As eating cares increase;
And make the study of my nights
A history of Greece.
Monarch of all that I survey,
By right divine appointed;
(If lubrication in and out
Can make a Lord’s anointed).
Though lord of both the fowl and brute
My schemes to catch them work ill,
And three she-walrii constitute
My social Arctic circle;
_Three_, did I say? there are but two,
For she I chiefly fancied
Has been my stay the winter through,
And now is turning rancid.
The cruel frost has nipped me some;
My mournful glances linger
Upon a solitary thumb,
And half a middle finger.
In toto I have lost my toes,
Down to the latest joint:
And there is little of my nose
Above the freezing point.
Upon this floe of ice my tears
Are freezing as they flow;
I lie between two sheets of ice,
Upon a bed of snow.
I have a hybernating feel,
And with the Bear and Dormouse,
Shall take it out in sleep until
Something turns up to warm us:
Until some Gulf-Stream vagaries
Or astronomic cycles,
Shall bring to these raw latitudes
The climate of St. Michael’s.
Or else some cataclysm rude
With polar laws shall _play_ tricks,
And Nature in a melting mood
Dissolve my icy matrix.
Maybe, a hundred centuries hence,
Pr’aps thousands (say the latter),
Amid the war of elements
And even the wreck of matter,
When in the crush of worlds, our own
Gets squeezed into a hexagon,
The natives of this frozen zone
May see me on my legs again.
THE LITTLE FAIRY.
TRADITION.
_From Béranger_.
ONCE on a time, my children dear,
A Fairy, called Urgande, lived here,
Who though but as my finger tall,
Was just as good as she was small;
For of her wand one touch, they say,
Could perfect happiness convey.
O dear Urgande! O good Urgande!
Do tell us where you’ve hid your wand!
Eight butterflies, in harness, drew
Her tiny car of sapphire blue,
In which, as o’er the land she went,
Her smile to earth fresh vigour lent;
The grape grew sweeter on the vine,
More golden did the cornfield shine.
O dear Urgande! O good Urgande!
Do tell us where you’ve hid your wand!
The King a godson was of hers,
And so she chose his Ministers—
Just men who held the laws in sight,
And whose accounts could face the light.
The crook as shepherds did they keep
To scare the wolves and not the sheep.
O dear Urgande! O good Urgande!
Do tell us where you’ve hid your wand!
To show what love she tow’rds him bore,
She touched the crown her godson wore—
A happy people met his eye,
Who for his sake would freely die;
Did foreign foes the realm invade
Not long they lived, or short they stayed.
O dear Urgande! O good Urgande!
Do tell us where you’ve hid your wand!
The judges of this King so good
Decided always as they should:
Not once throughout that pleasant reign
Did Innocence unheard complain,
Or guilt repentant vainly pray
For guidance in the better way.
O dear Urgande! O good Urgande!
Do tell us where you’ve hid your wand!
Alas! my dear, I must allow
There’s no Urgande on earth just now.
America is sore be-mobbed;
Poor Asia’s conquered, crushed, and robbed;
And though at home, of course, we find
Our rulers all that’s nice and kind—
Still—dear Urgande! O good Urgande!
Do tell us where you’ve hid your wand!
REGRET.
I.
VIOLETS in the Springtide gathered,
To the child-heart prest,
Treasured in the breast
With a tender wistful joy,
In their fading, fragrant yet:—
A tearful sweet regret
Of the early time.
II.
Glowing, wayward crimson roses,
Shedding perfume rare
O’er the summer air,
With a canker at the heart
And a stem where thorns are set:—
O bitter-sweet regret
Of the golden prime!
III.
Snowflakes falling through the darkness,
Hiding out of sight
Graves of past delight,
Till the folded whiteness mocks
Watching faces, wan and wet:—
O mournful-sweet regret
Of the wintry time.
REALITIES.
I AM informed by “Pen and Pencil,” with a certain harsh inexorableness of
tone, that _something_ I must produce this evening, or—incur a sentence
too dreadful to be contemplated, no less than that of ostracism (perhaps
ostracism for incapacity should be spelt _ass_tracism).
Well, what are the words? _Realities_ and _drifting_. Very good; then
I’ll take both, for the most characteristic element that I have noted of
_realities_ is that they are constantly _drifting_.
Wishing to start from an undoubted basis, I asked a friend, before
sitting down to write, what exactly he understood by _realities_, and he
replied, with the air of a philosopher, “whatever man, through the medium
of his senses, can surely realize.” The conclusion I draw is, that there
is some inextricable connection between _realities_ and _real lies_. In
which I am confirmed by Johnson, who traces the derivation of the word
_reality_ as _from_ real.
