Hail, bride and bridegroom of the West!
Your troth irrevocably plighted!
Your act of Union doubly blest,
Your single States United,
With full approval and assent
Of populace and President!
Let Spangled Banners wave on high,
To greet the maiden as she passes!
See how the proud Proconsul’s eye
Grows dim behind his glasses!
How fond the heart that beats beneath
Those pleated Presidential teeth!
The bishop has received his cheque,
The final slipper has been thrown;
With rice down each respective neck,
The couple stand alone.
To them, at last, the fates provide
A privacy so long denied.
Letters and wires, from near and far,
Lie thickly piled on ev’ry table;
The peaceful message from the Czar,
The Kaiser’s kindly cable;
The well-expressed congratulations
From Heads of all the Sister Nations.
Rich gifts, as countless as the sand
That cloaks the desert of Sahara,
From fish-slice to piano (grand),
From toast-rack to tiara,
Still overwhelm the lucky maid
(With heavy duties to be paid!).
See, hand-in-hand, the couple stand!
(The guests their homeward journey take,
Concealing their emotion--and
Some lumps of wedding cake!)
How glad the happy pair must be
That Hymen’s bonds have set them free!
Free of the curious Yellow Press,
Free of the public’s prying gaze,
Of all the troubles that obsess
The path of fiancés!
Alone at last, and safely screen’d
From onslaughts of the kodak-fiend!
The Bride, who bore without demur
The wiles of artists photographic,
Of vulgar crowds that gaped at her,
Congesting all the traffic,
Can shop, once more, in perfect peace,
Without the help of the police.
Arrayed in stylish trav’lling dress,
Behold, with blushes she departs!
The free Republican Princess
A captive Queen of Hearts!
(Captive to Cupid, need I say?
But Queen in ev’ry other way!)
And this must surely be the hour
For Anglo-Saxons, ev’rywhere,
With cousinly regard, to show’r
Good wishes on the pair;
Borne on the bosom of the breeze,
Our blessings speed across the seas!
Hail, Bride and Bridegroom of the West!
(Pray pardon my redundant lyre)
May your united lives be blest
With all your hearts’ desire!
Accept the warm felicitations
Of fond, if distant, blood-relations!
[Illustration:
“_How glad the happy pair must be
That Hymen’s bonds have set them free_”
]
_The Self-Made Father to His Ready-Made Son_
(AN OPEN LETTER)
My Offspring:--Ere you raise the glass,
To irrigate your ardent throttle;
Ere once again you gladly pass
The bottle;
Take heed that your prevailing passion
Be not completely out of fashion.
No longer does the Prodigal
Expend his nights in drunken frolic;
Or pass his days in revels al-Coholic;
For, nowadays, a glass _de trop_
Is not considered _comme il faut_.
No longer do the youthful fall,
Like leaf or partridge in October;
For they, if anything at all,
Are sober.
(I mean the boys,--don’t be absurd!
And not the foliage or the bird.)
No longer arm-in-arm they roam,
Despite constabulary warning,
Declaring that they won’t go home
Till morning!
With bursts of bacchanalian song,
And jokes as broad as they are long.
No more they wander to-and-fro,
Exchanging incoherent greetings--
The kind in vogue at Caledo-
-Nian Meetings
(Behavior that we all condemn,
Especially at 3 a. m.).
Yes; fashions change--and well they may!
No longer, at the dinner-table,
Do persons drink as much as they
Are able;
And seek the hospitable floor,
When they have drunk a trifle more.
My nasal hue, incarnadine,
Shall not, perhaps, be wholly wasted,
If sons of mine but leave their wine
Untasted;
And vanquish, with deserving merit,
The varied vices they inherit.
Yes, Offspring, I rejoice to think
That, shunning my example truly,
You never may be led to drink
Unduly.
It is indeed a blessèd thought!
Now, will you kindly pass the port?
_The Author to His Hostess_
(AN OPEN LETTER)
[Very few English men of letters enjoy a desirable social
position. To be sure, they are frequently invited to functions,
where they are treated with insistent affability by persons
belonging to the higher classes; but the sort of position to be
obtained in this way is insecure, and unpleasant to any save
those of adamantine cheek.--_Current Magazine._]
Dear Lady,--When you bade me come
To grace your crowded “Kettledrum,”
And mingle in the best society;
When Melba sang, and Elman played,
And waiters handed lemonade
(Tempering music with sobriety),
I never had the least suspicion
Of my precarious position.
But now, with opened eyes, I leap
To this conclusion, shrewd and deep,
(What cerebral agility!):
Your compliments were insincere,
Your hospitality was mere
“Insistent affability!”
