the rubáiyát of bridge by carolyn wells with illustrations by may wilson preston [illustration: all's lost save honours] harper & brothers publishers new york and london :: mcmix copyright, 1909, by harper & brothers. * * * * * _all rights reserved._ published april, 1909. _printed in the united states of america._ the rubáiyát of bridge [illustration: all's lost save honors] now the new rubber rousing new desires, the thoughtful soul to doubling hearts aspires. =when the red hand of dummy is laid down, and even hope of the odd trick expires! [illustration] ah, make the most of what we yet may take, before we lose the lead, and let them make =trick after trick! while we throw down high cards, sans lead, sans score, sans honor, and sans stake! [illustration] a book of bridge rules underneath the bough, a score card, two new packs of cards, and thou =with two good players sitting opposite, oh, wilderness were paradise enow! [illustration] the card no question makes of ayes or noes, but high or low, as suits the player shows; =but he who stands beside you, looking on,-he knows about it all! he knows!! **he knows!!!** [illustration] i sometimes think there's never such tirade as where some bridge game has been badly played. =when some one thinks you should have made no trump, and you have thriftily declared a spade! [illustration] myself, when young, did eagerly frequent bridge tournaments, and heard great argument =about this point and that. yet, after all, came out no better player than i went. [illustration] for i remember stopping by the way to watch four celebrated champions play. =they differed on the discard, make, and lead. whatever one said,--said the others, "nay!" [illustration] why, if a soul can fling the rules aside, and let his card=sense be his only guide, =were't not a shame, were't not a shame for him by street and elwell tamely to abide? [illustration] and if the card you hopefully finesse capture the trick,--your partner smiles! oh yes! =and you smile broadly! but, if it be caught by the fourth hand,--your smiles are somewhat less! [illustration] but if in vain down on the stubborn score you gaze; and make it no trumps, just once more,-=with strength in every suit, but with no ace,-how then,--when dummy calmly lays down four! [illustration] to them the heart convention did i show, and with mine own hand tried to make it go. =but this is all the wisdom that i reaped,-"with more than three hearts, always lead the low!" [illustration] for, trump or no=trump, though with all the rules, of different masters and of different schools, =i've played with players of all sorts,--but i have never beaten anything,--but fools! [illustration] indeed, indeed--to quit it oft before i swore,--but did i mean it when i swore? =and then,--and then came three, and, cards in hand, i joined them, and they made me keep the score! [illustration] alas, how subtle bridge alluring woos! and robs me of my nightly beauty=snooze. =i often wonder what bridge players gain one=half so precious as the sleep they lose. [illustration] oh, threats of loss, and hopes of golden store, one thing in bridge is certain,--'tis not lore! =one thing is certain, and the rest is chance: the hand that holds the cards will win the score! [illustration] some for the gain of penny points, and some sigh for the lovely prizes yet to come. =oh, take the prize and let the pennies go, nor heed the winning of a paltry sum. [illustration] when you and i our last bridge game have played, the games will go right on by those who've stayed, =who of our coming and departure heed as the heart ace should heed a little spade. [illustration] we are no other than a moving row of magic dummy hands that come and go. =played to the last trump by the hand of fate, by whom our hearts are shuffled to and fro. [illustration] the end. [illustration: the rubàiyàt of ohow dryyàm] illustrated by benj. franklin [not of philadelphia] _copyrighted_ 1922 _by_ leedon publishing company leedon publishing company 405 flood building san francisco the rubaiyat of ohow dryyam by j. l. duff _with apologies to_ omar [illustration] _illustrated by_ benjamin franklin [_not of philadelphia_] _the rubaiyat of ohow dryyam_ i wail! for the law has scattered into flight those drinks that were our sometime dear delight; and still the morals-tinkers plot and plan new, sterner, stricter statutes to indite. ii after the phantom of our freedom died methought a voice within the tavern cried: "drink coffee, lads, for that is all that's left since our land of the free is washed--and dried." [illustration: _and still the morals-tinkers plot and plan new, sterner, stricter statutes to indite._] iii the haigs indeed are gone, and on the nose that bourgeoned once with color of the rose a deathly pallor sits, while down the lane where once strode johnny walker--water goes. iv come, fill the cup, and in the coffee-house we'll learn a new and temperate carouse- the bird of time flies with a steadier wing but roosts with sleepless eye--a coffee souse! v each morn a thousand recipes, you say- yes, but where match the beer of yesterday? and those spring months that used to bring the bock seem very long ago and far away. [illustration: _the bird of time flies with a steadier wing but roosts with sleepless eye--a coffee souse!_] vi a book of blue laws underneath the bough, a pot of tea, a piece of toast,--and thou beside me sighing in the wilderness- wilderness? it's desert, sister, now. vii some for a sunday without taint, and some sigh for inebriate paradise to come, while moonshine takes the cash (no credit goes) and real old stuff demands a premium. [illustration: _a book of blue laws underneath the bough, a pot of tea, a piece of toast,--and thou ..._] viii the scanty stock we set our hearts upon still dwindles and declines until anon, like snow upon the desert's dusty face, it lights us for an hour and then--is gone. ix ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears today of past regrets and future fears- tomorrow!--why, tomorrow i may be in canada or scotland or algiers! x yes, make the most of what we still may spend; the last drop's lingering taste may yet transcend anticipation's bliss--though we are left sans wine, sans song, sans singer, and--sans end. [illustration: _the scanty stock we set our hearts upon ..._] xi alike for those who for the drouth prepared and those who, like myself, more poorly fared, fond memory weaves roseate shrouds to dress departed spirits we have loved--and shared. xii myself when young did eagerly frequent the gilded bar, and all my lucre spent for bottled joyousness, but evermore came out less steadily than in i went. xiii the legal finger writes; and having writ, moves on--and neither thirst nor wit has lured it back to cancel half a line to give a man excuse for being lit. [illustration: _myself when young did eagerly frequent the gilded bar ..._] xiv and bill the bootlegger--the infidel!- when he takes my last cent for just a smell of hooch, i wonder what bootleggers buy one half so precious as the stuff they sell. xv oh bill, who dost with white mule and with gin beset the road i am to wander in, if i am garnered of the law, wilt thou, all piously, impute my fall to sin? [illustration: _and bill the bootlegger--the infidel!--_] xvi yon rising moon that looks for us again- how oft hereafter will she wax and wane; but, oh, how oft before we have beheld _six_ moons arise--who now seek _two_ in vain. xvii and when thyself at last shall come to trip down that dim dock where charon loads his ship, i'll meet thee on the other wharf if thou wilt promise to have something on thy hip. [illustration: _but, oh, how oft before we have beheld six moons arise ..._] the rubaiyat of a huffy husband mary b. little [illustration: arti et veritati] boston richard g. badger =the gorham press= 1908 _copyright, 1908, by mary b. little_ _all rights reserved_ _the gorham press, boston, u. s. a._ the rubaiyat of a huffy husband i i wake, the sun does scatter into flight the dreams of happiness i have each night, o blessèd dreams--full of domestic bliss, too soon alas! they're banished with the light. ii i'm going to tell in just the briefest way the cause of all my anguish--if i may- then one and all will know the reason why my mien is solemn, and i am not gay. iii on christmas day a good friend did present my wife a book; no doubt with best intent. the "rubaiyat of omar khayyam" 'twas. little i dreamed the woe of its advent. iv after the rush of holidays was o'er, and things had settled back in place once more, wife found the time to revel in that book, and told me how she loved its ancient lore. v she soon possessed the dreadful omar fad, which other husbands, i have learned, think bad. but unlike other fads which now are past, this has the power to make me very mad. vi the others which she tired of years before,- collecting vases, fans, and spoons galore,- did not affect the comfort of our home, therefore there was no reason to be sore. vii but now each time i come back to the house i find what was my former loving spouse so deep absorbed in omar's rubaiyat, she reads right on, and scarcely does arouse. viii or else i find her with her pen in hand, grinding out quatrains which mayhap are grand, she tries to make me listen: rest assured that i obey not any such command. ix had i but known just what my fate would be, inside a drawer to which i hold the key, that book forever would have disappeared and thereby would have gained some peace for me. x but ah, the irony of fate--that's how "a book of verses underneath the bough" is what i hear from morn to dewy eve. a wilderness _were_ paradise just now. xi sometimes when i am very tired, and plead to be amused, my wife says, "i will read." and this is what she tries to make me hear, "with earth's first clay they did the last man knead." xii but don't imagine while possessed of wit, that i assent, and therefore calmly sit. i take my hat, and hasten from the house, and come not back till think she's through with it. xiii i might have prayed, and possibly thereby have gained relief from somewhere in the sky. but wife says, omar's reckoning proves it "as impotently moves as you or i." xiv at least that is the doctrine he presents, although to me it is devoid of sense. my unbelief in what he says does make my wife's love for him only more intense. xv and thus it is--the rubaiyat's her creed. it is her comfort in all sorts of need. i tear my hair--i storm--i swear, and yet, 'tis only to dear omar she pays heed. xvi "some for the glories of this world; and some sigh for the prophet's paradise to come;" the greatest boon i ask for is, i may supplant this interloper as a chum. xvii now all the years that we have wedded been, not once had demon jealousy crept in until this omar--dead eight hundred years, did come and her affection from me win. xviii i feel chagrined to think, at this late date, a man so long since dead can alienate the fond devotion that's been mine alone. no wonder i cry out 'gainst such a fate. xix "the worldly hope men set their hearts upon turns ashes--or it prospers; and anon," just so those happy days of long ago were mine, for one sweet space of time then gone. xx the last few months i eagerly frequent my clubs; wherein i hear great argument regarding wives, and how to manage them. but come no wiser than when in i went. xxi strange, is it not? of all the husbands who before me passed this door of trouble through not one has left a word of good advice, nor e'en suggested what is best to do. xxii my friends can't help me, yet they laugh to scorn my downcast looks, and at the way i mourn. they do not know the anguish of my soul, bereft of wife--unhappy--and forlorn. xxiii but this i know, whether the one true light kindle to love, or wrath consume me quite, i'd rather have my former happiness, than to possess the whole great world outright. xxiv i oft' attempt to show wife where 'twill lead. she gets her book, and says i must take heed that--"the first morning of creation wrote what the last dawn of reckoning shall read." xxv one day i queried would she please to say how long, how long this fad was apt to stay? she smiled and said, "my dear, don't fret about 'unborn to-morrow and dead yesterday.'" xxvi "'the moving finger writes, and having writ moves on.'" "and surely, dear, you have the grit to be submissive to the hand of fate, when you can't help yourself a single bit." xxvii predestination--full of unbelief- must i accept it, is there no relief? the very thought of it most drives me mad, and bows me to the very earth with grief. xxviii ah, if i only could some way conspire "to grasp the sorry scheme of things entire"; how soon i'd shatter it to bits--and then remould it nearer to my heart's desire. xxix or, would some wingèd angel ere too late "arrest the yet unfolded roll of fate" and make the stern recorder change the lines, and thus restore at once to me my mate. the·rubáiyát of·a·bachelor [illustration] [illustration: promised to pay a woman's bills for life.] the·rubáiyát of·a·bachelor [illustration] by helen rowland decorations ···· by ···· harold ···· speakman dodge publishing company new york copyright 1915 by dodge publishing company to my husband william hill-brereton this little book is affectionately dedicated wake! for the spring has scattered into flight the vows of lent, and bids the heart be light. bring on the roast, and take the fish away! the season calls--and woman's eyes are bright! before the phantom of pale winter died, methought the voice of spring within me cried, "when hymen's rose-decked altars glow within, why nods the laggard _bachelor_ outside?" and, at the signal, i who stood before in idle musing, shouted, "say no more! you know how little while we have to love- and love's light hand is knocking at the door!" now, the new moon reviving old desires, the gallant youth to sentiment aspires; and ere he saunters forth on conquest bent, himself, like unto solomon, attires. [illustration: his winter garments hung--where, no one knows!] how blithely through the smiling throng he goes, his winter garments hung--where, no one knows! a symphony in radiant scarfs and hose, wrought t'inspire a maiden's "ah's!" and "oh's!" into a new flirtation, why not knowing, nor whence, his heart with madness overflowing; then out of it--and thence, without a pause, into _another_, willy-nilly blowing. what if the conscience feel, perchance, a sting? no danger waits him--save the _wedding ring_. a kiss is not the sin that yesterday it was--for that was _lent_, and this is _spring_! some simple ones may sigh for wealth or fame, and some, for the sweet domestic life, and tame; but ah! give me a supper, a cigar, a charming woman--and the old love-game! some blue points on the half-shell, in a row, some iced champagne, a melting bird--and thou beside me flirting, 'neath a picture hat- oh, single life were paradise enow! a cozy-corner tête-a-tête--what bliss! a murmured word, a sigh, a stolen kiss- ah, tell me, does the promised paradise hold anything one-half so sweet as this? and yet, since i am made of common clay, one charm i'd add to this divine array; lord make me _careful_, and whate'er betide, without proposing, let me slip away! for, some i've known, the bravest and the best, who laughed at love, as but an idle jest, have, one by one, walked straight into the net, helpless, before the _cozy corner_ test! thus, oft, beside some damsel fond and fair, i've sat, thrilled by the perfume of her hair, and madly longed to murmur, lip-to-lip, "beloved, marry me!"