Sir John Lubbock, in his “Origin of Civilization,” under the heading of
“Savage Tendency to Deification,” states as a fact that “The king of the
Koussa Kaffirs, having broken off a piece of a stranded anchor, died soon
afterwards, upon which all the Kaffirs looked upon the anchor as alive,
and saluted it respectfully whenever they passed near it.” At a glance
it occurred to me, this is a _reality_ well worthy of being brought under
the notice of “Pen and Pencil.” Will it not furnish, thought I, material
for their philosophers, and mirth for their humorists, and surely an
excellent subject for their artists? _But is it true_? Ay, that must be
my first discovery. Who shall hope to palm off doubtful _realities_ upon
“Pen and Pencil,” without deservedly _drifting_ to disgrace?
Without indecent boasting, I believe I may assure this august assembly
that I have probed this matter to its very root; the whole truth is in my
hands, and shall be faithfully presented to this critical company. I
shall be excused from detailing my method of examination; time would fail
us were I to make the attempt; suffice it to say that I have brought all
possible modes under contribution, and many more, and that not a single
fact has been set down unless previously tested by a wild flight of
imagination. Upon principle, too, I decline to say how I have arrived at
the realities of the case, lest truth should suffer through disapproval
of my process.
If I say that I have telegraphed direct, some wretched caviller may
observe that he never heard of Kaffir wires. I may have conversed with
the ghost of the wicked king of Koussa Kaffir through the medium of Mrs.
Marshall, but some joker—how I do detest the race—might object to my plan
of _marshalling_ my facts. I may have “asked that solemn question” of
the leg of my loo-table, which does _not_ by any means “seem eternal,”
something after the fashion of Ion. I may have caught the little toe of
Mr. Home, as he was floating in mid-air, and so found my information, as
honest debts should be paid, _on the nail_. I may have—but no more—I
respectfully decline to communicate, to-night at least, aught but the
ascertained _realities_.
It is true, then, that a stranded anchor was thrown on the shore of
Koussa Kaffir; that it created widespread wonder and inquiry as to its
whence, its wherefore, and its whither; that the king, being of an
inquiring mind, often examined the anchor, pondered over its shape and
its materials; that one day, testing this last with too much energy, one
fluke was quite lopped off. His majesty was pleased with the result,
although it did not seem to do much towards solving the difficult
questions connected with the strange visitor; but it was afterwards
generally reported that some of the wisest of the Kaffirs had shaken
their heads three times, and had remarked that if anything should happen
they should doubt whether it was not for something.
Something did happen. The king that night ate for his supper forty-four
ostrich eggs, beside two kangaroos and a missionary. It was too much for
even a Kaffir king; he was seized with nightmare, raved of the weight of
the anchor on his chest, and died.
The effect produced upon Kaffir public opinion, and the Kaffir press, was
startling and instantaneous. The king had broken the anchor; the king
had died—had died _because_ he broke the anchor; that was evident, nay
was proved—proved by unerring figures, as thus: the king was fifty-five
years old; had lived, that is to say, 20,075 days; to say, therefore,
that he had not died this day _because_ of his daring impiety was more
than 20,000 to one against the doctrine of probabilities.
The anchor, therefore, was a power—was a devil to be feared—that is, a
god to be worshipped; for in savage countries there is a wonderful
likeness between the two. Thus was born a religion in Koussa Kaffir.
Divine honours or dastard fears were lavished on the anchor; a priesthood
sprang up who made their account in the Kaffir superstition. They were
called anchorites. They were partly cheats, and partly dupes; but they
made a livelihood between the two characters. They fixed the nature and
the amount of the sacrifices to be offered, and the requirements of the
anchor were in remarkable harmony with the wants of its priests. Natural
causes, too, were happily blended with supernatural. The anchor was
declared to be the great healer of diseases. For immense sums the
ministering priests would give small filings to the diseased, and
marvellous were the cures produced by oxides and by iron; never, in
short, was there a more prosperous faith. The morals of the people, I
grieve to say, did not improve in proportion to their faith. An anchor
that is supposed to remit sins on sacerdotal intercession is probably not
favourable to the higher morals in Koussa Kaffir.
But a trial had to come upon the anchor-devil and its worshippers. Under
it it must collapse, or passing through it as through the flame of
persecution, come forth stronger and brighter than ever. Which should it
be? It was an interesting spectacle. Let me finish my story.