And I, a foolish man of letters,
Who thought to mingle with his betters!
Ah me! How pride precedes a fall!
That one who haunted “rout” or ball,
When invitations were acquirable,
Should see himself as others see,
Becoming suddenly, like me,
A social “undesirable”;
Invading the selectest clique
With truly adamantine cheek!
How proud an air I used to wear!
When titled persons turned to stare,
I blushed like a geranium.
When lovely ladies softly said:
“Oh, Duchess, did you see his head?”
“What a capacious cranium!”
“Yes; isn’t that the man who writes?”
“I wonder why they look such frights!”
I used to bridle coyly when
Some schoolmate, of the Upper Ten
(They were not over-numerous!),
Would slap my back, and shout “By Jove!
“Ain’t you a literary cove?”
(As tho’ ’twere something humorous!)
“Those books of yours are grand, you bet!
What? No, I haven’t read them yet.”
But now I realize my fate;
A stranger at the social gate
(Tho’ treated with civility);
The choicest circles I frequent
Must be the ones my brains invent,
With fictional futility;
The only Royalties I know
Are those my publisher can show!
The garden-party, and the tea,
Are surely not for men like me
(O Vanity of Vanities!);
Such entertainments are taboo,
And might debase my talents to
Additional inanities.
The Poet has no business there:
_Que ferait-il dans cette galère?_
Ah, lonely is the Author’s lot!
Assuming, if he hath it not,
A suitable humility.
For when his daily work is done,
He must inevitably shun
The homes of the Nobility,
As, with dejected steps, he passes
To supper with the middle classes!
[Illustration:
“_I wonder why they look such frights_”
]
_On the Decline of Gentility Among the Young_
(SUGGESTED BY MR. MAX BEERBOHM)
O youth uncouth, who slouchest by,
Along the crowded public street,
An eyeglass in thy languid eye,
Brown boots upon thy feet,
A loose umbrella in thy grip,
A toothpick pendent from thy lip.
Much I deplore thy clumsy gait,
Thy drab sartorial display,
So wholly inappropriate
To this august highway;
How can a man in such attire
Set any spinster’s heart on fire?
Thou art in dress no epicure,
By weight of fashions overladen;
Thy tawdry togs do not allure
The soul of every maiden;
They sound no echoing color-note
To her tempestuous petticoat.
Her stylish skirt, her dainty blouse,
Are crêpe-de-chine, or bombazine[2];
Compare the texture of thy trous:
With _their_ chromatic sheen;
To what abysm of taste we reach
By the Observance of thy Breech!
Think what she pays her _modiste_ for
Those hats of questionable shapes,
Surmounted by a seagull or
Some imitation grapes!
Small wonder she receives a shock
Each time she views thy “billycock”!
Observe how like an autumn leaf
The colors of the male canary,
The garb of each New Zealand chief
Who woos his Little Maori;
The savage mind has thus designed
A dress to please its womankind.
And tho’ I would not have thee go
As far as primal man or beast,
To lovely woman thou should’st show
_Some_ deference at least,
And give a thought of what to wear
Upon the public thoroughfare.
And should’st thou wish to walk aright,
Let Mr. Beerbohm be thy mould;
Sedate yet courtly, and polite
As any beau of old;
Yea, plant thy footsteps in the tracks
Of our inimitable Max!
Enclose thy larynx in a stock
(As though afflicted with the fever);
And in the place of “billycock”
Procure a bristling “beaver”;
And practise, not I hope in vain,
The “conduct of a clouded cane.”
If thou consentest thus to act,
In scorn of popular convention,
Thy bearing shall indeed attract
Much feminine attention;
As day by day, in brilliant hue,
Thy figure fills Fifth Avenue.
[2] Impossible.--Publishers’ Reader.
These ones were.--H. G.
[Illustration:
“_Small wonder she receives a shock each time she views
thy billycock_”
]
“_Lochinvar_”
(WITH APOLOGIES TO SCOTT AND SWINBURNE)
When the shadow-shapes shone like a shaddock,
Where the sunset had kissed them to flame,
On his palfrey, the pick of the paddock,
With his sword in its scabbard, he came!
In the glamour of amorous passion
He would blaze like a seasoned cigar;
And he fought in a similar fashion,
Did Young Lochinvar!
By the fences and fens unaffrighted,
And unstopt by the stream in its spate,
In a lather, at last, he alighted,
And he knocked at the Netherbys’ gate.
’Twas too late! (As he doubtless had dreaded.)
He perceived his particular “star”
To a blackguard about to be wedded,
Did Young Lochinvar!
But he passed through the portal so proudly
To the room where the gifts were displayed,
That old Netherby called to him loudly
(For the bridegroom, poor fool, was afraid).