--but did not dare! for some i've wooed, when i felt blithe and gay, have looked _so different_, when we met next day, that i have simply stopped to say, "so charmed!" and shuddering, sped hurriedly away! look to the married men! alas, their gains are neither here nor there, for all their pains. for wedding bells are rung--and loudly rung to drown the clanking of the _marriage chains_! a moment's halt--a little word or two- and you have done what you can ne'er undo; promised to pay a woman's bills for life- _anchored_ yourself--and there's an end of you! and we, who now make merry at the gloom of those who thus have gone to meet their doom- may we, ourselves, not some day follow suit, ourselves to be the butt of jests--for whom? indeed, 'tis better to have loved and lost- taken the kiss and fled, at any cost, than to have loved and married, and for aye, thereafter, by a _woman_, to be bossed. with me, along that strip of broadway strewn with lovely maids, each radiant afternoon, and think, of all the thousands you behold, that you can marry one--and _only one_! but, if the lip i kiss, the hand i press, upon the morrow seem to charm me less, ah well, am i not still a _bachelor_, and thus, entitled to--another guess? [illustration: some for the comforts of a club may sigh.] some for the comforts of a club may sigh, and some for a hermit's lonely life. not i! give me a cozy hearthside, and a girl always "at home" when _i_ chance by! her cushioned chair a spot where i may curl my weary form, and rest, beyond the whirl of madd'ning cares; to rise at half-past ten, and call next night--upon _another girl_! why, if a man can thus, at ease, abide each evening by a different damsel's side, were't not a shame--were't not a shame, for him to any _one_, forever to be tied? and so, the girls i've set my heart upon, i've flattered, wooed a little--and anon, just as they thought to slip the fatal noose about my neck, behold--the bird had flown! for this the argument that i submit- refute it, if you can, with all your wit! that luck in love, for such as you and i, consists in safely keeping _out_ of it! * * * * * this morn, i've quaffed at least a quart or more of water--yet am thirsty as before; and that dark taste still lingers in the mouth with which, last night, i reformation swore. [illustration: some angel, with a saving drink.] yet, when some angel, with a saving drink of iced nepenthe comes, i shall not shrink; but, having drunk of it, shall feel again as good and noble as before, i think. each morn some fresh repentance brings, you say? yes--but where leaves the vows of yesterday? for i shall make and break them all, again, when time hath taken _this_ headache away. what if my conscience seem an idle joke- my good resolves all disappear in smoke? this thought remains--and is it not enough?- _i do not wear the matrimonial yoke!_ nay! there is no one waiting at the door, whene'er i wander in at half-past four, no one to question, no one to accuse, no one, my shocking frailty to deplore! no one to greet me with her tear-stained eyes, no one to doubt my quaint, fantastic lies, no one my foolish looks to criticize- ah, but the knots, the knots in marriage-ties! oh friend, could you and i, somehow, conspire, to grasp the matrimonial scheme entire, would we not shatter it to bits--and then, make of its bonds a rousing funeral pyre? myself, when young, did eagerly frequent the weddings of my friends on bondage bent; but evermore thanked fate, when i escaped scot-free, by that same door wherein i went. into the fatal compact, why not knowing, i've seen them go, nor dream where they were going; then out again, with shouts of "westward, ho!" the bitter seeds of _alimony_ sowing! ah well, they say that, sometimes, side by side, a cat and dog may peacefully abide. perhaps--perhaps. but that is only when that cat and dog are not together tied! oft, to some patient married man i turn, the secret of his dumb content to learn, but lip-to-ear, he mutters, "fool, beware! _this_ is the path, whence there is no return!" [illustration: but, lip-to-ear, he mutters, "fool, beware!"] oh, threats of hell, and hopes of paradise! one thing is certain--when a husband dies, no wife shall greet him _there_ with "where's" or "why's" nor mock with laughter his most subtle lies! no matter whether up or down he goes, he neither cares nor questions, i suppose; since death can hold no bitterness for him, because--because--oh well, he knows, he knows! would you the spangle of existence spend in matrimony? slow about, my friend! a maiden's hair is more oft false than true, and on the chemist may her blush depend. a maiden's hair is more oft false than true! aye, and her modiste is, perchance, the clue, could you but know it, to her sylph-like grace, and, peradventure, to her _figure_, too. why, for this nothing, then, should you provoke the gods, or lightly don the galling yoke of unpermitted pleasure, under pain of alimony-until-death, if broke? why, when to-day your bills are promptly paid, assume the whims of some capricious maid, incur the debts you never did contract, and yet must settle? oh, the sorry trade! [illustration: i swore--but was i sober when i swore?] to "settle down and marry," oft of yore, i swore--but was i sober when i swore? and then there came another girl--and i turned gaily to the old love-game, once more. and, much as i repented things like this, and fondly dreamed of sweet domestic bliss, i sometimes wonder what a wife can give, one half so thrilling as a stolen kiss! yet, if the hair should vanish from my brow, my girth, in time, to great dimensions grow- if youth's sweet-scented "buds" should pass me by, accounting me an antiquated beau- why then, some winged angel, ere too late- some maiden verging onto twenty-eight- will gladly take what's left of me, i trow, and, leading me to wedlock, thank her fate! * * * * * alas, for those who may to-day prepare the wedding trousseau for the morrow's wear, a voice of warning cried, "there's many a slip betwixt the altar and the solitaire!" into this pact, man glides like water flowing, but _out_ of it is not such easy going; for they, who once were simple, guileless things, in breach-of-promise lore are now more knowing. [illustration: what! would you cast a loving woman hence?] what! would you cast a loving woman hence? thou, fickle one, prepare for penitence! full many a golden ducat shall you pay to drown the memory of such insolence. and every note, that, in your cups, you write, in cold black type, perchance shall see the light; while all the world, across its coffee urn, shall titter gaily at the sorry sight. ah yes! for all the papers, which discussed your wedding plans, shall turn your cake to crust, publish your letters and your photographs, and trail your egotism in the dust! the opera queens, that men have wooed and won, have loved them for a while, and then--anon, like snow upon broadway, with lightsome "touch," annexed their millions, and alas, have flown! oh look you, in the long and varied list of millionaires thus rifled and dismissed, how, rich man, after rich man, bode his hour, then went his way, to swell the golden grist. what diva's rubies ever glow so red as when some gilded chappie hath been bled? and every diamond the show girl wears, dropped in her lap, when some fool lost his head. and those who hung around the green-room door, and those who backed the show and paid the score, alike, to no such "angels" have been turned, as, once repentant, men feel sorry for. oh, my good fellow, keep the cash, that clears to-day of unpaid debts and future fears. to-morrow! why, to-morrow, you may be, yourself, with yesterday's cast-off millionaires. then, make the most of what you still may spend, ere you, too, into bankruptcy descend, bill upon bill, and under bill, to lie, sans cash, sans love, sans lady--what an end! * * * * * waste not your evenings in the vain pursuit of this or that girl. bittersweet the fruit! better be jocund with them, one and all, and loving _many_, thus your love dilute. some, with vivacity have sought to charm away my fears, and still my soul's alarm; to win me subtly, with a smile or sigh, or sweet appealing touch upon the arm. others have tempted me with festive cheer, and chafing-dish concoctions, quaint and queer; with dear, domestic airs have plied their arts- yet, all their wiles were neither there nor here! but when _platonic friendship_ they have tried, then, to the gods for mercy, have i cried! for, in the husband-hunt, all other snares sink into nothingness, _this_ game beside! there is the trap, from which you may not flee; there is the net, through which no man may see. some jest at "love," some talk of "chums," and then, into the consommé, for thee and me! [illustration: there is the trap, from which you may not flee.] whether to church, or to the magistrate, you follow, after that, 'tis all too late! for, from your pipe-dream, you, at last, shall wake, a married man, to rail in vain at fate! love, but the vision of a dear desire! marriage, the ashes, whence has fled the fire! cast into chains which you, yourself, have forged! caught, like a sheep upon a stray barbed wire! * * * * * oh thou, who first the apple tree didst shake, and e'en in eden flirted with the snake, still, as in that first moment 'neath the bough, dost thou, to-day, of man a puppet make! but this i know--whether the one true mate, or just some fluffy thing with hook and bait, eve-like, tempt _me_--one flash of common sense, and all her sorcery shall be too late! then, let her never look for me, again; for, once escaped, how many moons shall wane, and wax and wane full oft, while still she looks down that same street--but ah, for me, in vain! yet, much as i have played the infidel, if, as the fated pitcher to the well, _too oft_ to love's empyrean font i stray, to fall, at last, beneath some siren's spell, then, in your mercy, friend, forbear to smile, and with the grape my last few hours beguile, or, let me in some caravanserie, my cynic's soul to _shackles_ reconcile. and when, with me, some fair, triumphant lass, up to the rose-decked altar-rail shall pass, and, in her joyous errand, reach the spot, where we're made _one_--oh, drain a silent glass! tamam. [illustration: t a m a m] images of public domain material from the google print project.) the rubaiyat of omar cayenne by gelett burgess new york frederick a stokes company publishers copyright, 1904, by gelett burgess _published december, 1904_ the rubaiyat of omar cayenne i wake! for the hack can scatter into flight shakespere and dante in a single night! the penny-a-liner is abroad, and strikes our modern literature with blithering blight. ii 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?" iii a cock-sure crew with names ne'er heard before greedily shouted--"open then the door! you know how little stuff is going to live, but where it came from there is plenty more." iv now the new year reviving old desires, the artist poor to calendars aspires, but of the stuff the publisher puts out most in the paper basket soon suspires. v harum indeed is gone, and lady rose, and janice meredith, where no one knows; but still the author gushes overtime, and many a poet babbles on in prose. vi aldrich's lips are lock'd; but people buy high-piping authoresses, boomed sky-high. "how fine!"--the publisher cries to the mob, that monumental cheek to justify. vii come, fill the purse, to publishers, this spring, your manuscripts of paltry passion bring: the new york times has oft a little way of praising--let the times your praises sing. viii whether by century or doubleday, whether macmillan or the harpers pay, the publisher prints new books every year; the critics will keep busy, anyway! ix each morn a thousand volumes brings, you say; yes, but who reads the books of yesterday? and this first autumn list that brings the new shall take the pit and mrs. wiggs away. x well, let it take them! what, are we not through with richard calmady and emmy lou? let ade and dooley guy us as they will, or ella wheeler wilcox--heed not you. xi with me despise this kind of fiction rude that just divides the rotten from the good, where names of poe and dickens are forgot-and peace to thackeray with his giant brood! xii a book of limericks--nonsense, anyhow-alice in wonderland, the purple cow beside me singing on fifth avenue-ah, this were modern literature enow! xiii some for the stories of the world; and some sigh for the boston transcript till it come; ah, take the sun, and let the herald go, nor heed the yellow journalistic scum! xiv look to the blowing advertiser--"lo, booming's the way," he says, "to make books go! i advertise until i've drained my purse, and huge editions on the market throw." xv and those who made a mint off miss maclane, and those who shuddered at her jests profane, alike consigned her to oblivion, and buried once, would not dig up again. xvi anthony hope men set their hearts upon-like conan doyle he prospered; and anon, remained unopened on the dusty shelf, delighting us an hour--and then was gone. xvii think, in this gaudy monthly magazine whose covers are soapette and breakfastine, how author after author with his tale fills his fool pages, and no more is seen. xviii they say that now miss myra kelly reaps rewards that howells used to have for keeps: and seton, that great hunter of wild beasts has coin ahead; cash comes to him in heaps! xix i sometimes think that never prose is read so good as that by advertising bred, and every verse sapolian poets sing brings laurel wreaths once twin'd for spenser's head. xx and this audacious author, young and green in smart set--surely you know whom i mean- ah, look upon him lightly! for who knows but once in lippincott's he wrote unseen! xxi ah, my belovèd, write the book that clears to-day of dreary debt and sad arrears; _to-morrow!