There returned to Koussa Kaffir a native who had voyaged round the world
since he had left his native land; he had seen and had observed much; he
was well acquainted with anchors; had seen them in all stages and under
all conditions; he knew their use by long experience; he had handled
them. One time his vessel had been saved by its stout anchor, another
time he had had to save the ship by slipping his cable and leaving the
anchor at the bottom; he had never known an anchor resent the worst
usage; he would not worship this old broken one. Some thought him mad,
some wicked; he was called infidel by those who knew his mind, but for a
long time he followed his friends’ advice, and said nothing of his awful
heresy.
But this condition of mind would hardly last for ever. Travel had
improved his intellectual force, as well as given special knowledge about
anchors and other things; he began to lament over and even to despise the
folly of his race; he burned to cast off some at least of their shackles
of ignorance and superstition. “How shall I begin,” cried he one day,
“to raise their souls to something higher, while they worship that stupid
old rusty anchor in the sand?”
His soul began to burn with the spirit of martyrs and reformers. “I will
expose this folly; I will break to pieces their anchor-devil, and when
they see that all is well as it was before, they will begin to laugh at
their own devil, and will have their minds open to a higher faith.”
But first he would consult his friends; if possible obtain their
sanction, and act in unison with others. He met with no encouragement.
One gravely rebuked him for his presumption and conceit, and produced a
long list of eminent Kaffirs who had bowed before the anchor. Another
found in the absurdity of the anchor faith its best evidence of solidity.
It was, he said, a faith too improbable for a Kaffir to have invented;
any fool, he added, could believe a probable religion, but it needed a
superior Kaffir to swallow this. Some put their tongues in their cheeks
(a vulgar habit amongst the Koussa Kaffirs), and said: “Silly fellow, we
know all that as well as you do, but the anchor is a profitable anchor,
and as needs must, you shall be one amongst the priests.”
Again, others said: “We, too, have our doubts, but as a political engine
we must retain our anchor. How should we keep down the lower orders?
How restrain our servants from pilfering without its influence and
sanctifying power? The fact is, that in our complicated social system
all society depends upon the anchor.” “Between ourselves,” one added,
“if heaven had not sent that particular anchor some of us think we must
have sent to Woolwich for another.”
But the only arguments that caused him any hesitation, and which did give
him some pain, were from certain women who implored him not to destroy
their anchor idol. “We cannot judge,” said one of these, “between your
arguments and the conclusions we have been brought up to reverence. The
anchor may not be a god but only a symbol, but how beautiful a one! Does
not the anchor save the ship? And are not our own lives, too, like the
storm-tossed vessel? That anchor is associated with all we have felt,
suffered, prayed for. Destroy that symbol, and you wound and endanger
the deepest element of religion in our hearts.”
Finally, one very intelligent friend said to him with much solemnity:
“Rash man, forbear! Stop while there is time in a course that may bring
down ruin on the State and on yourself, and for the doing of which you
can have, as a rational being, no temptation whatever. I grant you you
may be right, and the rest all wrong; but what then? We can know nothing
of the matter, and _you may be wrong_. Now, anyhow, _we are on the safe
side of the hedge_. If the anchor be a devil he may do you harm, and if
he be only a bit of rusty iron, you will be none the worse for a bow and
a grimace.”
The rash man was immovable. Doomed by the infernal gods to pay the
penalty of having lit his Promethean torch at Woolwich dockyard, armed
with a mighty hammer, and followed by an awe-struck crowd, he fell upon
the anchor, and with one mighty blow, struck off the other fluke. It was
his last! Inspired by religious zeal, the Koussa Kaffirs rushed upon
him, and in the sight of the outraged anchor beat his brains out on the
beach. It was observed that his friend who liked to be “on the safe
side” threw the first stone, and the advocate of public morals was the
next; after that they rained too thick to tell who did the most.
Meantime the anchor of Koussa Kaffir will be worshipped for a thousand
years, for has it not slain the only two men who dared to question its
authority?
REALITIES;
A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS.
[Ye Prologue.]
I HAD been to the theatre, swallowed a play,
Seen bright Marie Wilton, and cried with the best
O’er the poor parting lovers; then laugh’d and was gay
At the plump roly-poly, the puns, and the rest.
[Acte ye fyrste.]
So into the streets, warmly muffled, I came,
And turn’d my steps homeward, three miles in the fog;
When, threading a court (I can’t tell you its name),
I tripp’d against something I thought was a dog,
For it moan’d. I stoop’d down, half-expecting a bite;
But the thing never moved; then I look’d, and behold,
A baby, wrapt up in brown paper and night,
Half-dying with hunger, half-frozen with cold.
