained:If you buy High, Quotations will be Low!Some for the Glories of the System; SomeSigh for the big Fool's Paradise to come.Ah, take the Cash, and let the Profits go,Nor heed the Rumble of a Boston Drum!The System that with logic absoluteBoth Standard Oil and Copper can confute;The Sovereign Alchemist that in a triceNational Lead can into Gold transmute.Indeed, indeed, at Brokers oft BeforeI swore. But was I Cautious when I swore?And then Came Gay State Gas and Rise-in-Hand;I plunged—and Lost some Fifty Thousand More.And then that New Prospectus cast a Spell,And robbed me of my Hard-Earned Savings. Well,I often wonder what the Magnates buyOne-Half so precious as the Fools they Sell.Ah, My Beloved, all Goes up in Smoke!Last week is past Regret; To-day is a joke;To-morrow—why, to-morrow I may beMyself with Yesterday's Seven Thousand Broke!You know, My Friends, with what a Brave CarouseI put a Second Mortgage on my House,So I could Buy a lot of Copper Shares—I even used the Savings of my Spouse!I sent my Soul down where the Magnates flockTo learn the Truth about some Worthless Stock;And by and by my Soul returned to me,And answered: "I, myself, have Bought a Block!"Oh, threats of Curbs, and Hopes of Bucket-shops,Whether Industrials, Railroads, Mines or Crops;One thing is Certain, and the Rest is Lies—The Stock that you have Bought Forever Drops!And if, in Vain, down on the Stubborn FloorOf the Exchange you Hazard all your Store,You Rise to-day—while Crops are up—how thenTo-morrow, when they Fall to Rise no more?Waste not your Money on Expected GainOf this or that Provision, Crop or Grain.Better be Jocund with Industrials,Than sadden just Because it Doesn't Rain!Ah, make the most of what we yet may spendBefore we, too, into the Pit descend!Dust unto Dust, and without Dust to Live,Sans Stock, sans Bonds, sans Credit and sans Friend.The Moving Ticker tells. And, having told,Moves on. Nor all your Poverty nor GoldShall lure it back to Raise one-half a Point,Nor let you Realize on what you Hold.For I remember stopping in the JamTo watch a Magnate shearing a Poor Lamb.And with an Eager and Excited TongueIt murmured: "Oh, how Fortunate I am!"No book of verses! But a Ticker Tape,Quotation Record and a Daily Pape;A yellow-haired stenographer—PerhapsThat Wilderness might be a Good Escape!When You and I are hid within the Tomb,The System still shall Lure New Souls to Doom;Which of our Coming and Departure heedsAs Wall Street's Self should heed a Lawson Boom.Ah, Love! could you and I lay on the ShelfThis Sorry Scheme of Ill-begotten Pelf,Would we not Shatter it to Bits, and ThenRemould a System just to suit Ourself?