_--why, to-morrow i may see my nonsense popular as edward lear's. xxii for some we've read, the month's six selling best the bookman scored with elephantine jest, have sold a half a million in a year, yet no one ever heard of them, out west! xxiii and we, that now within the editor's room make 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! xxiv ah, make the most of what we yet may do, before our royalties have vanish'd, too, book after book, and under book to lie, sans page, sans cover, reader--or review! xxv alike for those who for to-day have shame, and those who strive for some to-morrow's fame, a critic from anonymous darkness cries, "fools, your reward will fool you, just the same!" xxvi why, e'en marie corelli, who discuss'd of the two worlds so learnedly, is thrust like elbert hubbard forth; her words to scorn are scatter'd, and her books by critics cussed. xxvii myself when young did eagerly peruse james, meredith and hardy--but to lose my reason, trying to make head or tail; the more i read, the more did they confuse. xxviii with them the germs of madness did i sow, and with "two magics" sought to make it grow; yet this was all the answer that i found-"what it is all about, i do not know!" xxix into the library, and _why_ not knowing, nor _what i want_, i find myself a-going; and out of it, with nothing fit to read-such is the catalogue's anæmic showing. xxx what, without asking, to be hypnotized into a sale of stevenson disguised? oh, many a page of bernard shaw's last play must drown the thought of novels dramatized! xxxi up from the country, into gay broadway i came, and bought a scribner's, yesterday, and many a tale i read and understood, but not the master-tale of kipling's "they." xxxii there was a plot to which i found no key; and others seem to be as dull as me; some little talk there was of ghosts, and such, then mrs. bathurst left me more at sea! xxxiii kim could not answer--sherlock holmes would fail-the most enlightened browningite turn pale in futile wonder and in blank dismay; say, is there any meaning to that tale? xxxiv then of the critic, he who works behind the author's back, i tried the clue to find; but he, too, was in darkness; and i heard a literary agent say--"they all are blind!" xxxv then, from the lips of editor, i learn, "this story is the kind for which i yearn; its advertising brought us such renown, we jumped three hundred thousand, on that turn!" xxxvi i think the man exaggerated some his increased circulation,--but, i vum! if i could get two thousand for one tale, i'd write him something that would simply hum! xxxvii for i remember, shopping by the way, i saw a novel writ by bertha clay; and there was scrawled across its title-page, "this is the stuff that sells--so people say!" xxxviii listen--a moment listen!--of the same wood-pulp on which is printed hewlett's name, the "duchess" books are made--in fifty years they both will rot asunder--who's to blame?" xxxix and not a book that from our shelves we throw to the salvation army, but shall go to vitiate the taste of some poor soul who can get nothing else to read--go slow! xl as then the poet for his morning sup fills with a metaphor his mental cup, do you devoutly read your manuscripts that someone may, before you burn them up! xli perplex'd no more with editorial "nay" to-morrow's reputation cast away, and lose your college education in the flippant, foolish fiction of to-day. xlii 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. xliii 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! xliv why, if an author can fling art aside, and in a book of balderdash take pride, wer't not a shame--wer't not a shame for him a conscientious novel to have tried? xlv writing's a trade where newspapers pay best; legallienne this verity confess'd; so join the union, like the rest of us-who strikes for art is looked at as a jest. xlvi and fear not, if the editor refuse your work, he has no more from which to choose; the literary microbe shall bring forth millions of manuscripts too bad to use. xlvii when fitch's comedies have all gone past, oh, the long time pinero's plays shall last, which of belasco's little triumphs heed as frohman's self should heed a bowery cast! xlviii a moment's halt--pray see this charming, chaste ladies' home journal--"on the new shirt waist"- "advice to girls," and so forth--here is reach'd the nothing women yearn for, undebased! xlix would you a hurried lunch hour wish to spend about the secret--hearken to me, friend! the editors themselves must guess their way-and on their wives' and sisters' hints depend! l a hair perhaps divides the good from bad; and bok himself a lot of trouble had before he found stenographers were wise-then, as they laughed or wept, his soul was glad. li the woman's touch runs through our magazines; for her the home-and-mother tale, and scenes of love-and-action, happy at the end-the same old plots, the same old ways and means. lii the theme once guess'd, the tale's as good as told, though dialect and local color mould; this style will last throughout eternity, while women buy our books--if books are sold. liii but if, in spite of this, you build a plot which these immortal elements has not, you gaze to-day upon a slip, which reads: "the editor regrets"--and such-like rot. liv waste not your ink, and don't attempt to use that subtle touch which editors refuse; better be jocund at two cents a word than, starving, court an ill-requited muse! lv you know, my friends, i've done with purple cows, and long to sober fiction paid my vows; spontaneous glee is mighty hard to sell-'twas carolyn wells that shot across _my_ bows. lvi for stuff and nonsense being in my line, as nonsense modern fiction i define; but of the sort that one would care for, i can find but little--and that little's mine! lvii ah, but this wholesale satire, you may say, makes me pretend to be a critic--nay! rather be roasted than to roast, say i; and i have been well roasted, by the way! lviii and lately, in a studio, a miss sat smiling o'er a book--and it was this: "the pipes of pan"--she showed it me, and read, bidding me pay attention--it was bliss! lix bliss carman, who with genius absolute, my poor satiric logic can confute; the only poet who, in modern days, his poems can to clinking gold transmute! lx the vagrant singer, how does he, good lord, compete with such a money-making horde of tinsel rhymesters that infest the shops? they say he makes enough to pay his board! lxi why, be our talent truly art, how dare refuse our lucubrations everywhere? and if it's rot, as our rejections hint, god knows the things they print are rot, for fair! lxii i must abjure dramatic force, i must take the sub-editor's decree on trust, or, lured by hope of selling something good, write out my heart--then burn it in disgust! lxiii oh, threats of failure, hopes of royalties! one thing at least i've sold--these parodies; one thing is certain, satire always sells; the roast is read, no matter where it is. lxiv strange, is it not? that of the authors who publish in england, such a mighty few make a success, though here they score a hit? the british public knows a thing or two! lxv by revelations of the past we've learn'd the yankee author usually is burn'd; all of our story writers say the same; the london critic all their books have spurn'd. lxvi i sent my agent where the buyers dwell, some clever stories of my own to sell: and by and by the agent said to me, "one thing i sold--that's doing mighty well!" lxvii so heaven seems tame indeed when i behold editions of five hundred thousand sold; when clippings show how critics scorch me, then hell's roasting seems comparatively cold! lxviii we are no other than a passing show of clumsy mountebanks that come and go to please the general public; now, who gave to it the right to judge, i'd like to know? lxix impotent writers bound to feed its taste for literature and poetry debased; hither and thither pandering we strive, and one by one our talents are disgraced. lxx the scribe no question makes of verse or prose, but what the editor demands he shows; and he who buys three thousand words of drule, _he_ knows what people want--you bet he knows! lxxi the facile scribbler writes; and, having writ, no rules of rhetoric bother him a bit, or lure him back to cancel half a line, nor grammar's protests change a word of it. lxxii and though you wring your hands and wonder why such slipshod work the magazines will buy, don't grumble at the editor, for he must serve the public, e'en as you and i. lxxiii with puck's first joke, they did the last life feed, and there of judge's stories sowed the seed: and the first jokelet that joe miller wrote the sunday comic-section readers read. lxxiv yesterday _this_ day's popular song supplants; to-morrow's will be even worse, perchance: drink! for the latest coon-song's floating by: drink! now the music is an indian dance! lxxv i tell you this--when, started from the goal, the first plantation ditty 'gan to roll through minstrel troupes and negro baritones in its predestined race from pole to pole, lxxvi the song had caught a rag-time girls could shout and piano-organs make a din about; but syncopated melodies at last will pass away, and more shall come, no doubt. lxxvii and this i know: though vaudeville delight, musical comedy can bore me quite; one act of ibsen from the gallery caught, better than daly for a festal night! lxxviii what! out of senseless show-girls to evoke a drama? surely, i resent the joke! for me, it is not pleasure, but a pain-an everlasting bore for decent folk. lxxix what, must the theatre manager be paid-our gold for what his carpenter has made- must we pay stars we never did contract, and cannot hiss at?--oh, the sorry trade! lxxx oh thou, who dost with cool sarcastic grin scorn the poor magazine my story's in, though thou impute to ignorance my work, i know how bad 't will be, ere i begin! lxxxi oh thou, whose taste demandeth silly tales, damning the author when he tries and fails, let us toss up to see which one is worse-thy fault or mine--which is it, heads or tails? * * * * * lxxxii as, for his luncheon hour, away had slipp'd the editor, his office-boy i tipp'd, and once again before the sacred desk i stood, surrounded by much manuscript. lxxxiii manuscripts of all sizes, great and small, upon that desk, in numbers to appall! and some looked very interesting; some i saw no sign of merit in, at all. lxxxiv said one among them--"surely not in vain my author has exhausted all his brain in writing me, to be rejected here-i'd hate to have to be sent back again!" lxxxv then said a second--"ne'er a girl or boy such stuff as i am really could enjoy: yet he who wrote me, when i am return'd, will me with curse and bitter wrath destroy!" lxxxvi after a literary silence spake a manuscript of henry james's make; "they sneer at me for being so occult: but kipling's found such stuff is going to take!" lxxxvii whereat some one of the typewritten lot-i think it was cy brady's--waxing hot- "all this of shop and patter--tell me then, who buys--who reads--the stuff that boils _my_ pot?" lxxxviii "why," said another, "some there are who tell of one who threatens he will toss to hell the luckless tales he marr'd in making--pish! he's a blamed fool, any old thing will sell!" lxxxix "well," murmur'd one, "let whoso write or buy, my words with long oblivion are gone dry: but bind me new, let christy illustrate, methinks i'd sell at christmas time; i'll try!" xc so while the manuscripts were wisely speaking, the editor came in whom i was seeking: and then they signall'd to me, "brother! brother! yours is rejected! you had best be sneaking!" * * * * * xci though carnegie for literature provide, he tombs a body whence the life has died, and no one seems to turn a single leaf upon the unfrequented classic side, xcii unless to see some first edition rare, or curious styles of binding to compare; art's true believers know their aldus well, but of the author bound, are unaware! xciii indeed, rare books that they have yearn'd for long have done their literary taste much wrong: reprints of burton will not sell to-day (i mean the stupid burton) for a song! xciv indeed, such first editions oft before i envied, but they proved to be a bore. why, are not tenth editions still more rare? mine are! why are they not worth even more? xcv and much as art has play'd the infidel and robb'd me of my royalties--ah, well, i often wonder what the women read one half as clever as the stuff i sell! xcvi yet ah, that spring should come to bring our woes! that christmas season's sales should ever close! the book whose praises loud the critic sang, is not the one that sells the most, god knows! xcvii would but these book reviewers ever yield one glimpse--if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd of what the fainting traveller can read worth reading--but the critic's eyes are seal'd. xcviii would but some wingèd angel bring the news of critic who _reads_ books that he reviews! and make the stern reviewer do as well himself, before he meed of praise refuse! xcix ah, love! could you and i perchance succeed in boiling down the million books we read into one book, and edit that a bit-there'd be a world's best literature, indeed! * * * * * c oh, rising author, read me once again before my memory gradually wane! how oft hereafter you may look for me in this same library--and look in vain! ci and when, dear reader, _you_ shall chance to spend a night within the hall of fame--attend! if, in that blissful call, you find the spot where i broke in--don't turn me down, my friend! rubáiyát of doc sifers by james whitcomb riley other books by james whitcomb riley poems here at home. neghborly poems. sketches in prose and occasional verses. afterwhiles. pipes o' pan (prose and verse). rhymes of childhood. flying islands of the night. old-fashioned roses (english edition). green fields and running brooks. armazindy. a child-world. an old sweetheart of mine. [illustration] -------------------------- rubáiyát of doc sifers by james whitcomb riley -------------------------- illustrated by c. m. relyea [illustration] published by the century co. new york m dccc xc vii copyright, 1897, by the century co. copyright, 1897, by james whitcomb riley the de vinne press. to dr. franklin w. hays the loyal chum of my latest youth and like friend and comrade still with all grateful affection of the author. _we found him in that far-away_ _that yet to us seems near--_ _we vagrants of but yesterday_ _when idlest youth was here,--_ _when lightest song and laziest mirth_ _possessed us through and through,_ _and all the dreamy summer-earth_ _seemed drugged with morning dew:_ _when our ambition scarce had shot_ _a stalk or blade indeed:_ _yours,--choked as in the garden-spot_ _you still deferred to "weed":_ _mine,--but a pipe half-cleared of pith--_ _as now it flats and whines_ _in sympathetic cadence with_ _a hiccough in the lines._ _aye, even then--o timely hour!