I return’d to the Foundling, and ringing the bell,
Gave Baby in charge; then, retracing my way,
I mused upon this which had happen’d, and fell
From my comedy-mood to a tragedy-play.
[Acte ye second.]
I had seen the first act—now the second began.
Night lifted her curtain; and, here in the street,
A minute City Arab, the least of his clan,
Patter’d past on the pavement,—no shoes to his feet;
Black, shivering, starving; not daring to beg,
Not able to work, not unwilling to steal,
If a chance came his way; he was fleet of his leg;
He would risk a policeman to pilfer a meal.
Sure enough the chance came; ’twas a truckful of bread;
No Gorgon to watch it—no dragon to slay;
Like a juvenile Jason, he plunder’d and fled;
Like a Jason, he found a Medea to pay—
In the shape of a lout, twice the size of himself,
The sole witness, by hunger made ruthless and keen;
He demolish’d the pilferer, pilfer’d the pelf,
Disappear’d with his booty—and down came the scene.
[Acte ye thyrde.]
Act the third was a garret;—I thought I had clomb
Up a hundred of stairs, to a hole in the roof,
Where a lad of eighteen had made shift of a home,—
With a wife, if you please—and a baby for proof.
He was thief by profession—a cadger—a sot—
Sticking close to his calling; and so, as we say,
An habitual rogue;—had he chosen his lot,
It may be he had pitch’d on an honester way.
As it was, he was light of his fingers—adept
At shop-lifting and burglary—nimble and cute;
Never fear’d a policeman (unless when he slept),
And was held by his pals in the highest repute.
[Acte ye fovrthe.]
Act the fourth is the hulks, where our hero appears
In the proper stage garments of yellow and red;
With a chain to his leg this last dozen of years,
And a warder to see that he works for his bread.
[Morall Reflecciouns.]
Once again—’tis his lot; you won’t hear him complain;
He was born to it, kick’d to it—Fortune is blind;
And if some have the pleasure, some _must_ have the pain;
So it’s each for himself—and the devil behind.
[ Acte ye last and Ingenious rhyme.]
The last act of our drama—well, what shall it be?
The august British Public, defraying the cost?—
Or . . . P-a-r-l-i-a-m-e-n-t?
Or the angels, lamenting the soul that is lost?
BARK.
BOW-WOW!
I’m my master’s dog; whose dog are you? I live in a kennel, which
somebody was good enough to make for me; and I sleep on straw, which grew
that I might sleep on it. I have my meals brought to me punctually; and,
therefore, I conclude that meals are a noble institution and that
punctuality is a virtue. When I act as a good dog ought to act, I get a
bone, and my master pats me on the back. Therefore I always do what is
expected of me; and that I call morality. Dogs which have no kennels
flounder about in the gutter. Having a kennel, I eschew the gutter;—and
that I call respectability. It is in the nature of dogs to lick their
masters’ feet. The best dogs do it, so I follow their example;—and that
I call religion. If I do what is not expected of me, I get the stick. I
do not like the stick, so I behave myself;—and that I call
conventionality. There is a chain round my neck, lest I should run away.
I cannot break the chain, so I play with it;—and that I call the proper
subjection of the individual. But I am free to pull at my chain till my
neck is sore;—and that I call liberty . . . For the rest, I bark.
There are three kinds of spiritual beings: men, dogs, and cats. Men are
supreme, and made both dogs and cats. Dogs were created for happiness,
and cats for misery. We are the good race, and they are the evil. It is
the duty of a dog to kill a cat. Then hate cats, and hang them up by the
tails in the back garden. If I am a bad dog, I shall be turned into a
cat, and hung up by my tail. Cats are fed on black beetles; but men are
very happy, and eat bones all day long. I eat a bone when I can get one;
which makes me think that I shall some day be turned into a man. When I
am, I shall hang up cats by the tails.
Of created beings dogs are the only ones who have souls. There is a
heaven for dogs, but for no one else. There are no cats in heaven; and
for that matter, very few dogs; but I hope to be one of them; for there
the dogs have meaty bones, and bark all day long, making sweet music.
This is the Dogs’ creed. All who believe it will go to Bone-land; and
all who do not, will be hung up with the cats in the back garden.
Bow-wow!
SMOKE.
THE IRONWORKERS.