“Is it blood you are bent upon shedding?
With a murder this marriage to mar?
Or to waltz do you wish at the wedding,
My Young Lochinvar?”
He replied, “Tho’ ’twere useless to smother
My love for the maid at your side;
Tho’ my Helen be bound to another,
I shall trust to the turn of the tied.
As I drink to her squint and her freckles,
I’ll remark how few ladies there are
Who would shrink from a share of the shekels
Of Young Lochinvar.”
Then he pledged her in port, so politely
(Tho’ her mother lamented his taste),
And she smiled at him ever so slightly,
As he settled his arm round her waist.
When he drew her direct to the dancers,
The Bohemian band struck a bar,
And she found herself leading the Lancers
With Young Lochinvar!
Oh, the beauty and grace are so vivid
Of this perfectly parallel pair,
That the parents grow purple and livid,
And the bridegroom is tearing his hair;
While the bridesmaids talk ten to the dozen,
Saying: “Goodness, what gabies we are,
Not to marry our exquisite cousin
To Young Lochinvar!”
Then the girl by her partner is beckoned
To the door, where a charger they find;
To the saddle he springs in a second,
And he lifts her up lightly behind;
“She is mine!” he announces, adjourning
To the distant horizon afar,
“Till the cattle to roost are returning!”[3]
Says Young Lochinvar.
O the tumult! The tumbling of tables!
O the stress of the scene that succeeds!
O the stir on the stairs,--in the stables!
O the stamping and saddling of steeds!
But the bride has eluded them surely;
In the room of some kind Registrar,
She is now being wedded securely
To Young Lochinvar!
[3] “Till the cows come home”: an old English saying, denoting
eternity.
[Illustration:
“‘_She is mine!’ he announces, adjourning To the
distant horizon afar_”
]
_Abbreviation’s Artful Aid_
The Bard, at times
Is stumped for rhymes,
Without the least excuse.
He can defy
Such moments by
Abbreviation’s use,
And gain the grat:
Of friend or neighb:
Without an at:
Of extra lab:
So simp: a rule
May seem pecul:
And make the crit: indig:
What matter if
The scans: is diff:
The meaning too ambig:?
The net result,
Lacon: and punct:
Is worth a mult:
Of needless unct:
We long for sile:
From folks who pile
Their worldly Pel: on Oss:
Extremely nox:
And quite intox:
By their exhub: verbos:
We curse their imp:
In manner dras:
And fail to symp:
With their loquac:
In House of Rep:
Applause is tep:
For periphrastic Pol:
Reviewers sniff
At auth: prolif:
With semiannual vol:
But we can pard:
However peev:
The minor bard
Who will abbrev:
With pen and ink
In close propinq:
The Poet, lucky fell:!
Avoiding troub:
May give his pub:
The cred: for some intell:
And like an orph:
In pose recumb:
In arms of Morph:
Securely slumb:
Let corks explode:
With brand: and sod:
Ye wearers of the mot:!
Decant the cham:
(What matt: the dam:?)
And empt: the flowing bott:!
And ne’er surren:
The Laureate’s palm,
His haunch of ven:
And butt of Malm:!
_Author’s Aftword_
How I have labored, night and day,
Just like the hero of a novel,
To drive the hungry wolf away
From my baronial hovel,
To keep the bailiffs from my home,
By finishing this bulky tome.
To such a trying mental strain
My intellect is far from fitted,
Tho’ if I had an ounce more brain
I should be quite half-witted,
And when I wander in my mind
I am most difficult to find.
The sort of life for which I care
Is one combining Peace and Plenty
With _laisser aller_, _laisser faire_,
And _dolce far niente_.
(The heart of ev’ry Bridge-fiend jumps:
_Dolce_ ... ’tis sweet to make “No Trumps.”)
I shrink from work in any shape,--
Too clearly do these pages show it,--
But work is what one can’t escape
And be a Minor Poet;
And critics I may well defy
To find a minor bard than I.
I ought to live out ’Frisco way,
Where working is considered silly,
As Greeley (Horace) used to say,--
Or was it Collier (Willie)?--
“Go West, young man” (I understand),
“Go West and blow up with the land!”
Were I as full of zeal and fun
As Balzac, who could drudge so gaily,
Or diligent as Peter Dunne,
I might accomplish daily
An ode of Pleasure or of Passion
In Ella Wheeler Wilcox fashion;
But, as it is, I sit and toil,
Consuming time and ink and curses
And pints of precious midnight oil
To perpetrate these verses.
If _writing_ them be dull indeed,
Alas! what must they be to _read_!