--_ _the high gods did confer_ _in our behalf:--and, clothed in power,_ _lo, came their courier--_ _not winged with flame nor shod with wind,--_ _but ambling down the pike_, _horseback, with saddlebags behind,_ _and guise all human-like._ _and it was given us to see,_ _beneath his rustic rind,_ _a native force and mastery_ _of such inspiring kind,_ _that half unconsciously we made_ _obeisance.--smiling, thus_ _his soul shone from his eyes and laid_ _its glory over us._ * * * * * _though, faring still that far-away_ _that yet to us seems near,_ _his form, through mists of yesterday,_ _fades from the vision here,_ _forever as he rides, it is_ _in retinue divine,--_ _the hearts of all his time are his,_ _with your hale heart and mine._ [illustration] rubáiyát of doc sifers by james whitcomb riley [illustration] rubáiyát of doc sifers i ef you don't know doc sifers i'll jes argy, here and now, you've bin a mighty little while about here, anyhow! 'cause doc he's rid these roads and woods- er _swum_ 'em, now and then- and practised in this neighberhood sence hain't no tellin' when! ii in radius o' fifteen mile'd, all p'ints o' compass round, no man er woman, chick er child, er team, on top o' ground, but knows _him_--yes, and got respects and likin' fer him, too, fer all his so-to-speak dee-fects o' genius showin' through! iii some claims he's absent-minded; some has said they wuz afeard to take his powders when he come and dosed 'em out, and 'peared to have his mind on somepin' else- like county ditch, er some new way o' tannin' mussrat-pelts, er makin' butter come. [illustration] iv he's cur'ous--they hain't no mistake about it!--but he's got enough o' extry brains to make a _jury_--like as not. they's no _describin'_ sifers,--fer, when all is said and done, he's jes _hisse'f doc sifers_--ner they hain't no other one! v doc's allus sociable, polite, and 'greeable, you'll find- pervidin' ef you strike him right and nothin' on his mind,- like in some _hurry_, when they've sent fer sifers _quick_, you see, to 'tend some sawmill-accident, er picnic jamboree; vi er when the lightnin' 's struck some hare brained harvest-hand; er in some 'tempt o' suicidin'--where they'd ort to try ag'in! i've _knowed_ doc haul up from a trot and talk a' hour er two when railly he'd a-ort o' not a-stopped fer "_howdy-do!_" [illustration] [illustration] vii and then, i've met him 'long the road, _a-lopin'_,--starin' straight ahead,--and yit he never knowed me when i hollered "_yate, old saddlebags!_" all hearty-like, er "_who you goin' to kill?_" and he'd say nothin'--only hike on faster, starin' still! viii i'd bin insulted, many a time, ef i jes wuzn't shore doc didn't mean a thing. and i'm not tetchy any more sence that-air day, ef he'd a-jes a-stopped to jaw with _me_, they'd bin a little dorter less in my own fambily! ix times _now_, at home, when sifers' name comes up, i jes _let on_, you know, 'at i think doc's to _blame_, the way he's bin and gone and disapp'inted folks--'ll-_jee_-mun-_nee_! you'd ort to then jes hear my wife light into me- "_ongratefulest o' men!_" [illustration] [illustration] x 'mongst _all_ the women--mild er rough, splendifferous er plain, er them _with_ sense, er not enough to come in out the rain,- jes ever' shape and build and style o' women, fat er slim- they all like doc, and got a smile and pleasant word fer _him_! xi ner hain't no horse i've ever saw but what'll neigh and try to sidle up to him, and paw, and sense him, ear-and-eye: then jes a tetch o' doc's old pa'm, to pat 'em, er to shove along their nose--and they're as ca'm as any cooin' dove! xii and same with _dogs_,--take any breed, er strain, er pedigree, er racial caste 'at can't concede no use fer you er me,- they'll putt all predju-dice aside in _doc's_ case and go in kahoots with him, as satisfied as he wuz kith-and-kin! xiii and doc's a wonder, trainin' pets!- he's got a chicken-hawk, in kind o' half-cage, where he sets out in the gyarden-walk, and got that wild bird trained so tame, he'll loose him, and he'll fly clean to the woods!--doc calls his name- and he'll come, by-and-by! [illustration] xiv some says no money down ud buy that bird o' doc.--ner no inducement to the _bird_, says i, 'at _he'd_ let _sifers_ go! and doc _he_ say 'at _he's_ content- long as a bird o' prey kin 'bide _him_, it's a _compliment_, and takes it thataway. xv but, gittin' back to _docterin'_--all the sick and in distress, and old and pore, and weak and small, and lone and motherless,- i jes tell _you_ i 'preciate the man 'at 's got the love to "go ye forth and ministrate!" as scriptur' tells us of. xvi _dull_ times, doc jes _mi_anders round, in that old rig o' his: and hain't no tellin' where he's bound ner guessin' where he is; he'll drive, they tell, jes thataway fer maybe six er eight days at a stretch; and neighbers say he's bin clean round the state. xvii he picked a' old tramp up, one trip, 'bout eighty mile'd from here, and fetched him home and k-yored his hip, and kep' him 'bout a year; and feller said--in all _his_ ja'nts round this terreschul ball 'at no man wuz a _circumstance_ to _doc_!--he topped 'em all!-[illustration] xviii said, bark o' trees 's a' open book to doc, and vines and moss he read like writin'--with a look knowed ever' dot and cross: said, stars at night wuz jes as good 's a compass: said, he s'pose you couldn't lose doc in the woods the darkest night that blows! xix said, doc'll tell you, purty clos't, by underbresh and plants, how fur off _warter_ is,--and 'most perdict the sort o' chance you'll have o' findin' _fish_; and how they're liable to _bite_, and whether they're a-bitin' now, er only after night. xx and, whilse we're talkin' _fish_,--i mind they formed a fishin'-crowd (when folks _could_ fish 'thout gittin' _fined_, and seinin' wuz allowed!) o' leadin' citizens, you know, to go and seine "old blue"- but hadn't no big seine, and so- w'y, what wuz they to do?... xxi and doc he say he thought 'at _he_ could _knit_ a stitch er two- "bring the _materials_ to me- 'at's all i'm astin' you!" and down he sets--six weeks, i jing! and knits that seine plum done- made corks too, brails and ever'thing- good as a boughten one! [illustration] xxii doc's _public_ sperit--when the sick 's not takin' _all_ his time and he's got _some_ fer politics- is simple yit sublime:- he'll _talk_ his _principles_--and they air _honest_;--but the sly friend strikes him first, election-day, he'd 'commodate, er die! xxiii and yit, though doc, as all men knows, is square straight up and down, that vote o' his is--well, i s'pose- the cheapest one in town;- a fact 'at's sad to verify, as could be done on oath- i've voted doc myse'f--_and i was criminal fer both!_ xxiv you kin corrupt the _ballot-box_--corrupt _yourse'f_, as well- corrupt _some_ neighbers,--but old doc's as oncorruptible as holy writ. so putt a pin right there!--let _sifers_ be, i jucks! he wouldn't vote agin his own worst inimy! xxv when cynthy eubanks laid so low with fever, and doc glenn told euby cynth 'ud haf to go- they sends fer _sifers_ then!... doc sized the case: "she's starved," says he, "fer _warter_--yes, and _meat_! the treatment 'at she'll git from _me_ 's all she kin drink and eat!" [illustration] xxvi he orders euby then to split some wood, and take and build a fire in kitchen-stove, and git a young spring-chicken killed; and jes whirled in and th'owed his hat and coat there on the bed, and warshed his hands and sailed in that -air kitchen, euby said, xxvii and biled that chicken-broth, and got that dinner--all complete and clean and crisp and good and hot as mortal ever eat! and cynth and euby both'll say 'at doc'll git as good meals-vittles up, jes any day, as any _woman_ could! xxviii time sister abbick tuk so bad with striffen o' the lung, p'tracted meetin', where she had jes shouted, prayed and sung all winter long, through snow and thaw,- when sifers come, says he: "no, m'lissy; don't poke out your raw and cloven tongue at me!- xxix "i know, without no symptoms but them _injarubber-shoes_ you promised me to never putt a fool-foot in ner use at purril o' your life!" he said. "and i won't save you _now_, onless--here on your dyin' bed- you consecrate your vow!" xxx without a-claimin' _any creed_, doc's rail religious views nobody knows--ner got no _need_ o' knowin' whilse he choose to be heerd not of man, ner raise no loud, vainglorious prayers in crowded marts, er public ways, er--i jucks, _any_wheres!-[illustration] xxxi 'less 'n it _is_ away deep down in his own heart, at night, facin' the storm, when all the town 's a-sleepin' snug and tight- him splashin' hence from scenes o' pride and sloth and gilded show, to some pore sufferer's bedside o' anguish, don't you know! xxxii er maybe dead o' _winter_--makes no odds to _doc_,--he's got to face the weather ef it takes the hide off! 'cause he'll not _lie_ out o' goin' and p'tend he's sick hisse'f--like _some_ 'at i could name 'at folks might send fer and they'd _never_ come! [illustration] xxxiii like pore phin hoover--when he goes to that last dance o' his! that chris'mus when his feet wuz froze- and doc saved all they is left of 'em--"'nough," as phin say now, "to _track_ me by, and be a adver_tise_ment, anyhow, o' what doc's done fer me!- xxxiv "when _he_ come--knife-and-saw"--phin say, "i knowed, ef i'd the spunk, 'at doc 'ud fix me up _some_ way, ef nothin' but my _trunk_ wuz left, he'd fasten _casters_ in, and have me, spick-and-span, a-skootin' round the streets ag'in as spry as any man!" xxxv doc sees a patient's _got_ to quit- he'll ease him down serene as dozin' off to sleep, and yit not dope him with mor-_pheen_.- he won't tell _what_--jes 'lows 'at he has "airn't the right to sing 'o grave, where is thy victery! o death, where is thy sting!'" xxxvi and, mind ye now!--it's not in scoff and scorn, by long degree, 'at doc gits things like that-un off: it's jes his _shority_ and total faith in life to come,- w'y, "from that _land o' bliss_," he says, "we'll haf to chuckle some, a-lookin' back at this!" [illustration] [illustration] xxxvii and, still in p'int, i mind, one _night o' 'nitiation_ at some secert lodge, 'at doc set right down on 'em, square and flat, when they mixed up some scriptur' and wuz _funnin'_-like--w'y, he lit in 'em with a rep'imand 'at ripped 'em, a to z! xxxviii and onc't--when gineral loafin'-place wuz old shoe-shop--and all the gang 'ud git in there and brace their backs ag'inst the wall and _settle_ questions that had went onsettled long enough,- like "wuz no heav'n--ner no torment"- _jes talkin' awful rough!_ [illustration] xxxix there wuz sloke haines and old ike knight and coonrod simmes--all three ag'inst the bible and the light, and scoutin' deity. "_science_," says ike, "it _dimonstrates_- it takes nobody's word- _scriptur'_ er not,--it _'vestigates_ ef sich things could occurred!" xl well, doc he heerd this,--he'd drapped in a minute, fer to git a tore-off heel pegged on agin,- and, as he stood on it and stomped and grinned, he says to ike, "i s'pose now, purty soon some lightnin'-bug, indignant-like, 'll ''vestigate' the moon!... xli "no, ike," says doc, "this world hain't saw no brains like yourn and mine with sense enough to grasp a law 'at takes a brain divine.- i've bared the thoughts of brains in doubt, and felt their finest pulse,- and mortal brains jes won't turn out omnipotent results!" xlii and doc he's got respects to spare the _rich_ as well as _pore_- says he, "i'd turn no _millionaire_ onsheltered from my door."- says he, "what's wealth to him in quest o' _honest_ friends to back and love him fer _hisse'f_?--not jes because he's made his jack!" [illustration] [illustration] xliii and childern.--_childern?_ lawzy-day! doc _worships_ 'em!--you call round at his house and _ast_ 'em!- they're a-_swarmin'_ there--that's all!- they're in his _li_b'ry--in best room- in kitchen--fur and near,- in office too, and, i p'sume, his operatin'-cheer! xliv you know they's men 'at _bees_ won't sting?- they's plaguey _few_,--but doc he's one o' _them_.--and same, i jing! with _childern_;--they jes flock round sifers _natchurl_!--in his lap, and in his pockets, too, and in his old fur mitts and cap, and _heart_ as warm and true! xlv it's cur'ous, too,--'cause doc hain't got no childern of his own- 'ceptin' the ones he's tuk and brought up, 'at's bin left alone. and orphans when their father died, er mother,--and doc he has he'pped their dyin' satisfied.- "the child shall live with me [illustration] [illustration] xlvi "and winniferd, my wife," he'd say, and stop right there, and cle'r his th'oat, and go on thinkin' way _some_ mother-hearts down here can't never feel _their own_ babe's face a-pressin' 'em, ner make their naked breasts a restin'-place fer any baby's sake. xlvii doc's _li_b'ry--as he calls it,--well, they's ha'f-a-dozen she'ves jam-full o' books--i couldn't tell _how_ many--count yourse'ves! _one whole she'f's_ works on medicine! and most the rest's about first settlement, and indians in here,--'fore we driv 'em out.- xlviii and plutarch's lives--and life also o' dan'el boone, and this here mungo park, and adam poe- jes all the _lives_ they is! and doc's got all the _novels_ out,- by scott and dickison and cooper.--and, i make no doubt, he's read 'em ever' one! [illustration: doc's lib'ry] xlix onc't, in his office, settin' there, with crowd o' eight er nine old neighbers with the time to spare, and doc a-feelin' fine, a man rid up from rollins, jes fer doc to write him out some blame p'scription--done, i guess, in minute, nigh about.-[illustration] l and _i_ says, "doc, you 'pear so spry, jes write me that recei't you have fer bein' _happy_ by,- fer that 'u'd shorely beat your _medicine_!" says i.--and quick as _s'cat!_ doc turned and writ and handed me: "go he'p the sick, and putt your heart in it." li and then, "a-talkin' furder 'bout that line o' thought," says he, "ef we'll jes do the work cut out and give' to you and me, we'll lack no joy, ner appetite, ner all we'd ort to eat, and sleep like childern ever' night- as puore and ca'm and sweet." lii doc _has_ bin 'cused o' _offishness_ and lack o' talkin' free and extry friendly; but he says, "i'm _'feard_ o' talk," says he,- "i've got," he says, "a natchurl turn fer talkin' fit to kill.- the best and hardest thing to learn is trick o' keepin' still." liii doc _kin_ smoke, and i s'pose he _might_ drink licker--jes fer fun. he says, "_you_ smoke, _you_ drink all right; but _i_ don't--neether one"- says, "i _like_ whiskey--'good old rye'- but like it in its place, like that-air warter in your eye, er nose there on your face." liv doc's bound to have his joke! the day he got that off on me i jes had sold a load o' hay at "scofield's livery," and tolled doc in the shed they kep' the hears't in, where i'd hid the stuff 'at got me "out o' step," as sifers said it did. lv doc hain't, to say, no "_rollin' stone_," and yit he hain't no hand fer '_cumulatin_'.