UNDER the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke,
Our work is wrought;
Fashion’d strong with every sturdy stroke
That does wild music from the roofs provoke
In echoes brought.
A rare bold sport
Rather than labour stern, or blunting task;
A toil to ask
Not blench from. Merrily round the fire
We work our will,
Producing still
Some new form daily to our hearts’ desire.
Delicate iron bands
That, as with fairy hands,
Heavenward aspire
To carry roofs, sun pierced and ever gleaming,
Wherein the varied race
Of fruit or flowers finds place,
While the weak Northern rays through mist are streaming.
Or lofty gate
Of palace or of temple set apart;
The hallowed gaols of art,
Where low estate
Is never welcome; ever warmly bidden
To enter and abide. Far better hidden
Life’s earnest prime behind the factory gate.
Always the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke,
Is overhead,
Like floating incense looming through the sky,
It tells the prayer of work goes on hard by
Where zeal new energies of life evokes;
While iron red
From earthy bed
Blackens to use beneath the smith’s firm strokes.
Under the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke,
Our lot is laid.
Our ever-flaming altar spreads on high
This great scroll as a witness in the sky
Of effort made.
Here, rare workmanship, we, day by day,
Strive to display,
Not heeding if our work make weal or woe.
We do our best,
Ye will the rest,
To meet whose wants me make our furnace glow.
Pleasant are our rough hands
That work the world’s demands
And never tire,
Bringing to shape forms past the quaintest dreaming.
Hot, and with grimy arms
We weave the Earth’s new charms,
Only a hymn of praise our toil esteeming.
Under the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke,
Our work is wrought;
Not a cloud, the summer air to choke,
But banner of our craft, the floating smoke
Ensigns our labour, with bright meanings fraught.
WHEREFORE HORRIBLE SPRING?
_From Béranger_.
WHEN winter was here, from my window on high
I saw her sweet face up at hers where she sat.
We never had met, but ’twas plain she and I
From falling in love were not hinder’d by that.
Between the bare boughs of these lindens how oft
Kind kisses we blew I’ve no patience to sing,
For there are the leaves now all quiv’ring aloft—
Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?
Yes, there are the leaves, and no more I behold
My kind little neighbour put forth her dear head
To scatter the bread-crumbs, when, tamed by the cold,
The robins, her pensioners, wait to be fed.
The minute her casement she open would throw,
The Loves with our errands were all on the wing.
What is there for beauty to equal the snow?
Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?
And ’twere not for you I should still with the dawn
Behold her new-risen in simplest array;
So, radiant and lovely, great painters have drawn
Aurora enclosing the curtains of day.
At eve, in the heavens though stars might be bright,
I watched for her taper my planet to bring;
How lonely I felt when she put out her light;
Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?
Ever dear to my heart must the winter remain;
How glad I should be if I only could hear
The sharp little tinkling of sleet on the pane,
Than whispering of zephyrs more dulcet and dear.
Your fruits and your flowers are odious and vile,
Your long sunny days only sadness can bring;
More sunny by far was the light of her smile.
Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?
VOICES.
THROUGH hoary centuries, through History’s page,
Like tongues of fire unquench’d, undimm’d by age,
Whisper the voices, living, clear and true,
The crust of Time and changes piercing through;
Sometimes like trumpets’ martial tones they ring—
Anon, scarce heard, in trembling accents sing,
Yet there is life in what they tell and say,
A life nor years nor days can sweep away:
From out the Past, from out the silent grave,
From the lone deep where beats the ceaseless wave,
They yearn, they rise, they plead with deathless tone:
From hill, from field, from cot, from kingly throne
They bring their witness;—if we list or learn,
The days shall tell of each one in his turn:—
Oh, who shall say a voice, however weak,
Its message doth not bear—its lesson speak!
THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOW.
THREE VOICES.
_The Child speaks_.
TWEET, tweet, tweet!
The birds cry out of the sky.
Tweet, tweet, tweet,
Mother I want to fly.
Up, and up, and up,
Above the poplars tall,
Mother, if I had wings,
I would fly and never fall!
_The Mother speaks_.
Sweet, sweet, sweet!
So the swallows are here again,
Flying over the village street,
And out to the open plain.
Sweet, sweet, sweet!
As they cried three springs ago,
When Will led me through the fields
Down to the church below.
Three years have come and gone,
Through warm summer and winter cold
I have carried his dinner afield,
And led the cattle to fold.
Three years have come and gone,
And my child is just two years old,
And the swallows are crying again Sweet, sweet,
And my tale is told.