--_home_'s his own, and scrap o' farmin'-land- enough to keep him out the way when folks is tuk down sick the suddentest--'most any day they want him 'special quick. [illustration] lvi and yit doc loves his practice; ner don't, wilful, want to slight no call--no matter who--how fur away--er day er night.- he loves his work--he loves his friends- june, winter, fall, and spring: his _lovin'_--facts is--never ends; he loves jes _ever_'thing.... lvii 'cept--_keepin' books_. he never sets down no accounts.--he hates, the worst of all, collectin' debts- the worst, the more he waits.- i've knowed him, when at last he _had_ to dun a man, to end by makin' him a loan--and mad he hadn't more to lend. lviii when pence's drug store ust to be in full blast, they wuz some doc's patients got things frekantly there, charged to him, i gum!- doc run a bill there, don't you know, and allus when he squared, he never questioned nothin',--so he had his feelin's spared. lix now sich as that, i hold and claim, hain't _'scusable_--it's not _perfessional!_--it's jes a shame 'at doc hisse'f hain't got no better _business_-sense! that's why lots 'd respect him more, and not give him the clean go-by fer _other_ doctors. shore! [illustration] lx this-here doc _glenn_, fer instance; er this little jack-leg _hall_;- they're _business_--folks respects 'em fer their _business_ more 'n all they ever knowed, er ever _will_, 'bout _medicine_.--yit they collect their money, k-yore er kill.- they're _business_, anyway! [illustration] lxi you ast jake dunn;--he's worked it out in _figgers_.--he kin show _stastistics_ how doc's airnt about _three_ fortunes in a row,- ever' ten-year' hand-runnin' straight- _three_ of 'em--_thirty_ year' 'at jake kin count and 'lucidate o' sifers' practice here. lxii yit--"praise the lord," says doc, "we've got our little home!" says he- "(it's railly _winniferd's_, but what she owns, she sheers with me.) we' got our little gyarden-spot, and peachand apple-trees, and stable, too, and chicken-lot, and eighteen hive' o' bees." [illustration] [blank page] lxiii _you_ call it anything you please, but it's _witchcraft_--the power 'at sifers has o' handlin' bees!- he'll watch 'em by the hour- mix right amongst 'em, mad and hot and swarmin'!--yit they won't sting _him_, er _want_ to--_'pear_ to not,- at least i know they _don't_. lxiv with _me_ and bees they's no _p'tense_ o' social-bility- a dad-burn bee 'u'd climb a fence to git a whack at _me_! i s'pose no thing 'at's _got_ a sting is railly satisfied it's _sharp_ enough, ontel, i jing! he's honed it on my hide! lxv and doc he's allus had a knack _inventin'_ things.--dee-vised a windlass wound its own se'f back as it run down: and s'prised their new hired girl with _clothes-line_, too, and _clothes-pins_, all in _one_: purt'-nigh all left fer _her_ to do wuz git her _primpin'_ done! lxvi and onc't, i mind, in airly spring, and tappin' sugar-trees, doc made a dad-burn little thing to sharpen _spiles_ with--these here wood'-spouts 'at the peth's punched out, and driv' in where they bore the auger-holes. he sharpened 'bout _a million_ spiles er more! [illustration] [illustration] lxvii and doc's the first man ever swung a _bucket_ on a tree instid o' _troughs_; and first man brung _grained_ sugar--so's 'at he could use it fer his coffee, and fer cookin', don't you know.- folks come clean up from pleasantland 'fore they'd _believe_ it, though! lxviii and all doc's stable-doors _on_locks and locks _theirse'ves_--and gates the same way;--all rigged up like clocks, with pulleys, wheels, and weights,- so, 's doc says, "drivin' _out_, er _in_, they'll _open_; and they'll _then_, all quiet-like, shet up ag'in like little gentlemen!" lxix and doc 'ud made a mighty good _detective_.--neighbers all will testify to _that_--er _could_, ef they wuz legal call: his theories on any crime is worth your listenin' to.- and he has hit 'em, many a time, 'long 'fore established true. [illustration] lxx at this young druggist wenfield pence's trial fer his life, on _primy faishy_ evidence o' pizonin' his wife, _doc's_ testimony saved and cle'red and 'quitted him and freed him so 's he never even 'peared cog-_ni_zant of the deed! lxxi the facts wuz--sifers testified,- at inquest he had found the stummick showed the woman _died_ o' pizon, but had downed the dos't _herse'f_,--because _amount_ and _cost_ o' drug imployed no _druggist_ would, on _no_ account, a-lavished and distroyed! lxxii doc tracked a blame-don burgler down, and _nailed_ the scamp, to boot, but told him ef he'd leave the town he wouldn't prosecute. he traced him by a tied-up thumb-print in fresh putty, where doc glazed it. jes _that's_ how he come to track him to his lair! lxxiii doc's jes a _leetle_ too inclined, _some_ thinks, to overlook the criminal and vicious kind we'd ort to bring to book and punish, 'thout no extry show o' _sympathizin'_, where _they_ hain't showed none fer _us_, you know. but he takes issue there: [illustration] [illustration] lxxiv doc argies 'at "the red-eyed law," as _he_ says, "ort to learn to lay a mighty leenient paw on deeds o' sich concern as only the good bein' knows the wherefore of, and spreads his hands above accused and sows his mercies on their heads." lxxv doc even holds 'at _murder_ hain't no crime we got a right to _hang_ a man fer--claims it's _taint_ o' _lunacy_, er _quite_.- "hold _sich_ a man responsibul fer murder," doc says,--"then, when _he's_ hung, where's the rope to pull them _sound-mind_ jurymen? lxxvi "it's in a nutshell--_all_ kin see," says doc,--"it's cle'r the _law's_ as ap' to err as you er me, and kill without a cause: the man most innocent o' sin _i_'ve saw, er _'spect_ to see, wuz servin' a life-sentence in the penitentchury." [illustration] lxxvii and doc's a whole hand at a _fire_!- directin' how and where to set your ladders, low er higher, and what first duties air,- like formin' warter-bucket-line; and best man in the town to chop holes in old roofs, and mine defective chimblies down: lxxviii er durin' any public crowd, mass-meetin', er big day, where ladies ortn't be allowed, as i've heerd sifers say,- when they's a suddent rush somewhere, it's doc's voice, ca'm and cle'r, says, "fall back, men, and give her air!- that's all she's faintin' fer." [illustration] lxxix the sorriest i ever feel fer doc is when some show er circus comes to town and he'll not git a chance to go. 'cause he jes natchurly _de_lights in circuses--clean down from tumblers, in their spangled tights, to trick-mule and old clown. lxxx and ever'body _knows_ it, too, how doc is, thataway!... i mind a circus onc't come through- wuz there myse'f that day.- ringmaster cracked his whip, you know, to start the ridin'--when in runs old clown and hollers "_whoa!_- ladies and gentlemen lxxxi "of this vast audience, i fain would make in_qui_ry cle'r, and learn, find out, and ascertain- _is doctor sifers here?_" and when some fool-voice bellers down: "he is! he's settin' in full view o' ye!" "_then_," says the clown, "_the circus may begin!_" lxxxii doc's got a _temper_; but, he says, he's learnt it which is boss, yit has to _watch_ it, more er less.... i never seen him cross but onc't, enough to make him swear;- milch-cow stepped on his toe, and doc ripped out "_i doggies!_"--there's the only case i know. lxxxiii doc says that's what your temper's fer- to hold back out o' view, and learn it never to occur on out ahead o' _you_.- "_you_ lead the way," says sifers--"git your _temper_ back in line- and _furdest_ back the _best_, ef it's as mean a one as mine!" [illustration] [blank page] lxxxiv he hates contentions--can't abide a wrangle er dispute o' any kind; and he 'ull slide out of a crowd and skoot up some back-alley 'fore he'll stand and listen to a furse when ary one's got upper-hand and t' other one's got worse. lxxxv doc says: "i 'spise, when pore and weak and awk'ard talkers fails, to see it's them with hardest cheek and loudest mouth prevails.- a' all-one-sided quarr'l'll make me _biased_, mighty near,- 'cause ginerly the side i take's the one i never hear." lxxxvi what 'peals to doc the most and best is "seein' folks _agreed_, and takin' ekal interest and universal heed o' ever'body _else's_ words and idies--same as we wuz glad and chirpy as the birds- jes as we'd _ort_ to be!" lxxxvii and _paterotic_! like to git doc started, full and fair, about the war, and why 't 'uz fit, and what wuz 'complished there; "and who wuz _wrong_," says doc, "er _right_, 't 'uz waste o' blood and tears, all prophesied in _black_ and _white_ fer years and years and years!" [illustration] lxxxviii and then he'll likely kind o' tetch on old john brown, and dwell on what _his_ warnin's wuz; and ketch his breath and cough, and tell on down to lincoln's death. and _then_- well, he jes chokes and quits with "i must go now, gentlemen!" and grabs his hat, and _gits_! lxxxix doc's own war-rickord wuzn't won so much in line o' fight as line o' work and nussin' done the wownded, day and night.- his wuz the hand, through dark and dawn, 'at bound their wownds, and laid as soft as their own mother's on their forreds when they prayed.... xc his wuz the face they saw the first- all dim, but smilin' bright, as they come to and knowed the worst, yit saw the old _red-white and-blue_ where doc had fixed it where they'd see it _wavin'_ still, out through the open tent-flap there, er 'cros't the winder-sill. xci and some's a-limpin' round here yit- a-waitin' last review,- 'u'd give the pensions 'at they git, and pawn their crutches, too, to he'p doc out, ef he wuz pressed financial'--same as he has _allus_ he'pped them when distressed- ner never tuk a fee. [illustration] [illustration] xcii doc never wuz much hand to pay attention to _p'tence_ and fuss-and-feathers and display in men o' prominence: "a railly _great_ man," sifers 'lows, "is not the out'ard dressed- all uniform, salutes and bows, and swellin' out his chest. xciii "i _met_ a great man onc't," doc says, "and shuk his hand," says he, "and _he_ come 'bout in _one_, i guess, o' disapp'intin' _me_- he talked so common-like, and brought his mind so cle'r in view and simple-like, i purt'-nigh thought, '_i'm_ best man o' the two!'" xciv yes-_sir_! doc's got convictions and old-fashioned kind o' ways and idies 'bout this glorious land o' freedom; and he'll raise his hat clean off, no matter where, jes ever' time he sees the stars and stripes a-floatin' there and flappin' in the breeze. [illustration] xcv and tunes like old "red, white and blue" 'll fairly drive him wild, played on the brass band, marchin' through the streets! jes like a child i've saw that man, his smile jes set, all kind o' pale and white, bare-headed, and his eyes all wet, yit dancin' with delight! xcvi and yit, that very man we see all trimbly, pale and wann, give him a case o' _surgery_, we'll see another man!- _we_'ll do the trimblin' then, and _we_'ll git white around the gills- he'll show us _nerve_ o' nerves, and he 'ull show us _skill_ o' skills! xcvii _then_ you could toot your horns and beat your drums and bang your guns, and wave your flags and march the street, and charge, all freedom's sons!- and sifers _then_, i bet my hat, 'u'd never flinch a hair, but, stiddy-handed, 'tend to that pore patient layin' there. xcviii and sifers' _eye_'s as stiddy as that hand o' his!--he'll shoot a' old-style rifle, like he has, and smallest bore, to boot, with any fancy rifles made to-day, er expert shot 'at works at shootin' like a _trade_- and all _some_ of 'em's got! [illustration] xcix let 'em go right out in the _woods_ with doc, and leave their "traps" and blame glass-balls and queensware-goods, and see how sifers draps a squirrel out the tallest tree.- and 'fore he fires he'll say jes where he'll hit him--yes, sir-_ee_! and he's hit thataway! c let 'em go out with him, i jucks! with fishin'-pole and gun,- and ekal chances, fish and ducks, and take the _rain_, er _sun_, jes as it pours, er as it blinds the eye-sight; _then_, i guess, 'at they'd acknowledge, in their minds, their disadvantages. ci and yit _he'd_ be the last man out to flop his wings and crow insultin'-like, and strut about above his fallen foe!- no-_sir_! the hand 'at tuk the wind out o' their sails 'ud be the very first they grabbed, and grinned to feel sich sympathy. cii doc gits off now and then and takes a huntin'-trip somewhere 'bout kankakee, up 'mongst the lakes- sometimes'll drift round there in his canoe a week er two; then paddle clean on back by way o' old wabash and blue, with fish--all he kin pack,-[illustration] ciii and wild ducks--some with feathers on 'em yit, and stuffed with grass. and neighbers--all knows he's bin _gone_- comes round and gits a bass- a great big double-breasted "rock," er "black," er maybe _pair_ half fills a' ordinary crock.... doc's _fish_'ll give out there civ long 'fore his _ducks_!--but folks'll smile and blandish him, and make him tell and _tell_ things!--all the while enjoy 'em jes fer sake o' pleasin' _him_; and then turn in and la'nch him from the start a-tellin' all the things ag'in they railly know by heart. [illustration] cv he's jes a _child_, 's what sifers is! and-sir, i'd ruther see that happy, childish face o' his, and puore simplicity, than any shape er style er plan o' mortals otherwise- with perfect faith in god and man a-shinin' in his eyes. [illustration] tamám. * * * * * transcriber's note: all variations in spelling, inconsistent hyphenation and spelling have been retained as they appear in the original text. this ebook was produced by david schwan <davidsch@earthlink.net>. the rubáiyát of omar khayyám jr. translated from the original bornese into english verse by wallace irwin author of "the love sonnets of a hoodlum," with eight illustrations and cover design by gelett burgess introduction since the publication of edward fitzgerald's classic translation of the rubaiyat in 1851 or rather since its general popularity several years later poets minor and major have been rendering the sincerest form of flattery to the genius of the irishman who brought persia into the best regulated families. unfortunately there was only one omar and there were scores of imitators who, in order to make the astronomer go round, were obliged to draw him out to the thinness of balzac's magic skin. while all this was going on, the present editor was forced to conclude that the burning literary need was not for more translators, but for more omars to translate; and what was his surprise to note that the work of a later and superior omar khayyam was lying undiscovered in the wilds of borneo! here, indeed, was a sensation in the world of letters a revelation as thrilling as the disinterment of ossian's forgotten songs the discovery of an unsubmerged atlantis. while some stout cortez more worthy than the editor might have stood on this new darien and gazed over the sleeping demesne of omar khayyam, jr., he had, so to speak, the advantage of being first on the ground, and to him fell the duty, nolens volens, of lifting the rare philosophy out of the erebus that had so long cloaked it in obscurity. it is still a matter of surprise to the editor that the discovery of these rubaiyat should have been left to this late date, when in sentiment and philosophy they have points of superiority over the quatrains of the first omar of naishapur. the genius of the east has, indeed, ever been slow to reveal itself in the west. it took a crusade to bring to our knowledge anything of the schöner geist of the orient; and it was not until the day of matthew arnold that the epic of persia[1] was brought into the proper realm of english poesy. what wonder, then, that not until the first omaric madness had passed away were the rubaiyat of omar khayyam, jr., lifted into the light after an infinity of sudor et labor spent in excavating under the 9,000 irregular verbs, 80 declensions, and 41 exceptions to every rule which go to make the ancient mango-bornese dialect in which the poem was originally written, foremost among the dead languages! although little is known of the life of omar khayyam the elder, the details of his private career are far more complete than those of his son, omar khayyam, jr. in fact, many historians have been so careless as to have entirely omitted mention of the existence of such a person as the younger omar. comparative records of the two languages, however, show plainly how the mantle was handed from the father to the son, and how it became the commendable duty of the second generation to correct and improve upon the first. omar khayyam died in the early part of the eleventh century, having sold his poems profitably, with the proceeds of which he established taverns throughout the length and breadth of persia. omar died in the height of his popularity, but shortly after his death the city of naishapur became a temperance town. even yet the younger omar might have lived and sung at naishapur had not a fanatical sect of sufi women, taking advantage of the increasing respectability of the once jovial city, risen in a body against the house of omar and literally razed it to the ground with the aid of hatchets, which were at that time the peculiar weapon of the sex and sect. it is said that the younger omar, who was then a youth, was obliged to flee from the wrath of the good government propagandists and to take abode in a distant city. for some time he wandered about persia in a destitute condition, plying the hereditary trade of tent-maker, but at length poverty compelled him to quit his native country for good and to try his fortunes in a land so remote that the dissolute record of his parent could no longer hound him. borneo was the island to which the poet fled, and here the historian finds him some years later prospering in the world's goods and greatly reverenced by the inhabitants. although omar, jr., was undoubtedly the greatest man that borneo has yet produced, he must not be confused in the mind of the reader with the wild man of borneo, who, although himself a poet, was a man of far less culture than the author of the present rubaiyat. while not a good templar, the younger omar showed a commendable tendency toward reform. the sensitive soul of the poet was ever cankered with the thought that his father's jovial habits had put him in a false position, and that it was his filial duty to retrieve the family reputation. it was his life work to inculcate into the semi-barbaric minds of the people with whom he had taken abode the thought that the alcoholic pleasures of his father were false joys, and that (as sung in number vi), "there's comfort only in the smoking car." in tobacco the son found a lasting and comparatively harmless substitute for the wine, which, none can doubt, caused the elder omar to complain so bitterly, "indeed, the idols i have loved so long have done my credit in men's eyes much wrong.'' note the cheerfulness with which the son answers the father in a stanza which may be taken as a key to his reformatory philosophy, "o foozied poetasters, fogged with wine, who to your orgies bid the muses nine, go bid them then, but leave to me, the tenth whose name is nicotine, for she is mine!'' quite in accordance with his policy of improving on his father's rakish muse was the frequent endorsement of the beautiful and harmless practice of kissing. the kiss is mentioned some forty-eight times in the present work, and in the nine hundred untranslated rubaiyat, two hundred and ten more kisses occur, making a grand total of two hundred and fifty-eight omaric kisses "enough! of kisses can there be enough?" it may be truly said that the father left the discovery of woman to his son, for nowhere in the rubaiyat of naishapur's poet is full justice done to the charms of the fair. even in his most ardent passages old omar uttered no more than a eulogy to friendship. where the philosophy of the elder omar was bacchanalian and epicurean, that of the son was tobacchanalian and eclectic, allowing excess only in moderation, as it were, and countenancing nothing more violent than poetic license. however, we are led to believe that the tastes of his time called for a certain mild sensuality as the gustatio to a feast of reason, and had omar khayyam lived in our own day he would doubtless have agreed with a reverend erlington and bosworth professor in the university of cambridge who boldly asserts that the literature redolent of nothing but the glories of asceticism "deserves the credit due to goodness of intention, and nothing else." due doubtless to the preservative influence of smoke omar khayyam, jr., was enabled to live to the hale age of one hundred and seven, and to go to an apotheosis fully worthy his greatness. among the native chroniclers the quatrain (number xcviii) "then let the balmed tobacco be my sheath, the ardent weed above me and beneath, and let me like a living incense rise, a fifty-cent cigar between my teeth," has been the source of much relentless debate. by some it is held that this stanza is prophetic in its nature, foreseeing the transcendent miracle of the poet's death; by others it is as stoutly maintained that the poet in the above lines decreed that his work should be preserved and handed down to posterity in a wrapping of tobacco. the editor is inclined to the belief that there is much truth in both opinions, for the parchment, when it came to hand, was stained and scented from its wrappings of virginia and perique; and the manner of the poet's death marks number xci as another remarkable instance of the clairvoyance of the muse. to quote from the quaint words of the native chronicler: "for while the volcanic singer was seated one day in the shade of a banyan tree, fresh cigars and abandoned stumps surrounding him like the little hills that climb the mountain, he nodded and fell asleep, still puffing lustily at a panatella, sweet and black. now the poet's beard was long and his sleep deep, and as the weed grew shorter with each ecstatic puff, the little brand of fire drew closer and closer to the beautiful hairy mantle that fell from the poet's chin. that day the island was wrapped in a light gauze of blue mist, an exotic smoke that was a blessing to the nostrils. it suffused the whole island from end to end, and reminded the happy inhabitants of the cigars of nirvana, grown in some plantation of the blessed. when the smoke had passed and our heads were cleared of the narcotic fumes, we hastened to the spot where our good master had loved to sit; but there naught remained but a great heap of white ashes, sitting among the pipes and cigars that had inspired his song. thus he died as he lived, an ardent smoker." w. i. [1] "sohrab and rustam'' being a fragment of the persian epic. the rubáiyát of omar khayyám, jr. he lets me have good tobacco, and he does not sophisticate it with sack-lees or oil, nor washes it in muscadel and grains, nor buries it in gravel underground, wrapped up in greasy leather or sour clouts; but keeps it in fine lily-pots, that, opened, smell like conserve of roses or french beans. jonson. (the alchemist.) therefore, o love, because to all life's plans and projects some promotion thou impartest, thou still hast many zealous artisans, tho' not one artist. owen meredith. (marah.) the rubáiyát of omar khayyám, jr. i avaunt, acerbid brat of death, that sours the milk of life and blasts the nascent flowers! back to your morbid, mouldering cairns, and let me do my worrying in office hours! ii what though gorgona at the portal knocks and charms the squamiest serpent in her locks i wear tobacchanalian wreaths of smoke and there are more perfectos in the box. iii now the new year, reviving old desires, the craving phoenix rises from its fires. indeed, indeed repentance oft i swore, but last year's pledge with this new year expires. iv mark how havana's sensuous-philtred mead dispels the cackling hag of night at need, and, foggy-aureoled, the smoke reveals the poppy flowers that blossom from the weed. v come, fill the pipe, and in the fire of spring the cuban leaves upon the embers fling, that in its incense i may sermonize on woman's ways and all that sort of thing. vi while the tired dog watch hailed the sea-merged star i heard the voice of travellers from afar making lament with many an ivory yawn, "there's comfort only in the smoking car!" vii see, heavenly zamperina, damselish, the day has broken night's unwholesome dish, the lark is up betimes to hail the dawn, the early worm is up to catch the fish. viii let us infest the lintel of the gloam and chase the steeds from morning's hippodrome, and let aurora's wastrel wanderings be a good excuse to stay away from home. ix ah, love, th' invisible buskin at the gate illumes your eyes that languored gaze and wait and in their incandescence seem to ask the world-old question: "is my hat on straight?" x than basilisk or nenuphar more fair, your locks with countless glistening pendants glare, then as the fountain patters to the brim a hundred hairpins tumble from your hair. xi so let them scatter, jangled in duress. what reckons love of hairpins more or less? guard well your heart and let the hairpins go to lose your heart were arrant carelessness. xii acephalous time to febrous lengths bestirred strips the lush blossom and outstrips the bird, makes sweet the wine i cannot say the same of women or of songs that i have heard. xiii with me along that mezzotinted zone where hymen spring is hymning to his own see how grave mahmud gambols on the glebe and hangs the sign to let upon his throne! xiv a grand piano underneath the bough, a gramophone, a chinese gong, and thou trying to sing an anthem off the key oh, paradise were wilderness enow? xv chromatic catches troll from yonder hill where bill to beak the wren and whip-poor-will in deed and truth beshrew the beldam life who kisses first and then presents the bill. xvi as one who by the sphinx delays a space and on her shoulder finds a resting place, breathes an awed question in her stupored ear. and lights a sulphur match upon her face, xvii so unto venus' oracle in turn i leaned the secret of my love to learn. the answering riddle came: "she loves you, yes, in just proportion to the sum you earn." xviii some by eolian aloes borne along swound on the dulcimer's reverbrant thong; but i, who make my mecca in a kiss, begrudge the lips that waste their time in song. xix some clamour much for kisses, some for few, others deep sup, their thirstings to renew, and mumble into maunderings, but i, in kissing, scorn the how much for the who. xx svelte zamperina's lips incarnadine, and languored lifting, fasten unto mine, their rubric message giving hint and clew how frequently a kiss in time saves nine. xxi then swart gorgona rears her snaky zone demanding sip of lip in poisonous tone while back abaft i cower, for well i wot a face like that needs not a chaperone. xxii the fair of vanity has many a booth to sell its spangled wares of age and youth; and there have i beheld the wordlings buy their paris gowns to clothe the naked truth. xxiii but cannot beauty render sin the less when aphroditan damosels transgress, making the error lovely with the thought a dimple is its own forgiviness? xxiv into your soul may truculent daemons pass all hugger-mugger in that dun morass, but while the rouge is mantling to your cheek, nothing will chide you in your looking-glass. xxv unto the glass gorgona torques her eye beholding there ten myriad fragments fly, the parts dispersing with lugubrious din who will invent a mirror that will lie? xxvi oft have i heard the cant of flattering friend admire my forehead's apollonic bend, then to the glass i've wreathed my sad regard the looking-glass is candid to the end. xxvii look to the rose who, as i pass her by, breathes the fond attar-musk up to the sky, spreading her silken blushes does she know that i have come to smell and not to buy? xxviii ah, rose, assume a gentle avarice and hoard the soft allurements that entice; for one will come who holds the golden means to buy your blushes at the standard price. xxix down to the deeps of sheol, anguish-torn, i've hurtled beauty to a state forlorn, beauty the curse, yet if a curse it be, with what an equanimity 'tis borne! xxx what shallow guerdon of terrestrial strife, for him who quits this donjon keep of life, to read the world's expectant epitaph: "he left a handsome widow in his wife!" xxxi before the dawn's encroachment i awoke and heard again the bodeful adage spoke: society engagements are like eggs you know not what's inside them till they're broke. xxxii creation stands between the won't and will, yes, and that doubt infinitude might fill it took nine tailors once to make a man; it took nine more to make him pay the bill. xxxiii the thunderbolts of heaven's potent sway gather and break, but never can dismay when indestructible resistless meets, the please remit confronts the cannot pay. xxxiv and true as star and star pursue their course must rapture crumb to ashes of remorse: how many a marriage license that is writ has proved a legal permit to divorce! xxxv myself when young did eagerly frequent a woman's club and heard great argument of crazy cults and creeds; but evermore 'twas by much gossip of the fashions rent. xxxvi in them the seed of wisdom did i sow, speaking of things a woman ought to know. "better than years with ibsen spent," i said, "one evening with my friend, boccacio." xxxvii and that same bard who strews rhythmatic daisies and many a female heart discreetly crazes, seek him not out, fair maid, for oftentimes his head is vastly balder than his phrases. xxxviii upon the book of time the autocrat has writ in stars the fiery idem stat, lettered the riddle in the lambent suns rather write than read a book like that. xxxix better a meager tome to sow the seed of errant thought and fancy's lantern feed; better a penny dreadful than the book that sends you into slumber when you read. xl and better still than these gorglorious things the briar's gracious narcotine that clings to my ambrosial temples till i wear a halo-crown of vapoured vortex rings. xli virginia for the pipe's sweet charity, havana for cigars to solace me, and turkey for the transient cigarette was all i learned of my geography. xlii cigars i puff devoutly when i may, and when i can the pipe, another day, and when i must i browse on cigarettes then, as you love me, take the stubs away! xliii waste not your weed, the leaves are all too few it's nectar to defile as others do ah, shun the solecism and the plug for cattle-kings and stevedores to chew. xliv once in a dream 'twas granted unto me the open gates of paradise to see, while israfel loud chanted from the void, "this vision comes of pie; not piety!" xlv belovèd, smoke my amber pipe awhile and from its bowl narcotic joys beguile, suck lethe from its stem what though i trace a certain greenish pallour in your smile? xlvi strange is it not that, oft her dolour cloaking in hurried puffs with nonchalance provoking, no woman reads that apodictic ode "how to be happy even though you're smoking?" xlvii look not so wild, the fit will pass away no barbèd anguish chooses long to stay, and only in the pipe is friendship found that waxes strong and stronger day by day. xlviii come, rest your head if earth rotative seems and close your lids from these o'er wakeful gleams although your palate cringe you shall not shrink within the kitchen of the house of dreams. xlix murkly i muse on that transcendent state where all my pasts within the future wait if i for heavenly marriages am marked, oh what a turk i'll be beyond the gate! l minnie and maud across my flight will wing, birdie and bess and gwendolyn will bring a score of other pasts and make a scene, to say the least, a bit embarrassing. li some i have known are jabbering in hell, others have passed in heaven's reward to dwell; so, when my soul has flitted, must i find the same bland bores, the same old tales to tell. lii there is the thought beneath whose vampire tooth the soul outshrieks at such unseemly sooth: the solemn bore still waits beyond the grave ah, let me stay and taste undying youth! liii into some secret, migrant realm without, by the dun cloak of darkness wrapped about, or by ringed saturn's swirl thou may'st be hid in vain: be sure the bore will find you out. liv were't not a shame, were't not a shame i say, that in this sorry brotherhood of clay no necromance the philtre can distil to keep mosquitoes, death and bores away? lv northly or southly may i ride or walk beneath the glacial crag or fronded stalk, but still the spectre gibbers in my ears and drowns my spirits in a sea of talk. lvi the noun and verb he scatters without end and adjectives to pronouns horror lend ah, fumid pipe, i thank you hour by hour that you have never learned to talk, my friend! lvii better the pleasaunce-breathing pipe for me than lodgment in that great menagerie where birds of aureate plumage preen their quills and social lions growl above their tea. lviii the tea, that in the magic of its flow anoints the tongue to wag of so-and-so, to gabble garbled garrulousness ere you lay the cup and saucer down and go. lix and we that now make madness in the room where last week's lion had his little boom ourselves must go and leave that flattering din and let them brew another tea for whom? lx they say the lion and the ladies keep the court where johnson jested and drank deep; now minor poets label new cigars and sell their reputations passing cheap. lxi o foozled poetasters, fogged with wine, who to your orgies bid the muses nine, go bid them, then, but leave to me the tenth, whose name is nicotine, for she is mine! lxii peace to the pipe, that silent infidel, whose spiral-twisted coils discretion spell! how many kisses has he seen me give, how many take and yet he will not tell. lxiii dumbly he saw the rosy-tinted bliss when zamperina kissed her maiden kiss, her innocence betraying in the cry, "oh, how can you respect me after this?" lxiv another time, all dalliant and slow, to those deluscious lips i bended low, and at the second kiss she only said, "do you do this to every girl you know?" lxv unto that flowery cup i bent once more; again she showed no seeming to abhor, but at the third kiss all she asked or wist was, "is this all you come to see me for?" lxvi but one there is more sage in that caress, raising no mawkish pennant of distress, but when i tip the osculative brim accepts the kiss in silent thankfulness. lxvii her lips no questions ask content is hers if her artistic spirit wakes and stirs, nor recks of those romances heretofore engagements where i won my brazen spurs. lxviii a microbe lingers in a kiss, you say? yes, but he nibbles in a pleasant way. rather than in the cup and telephone better to catch him kissing and be gay. lxix enough of kisses, whose ecstatic stuff endures an age and flickers in a puff, that undeservèd web of foibled toys, enough of kisses can there be enough? lxx what, then, of him in dizzy heights profound who scans the zenith's constellated round? alas! who goes ballooning to the stars too often runs his trade into the ground. lxxi little we learn beyond the a b c except d e f g h i it be, or j k l m n o p q r and then s t u v w x y z. lxxii a solon ponders till his years are great on sway of power and magnitude of state, then in his age he leaves the questions to the wisdom of the sweet girl graduate. lxxiii the delphic gaberdine avails me not when laurels fester into loathly rot, and in his starry shroud the poet starves while growing roses in a cabbage lot. lxxiv forgive, ye wise, the oaf who nothing knows and glories in the bubbles that he blows, and while you wrestle blindly with the world, he whistles on his fingers and his toes. lxxv what good to dread the storm's impending black with woful ululation and "alack!" the garbled tenor of a sore despite can never bring your lost umbrella back. lxxvi so what of secrets mouthed beneath the rose, rumorous badinage of these and those? the lady lodger in the flat upstairs knows all you do and say she knows she knows! lxxvii she knows, but though her cavernous ears are sage, nought can she fathom of one glyphic page, nought from a woman's record can she tell i still must guess at zamperina's age. lxxviii time only knows, whose spinning axes quake the astral turrets where the patient wake to count the stars and planets as they pass oh, what a task for one to undertake! lxxix ask not behind my moated soul austere one moment on my secret self to peer already you have seen sufficient there to keep me in a wholesome state of fear. lxxx nay, zamperina, save those agate eyes from shrewd empiric paths where knowledge lies; throw truth to the unlovely, when to you it were a rash unwisdom to be wise. lxxxi oh, like the smoke that rises and is gone, let your own spirit lift from dawn to dawn and so bestartle ennui that at last even the grave will quite forget to yawn! * * * * * * * lxxxii as hooded eve behind her rosy bars her soft kinoon betinkled to the stars, again to the tobacconist's i came and stood among the stogies and cigars. lxxxiii some were whose scent exhaled the asphodel, and some whose smoke gave forth a roseate smell, and some poor weeds that told you at a whiff how they were made to give away, not sell. lxxxiv one said, "and can no wiser law revoke the edict that foredestined me to smoke, my stump to be a byword and a jest? but if a jest i fail to see the joke." lxxxv a second murmured, "surely we might learn some undiminished anodyne to burn, for ne'er a smoker puffed a good cigar but wished another like it might return." lxxxvi after a momentary silence spake a stogie of a bileful pittsburg make; "the one who puffs my wrappings to the end will never ask my memory to awake." lxxxvii then spake a panatela finely rolled, "if to a fiery doom i must be sold, then let it be my happy fate to find a high-born mouth whose teeth are filled with gold." lxxxviii an auburn weed uprose as one surprised. "if for a martyr's death i so am prized, may not my hallowed ashes be preserved that saint cigar i may be canonized?" lxxxix "well," murmured one, "when in my ashen shroud my stump descends to meet the shrieking crowd, i yet may know that in the fire of hell there stands no placard, 'smoking not allowed.'" xc and while this corvine clatter still endured a lambent flame, by fragrant promise lured, crept in, as all the inmates cried amain, "the shop's afire and we are uninsured!" xci arise, then, zamperina, day grows old, the shepherd pipes his sundered flocks to fold, your garments quail and ripple in the chill, your pagan nose empurples with the cold. xcii the how is swiftly mingling with the when, the what describes its orbit's round, and then of why or which nor mite nor mote delays to fall in line and get mixed up again. xciii i must not heed that elemental whirl where arc on arc the trainèd planets swirl the astronomic marvels have no charm for him who walks the gloaming with his girl. xciv the keeper of the sky has hasped his doors, forgetting zal's accumulative roars, and drunk with night's elixir, prone he lies in warp of dreamless sleep and woof of snores. xcv so must i those soporic echoes woo when, all my intermittent joyaunce through, each thrill must be a threnod, as i know that they who kiss can teach me nothing new. xcvi indeed, indeed, repentance oft before i swore, but was i smoking when i swore? and ever and anon i made resolve and sealed the holy pledge with one puff more. xcvii o thou who sought our fathers to enslave and ev'n the pipe to walter raleigh gave, i love you still for your redeeming vice and shower tobacco leaves upon your grave! xcviii then let the balmed tobacco be my sheath, the ardent weed above me and beneath, and let me like a living incense rise, a fifty-cent cigar between my teeth. xcix havana's witch-fog murks my horoscope until my dream-enamoured senses grope towards the light, where in her opal shrine smiles hopefulness, the great reward of hope. * * * * * * * c let those who to this daedal valley throng and by my tumid ashes pass along, let them be glad with this consoling thought: i got a market value for my song. ci and some expectant devotee who knocks at that poor house where once i rent my locks, in vain may seek a last cigar and find my muse asleep within an empty box. hammam notes i "sours the milk of life;" thunderstorms, earthquakes and artificial commotions of the earth are popularly and quasi-scientifically believed to have the effect of turning milk from sweet to sour; so here the milk of life is soured by the sudden advent of the brat of death (care, perhaps, who is said to have killed a cat on one occasion). by some critics it is held that the figure might have been enrichened by the substitution of the cream of life for the milk of life. ii gorgona is referred to but three times in the present work, in rubs ii, xxi and xxvi. number ii would lead us to believe that the poet used her figuratively as sorrow or remorse; but the text of xxi and xxvi point another conclusion. the latter rubaiyat tell us forcefully that gorgona was but too real and that her unloveliness was a sore trial to the fine attunement of the poet's nerves. ii such words as "tobacchanalian" (compounded from tobacco and bacchanalian) lewis carrol claimed as his own under the title of "portmanteau words," another example of the antiquity of modernity. vii "the early worm is up to catch the fish;" the worm, caught as bait, will in turn serve as captor for some luckless fish. this, possibly, is the bornese version of our own proverb, "the early bird catches the worm." ix "the invisible buskin at the gate" probably refers to the shoe left outside of temples and mosques in the orient. the temple here meant is doubtless the temple of love, and the fact of the buskin being invisible illumes the eyes of the damosel who knows that the devotee is worshiping at the shrine of love. x than basilisk or nenuphar; the poet has given us in two words the dual aspect of woman; flowerlike in repose, serpentine in action. x pendants; who has not noted a hairpin in the act of falling, hanging for a moment, as though loth to leave its gentle habitation? omar khayyam, jr., was an observer of small things as well as great. x a hundred hairpins; aspirates are used liberally in this line, probably to give the effect of falling hairpins. xiii hymen spring; hymen, while not the god of husbandry, was the accepted deity of marriage; hence spring, the incorrigible match-maker, may very, easily be identified with hymen. note the pleasing alliteration of the words hymen and hymning brought so close together. xviii eolian aloes; aloes, according to oscar wilde in the picture of dorian grey, have the power of banishing melancholy wherever their perfume penetrates. eolian aloes may be the exotic melodies that drive care from the mind. xxiii forgiviness; the reader will probably regard this spelling of forgiveness somewhat unusual, and the editor freely confesses that he has no authority for such usage. but since fitzgerald has coined enow for the sake of a rhyme, the editor hopes that he will be forgiven his forgiviness. xxix with what an equanimity; there is an untranslated quatrain to the effect that ugliness is the only sin that can make a woman ashamed to look her mirror in the face. xxv the breaking of the glass at the gaze of gorgona, as well as the squamiest serpent in her locks, mentioned in ii, give us a clew as to the derivation of her name from that of the gorgon, medusa, whose uncomeliness was so intense as to petrify all that met her gaze. on the other hand, the glance of gorgona seemed to be rather explosive than congealing. xxv torques; this word (like squamiest) is derived directly from the latin, to be used in this work. they are not properly english words, but the editor intends they shall become so in the near future. xxvi wreathed is used in obsolete english and especially in spenser, to mean turned or bent. xxvii attar-musk; attar is the persian word for druggist, but we hesitate to believe that the poet would attribute an artificial perfume to the rose. xxxv myself when young; this stanza is supposed to be biographical in its intent. it is known that before the anti-omaric uprising in naishapur, and even during his errant tour through persia, the younger omar was socially lionized,, becoming much sought after. it may seem improbable that omar, jr., as a member of the sterner sex, should have been admitted as a regular frequenter of women's clubs, but it must be remembered that then, even as in our own day, men were eagerly prized as lecturers on subjects of interest to women. omar, jr., appeared for several seasons before the women's clubs of naishapur, giving recitations and readings from his father's works. xxxvi ibsen boccacio; for a persian poet of so remote a date, omar khayyam, jr., showed a remarkable knowledge of modern as well as mediaeval literature. lvii that great menagerie; another reference to his experience as a social lion is found here, as in the three rubaiyat following. the gabble garbled garrulousness (the familiar "gobble, gabble and git, crystallized into the higher form of expression) indicates that the narcotic effect of tea on womankind was much the same in omar's time as in ours. lxi leave to me the tenth; the discovery of a tenth muse puts the younger omar on an equal footing with his father in science as well as in poetry. the editor has found that upon quitting forever his native persia, omar khayyam, jr., brought to borneo many of the more refined sciences. in his hereditary profession, astronomy, he claims the rare distinction of having first made observations through the medium of a wine-glass. his long fidelity to this method was rewarded by some remarkable results, for his private journals show that on several occasions he was able to discern as many as eight sister satellites swimming in eccentric orbits around the moon a discovery which our much-vaunted modern science has never been able to equal or even to approach. lxvii her lips no questions ask; "lips with kissing forfeit no favour; nay, they increase as the moon doth ever." boccacio. (decameron.) lxxi the a b c; this rubái'y, though indescribably beautiful in the original, is somewhat too involved for us to grasp the meaning at one reading. perhaps, in thus weaving the alphabet into his numbers, it was the purpose of the poet to give promise of the ultimate attainment of the alpha and omega of knowledge. perhaps the stanza, on the other hand, was merely intended as a pretty poetical conceit, an exercise in metrical ingenuity. if the latter theory holds good, what a pity it would seem that these rubaiyat were not originally written in chinese, the infinite alphabet of which language would have furnished material for the present work and several revised editions also! lxxiii while growing roses in a cabbage lot; confusing, perhaps at first reading, but here again may the student employ the device of symbolism with great advantage. the roses may be taken for the flowers of fancy, the cabbage lot for the field of sordid reality. as a staple vegetable, the rose can never compete with the cabbage. lxxiv he whistles on his fingers and his toes; there are many who may very justly consider this line as undignified and unrefined; but such readers should always remember that these quatrains may be taken as purely symbolical. thus the fingers and toes may be regarded as mental aspects and the whistle as whatever best suits the reader. lxxxiii asphodel; the fabled flower of immortality; also a brand of cigar much favoured by the younger omar. lxxxv anodyne; some translations have this iodine. xciii the how is swiftly mingling with the when, etc.; the great questions, how, what and when, are being withdrawn unanswered by the dnulovpec, who is responsible for their propounding. green bays. verses and parodies. by arthur thomas quiller-couch (q). et, si non alium late jactaret odorem laurus erat. most of the verses in this volume were written at oxford, and first appeared in the 'oxford magazine.' a few are reprinted from 'the speaker' and a few from certain works of fiction published by messrs. cassell and co. q. contents. in a college garden. the splendid spur. the white moth. irish melodies i. tim the dragoon. ii. kenmare river. lady jane (sapphics). a triolet. an oath. upon graciosa, walking and talking. written upon love's frontier-post. titania. measure for measure. retrospection. why this volume is so thin. nugae oxonienses. twilight. willaloo. the sair stroke. the doom of the esquire bedell. 'behold! i am not one that goes to lectures.' caliban upon rudiments. solvitur acris hiemps. a letter. occasional verses. anecdote for fathers. unity put quarterly. fire! de tea fabula. l'envoi (as i laye a-dreamynge). in a college garden. senex. saye, cushat, callynge from the brake, what ayles thee soe to pyne? thy carefulle heart shall cease to ake when dayes be fyne and greene thynges twyne: saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne? turtur. naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late, what ayles thee thus to chyde? my love is fled by garden-gate; since lammas-tyde i wayte my bryde. saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde? senex. loe! i am he, the 'lonelie manne,' of time forgotten quite, that no remembered face may scanne- sadde eremyte, i wayte tonyghte pale death, nor any other wyghte. o cushat, cushat, callynge lowe, goe waken time from sleepe: goe whysper in his ear, that soe his besom sweepe me to that heape where all my recollections keepe. hath he forgott? or did i viewe a ghostlye companye this even, by the dismalle yewe, of faces three that beckoned mee to land where no repynynges bee? o harrye, harrye, tom and dicke, each lost companion! why loyter i among the quicke, when ye are gonne? shalle i alone delayinge crye 'anon, anon'? naye, let the spyder have my gowne, to brayde therein her veste. my cappe shal serve, now i 'goe downe,' for mouse's neste. loe! this is best. i care not, soe i gayne my reste. the splendid spur. not on the neck of prince or hound, nor on a woman's finger twin'd, may gold from the deriding ground keep sacred that we sacred bind: only the heel of splendid steel shall stand secure on sliding fate, when golden navies weep their freight. the scarlet hat, the laurell'd stave are measures, not the springs, of worth; in a wife's lap, as in a grave, man's airy notions mix with earth. seek other spur bravely to stir the dust in this loud world, and tread alp-high among the whisp'ring dead. _trust in thyself_,--then spur amain: so shall charybdis wear a grace, grim aetna laugh, the libyan plain take roses to her shrivell'd face. this orb--this round of sight and sound- count it the lists that god hath built for haughty hearts to ride a-tilt. the white moth. _if a leaf rustled, she would start: and yet she died, a year ago. how had so frail a thing the heart to journey where she trembled so? and do they turn and turn in fright, those little feet, in so much night?_ the light above the poet's head streamed on the page and on the cloth, and twice and thrice there buffeted on the black pane a white-wing'd moth; 'twas annie's soul that beat outside and 'open, open, open!' cried: 'i could not find the way to god; there were too many flaming suns for signposts, and the fearful road led over wastes where millions of tangled comets hissed and burned- i was bewilder'd and i turned. 'o, it was easy then! i knew your window and no star beside. look up, and take me back to you!' --he rose and thrust the window wide. 'twas but because his brain was hot with rhyming; for he heard her not. but poets polishing a phrase show anger over trivial things; and as she blundered in the blaze towards him, on ecstatic wings, he raised a hand and smote her dead; then wrote '_that i had died instead!_' irish melodies. i. tim the dragoon (from 'troy town') be aisy an' list to a chune that's sung of bowld tim the dragoon- sure, 'twas he'd niver miss to be stalin' a kiss, or a brace, by the light of the moon- aroon- wid a wink at the man in the moon! rest his sowl where the daisies grow thick; for he's gone from the land of the quick: but he's still makin' love to the leddies above, an' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick- avick- niver doubt but he'll tache 'em the thrick! 'tis by tim the dear saints'll set sthore, and 'ull thrate him to whisky galore: for they 've only to sip but the tip of his lip an' bedad! they'll be askin' for more- asthore- by the powers, they'll be shoutin' 'ancore!' irish melodies. ii. kenmare river. 'tis pretty to be in ballinderry, 'tis pretty to be in ballindoon, but 'tis prettier far in county kerry coortin' under the bran' new moon, aroon, aroon! 'twas there by the bosom of blue killarney they came by the hundther' a-coortin' me; sure i was the one to give back their blarney, an' merry was i to be fancy-free. but niver a step in the lot was lighter, an' divvle a boulder among the bhoys, than phelim o'shea, me dynamither, me illigant arthist in clock-work toys. 'twas all for love he would bring his figgers of iminent statesmen, in toy machines, an' hould me hand as he pulled the thriggers an' scattered the thraytors to smithereens. an' to see the queen in her crystial pallus fly up to the roof, an' the windeys broke! and all with divvle a trace of malus,- but he was the bhoy that enjoyed his joke! then o, but his cheek would flush, an' 'bridget,' he 'd say, 'will yez love me?' but i 'd be coy and answer him, 'arrah now, dear, don't fidget!' though at heart i loved him, me arthist bhoy! one night we stood by the kenmare river, an' 'bridget, creina, now whist,' said he, 'i'll be goin' to-night, an' may be for iver; open your arms at the last to me.' 'twas there by the banks of the kenmare river he took in his hands me white, white face, an' we kissed our first an' our last for iver- for phelim o'shea is disparsed in space. 'twas pretty to be by blue killarney, 'twas pretty to hear the linnets's call, but whist! for i cannot attind their blarney, nor whistle in answer at all, at all. for the voice that he swore 'ud out-call the linnet's is cracked intoirely, and out of chune, since the clock-work missed it by thirteen minutes an' scattered me phelim around the moon, aroon, aroon! lady jane. sapphics. down the green hill-side fro' the castle window lady jane spied bill amaranth a-workin'; day by day watched him go about his ample nursery garden. cabbages thriv'd there, wi' a mort o' green-stuff- kidney beans, broad beans, onions, tomatoes, artichokes, seakale, vegetable marrows, early potatoes. lady jane cared not very much for all these: what she cared much for was a glimpse o' willum strippin' his brown arms wi' a view to horti -cultural effort. little guessed willum, never extra-vain, that up the green hill-side, i' the gloomy castle, feminine eyes could so delight to view his noble proportions. only one day while, in an innocent mood, moppin' his brow ('cos 'twas a trifle sweaty) with a blue kerchief--lo, he spies a white 'un coyly responding. oh, delightsome love! not a jot do _you_ care for the restrictions set on human inter -course by cold-blooded social refiners; nor do i, neither. day by day, peepin' fro' behind the bean-sticks, willum observed that scrap o' white a-wavin', till his hot sighs out-growin' all repression busted his weskit. lady jane's guardian was a haughty peer, who clung to old creeds and had a nasty temper; can we blame willum that he hardly cared to risk a refusal? year by year found him busy 'mid the bean-sticks, wholly uncertain how on earth to take steps. thus for eighteen years he beheld the maiden wave fro' her window. but the nineteenth spring, i' the castle post-bag, came by book-post bill's catalogue o' seedlings mark'd wi' blue ink at 'paragraphs relatin' mainly to pumpkins.' 'w. a. can,' so the lady jane read, 'strongly commend that very noble gourd, the _lady jane_, first-class medal, ornamental; grows to a great height.' scarce a year arter, by the scented hedgerows- down the mown hill-side, fro' the castle gateway- came a long train and, i' the midst, a black bier, easily shouldered. 'whose is yon corse that, thus adorned wi' gourd-leaves, forth ye bear with slow step?' a mourner answer'd, ''tis the poor clay-cold body lady jane grew tired to abide in.' 'delve my grave quick, then, for i die to-morrow. delve it one furlong fro' the kidney bean-sticks, where i may dream she's goin' on precisely as she was used to.' hardly died bill when, fro' the lady jane's grave, crept to his white death-bed a lovely pumpkin: climb'd the house wall and over-arched his head wi' billowy verdure. simple this tale!--but delicately perfumed as the sweet roadside honeysuckle. that's why, difficult though its metre was to tackle, i'm glad i wrote it. a triolet. to commemorate the virtue of homoeopathy in restoring one apparently drowned. love, that in a tear was drown'd, lives revived by a tear. stella heard them mourn around love that in a tear was drown'd, came and coax'd his dripping swound, wept '_the fault was mine, my dear!_' love, that in a tear was drown'd, lives, revived by a tear. an oath. (from 'troy town'.) a month ago lysander pray'd to jove, to cupid, and to venus, that he might die if he betray'd a single vow that pass'd between us. ah, careless gods, to hear so ill and cheat a maid on you relying! for false lysander's thriving still, and 'tis corinna lies a-dying. upon graciosa, walking and talking. (from 'troy town'.) when as abroad, to greet the morn, i mark my graciosa walk, in homage bends the whisp'ring corn, yet to confess its awkwardness must hang its head upon the stalk. and when she talks, her lips do heal the wounds her lightest glances give:- in pity then be harsh, and deal such wounds that i may hourly die, and, by a word restored, live. written upon love's frontier-post. (from 'troy town'.) toiling love, loose your pack, all your sighs and tears unbind: care's a ware will break a back, will not bend a maiden's mind. in this state a man shall need neither priest nor law giver: those same lips that are his creed shall confess their worshipper. all the laws he must obey, now in force and now repeal'd, shift in eyes that shift as they, till alike with kisses seal'd. titania. by lord t-n. so bluff sir leolin gave the bride away: and when they married her, the little church had seldom seen a costlier ritual. the coach and pair alone were two-pound-ten, and two-pound-ten apiece the wedding-cakes;- three wedding-cakes. a cupid poised a-top of each hung shivering to the frosted loves of two fond cushats on a field of ice, as who should say '_i_ see you!'--such the joy when english-hearted edwin swore his faith with mariana of the moated grange. for edwin, plump head-waiter at the cock, grown sick of custom, spoilt of plenitude, lacking the finer wit that saith, 'i wait, they come; and if i make them wait, they go,' fell in a jaundiced humour petulant-green, watched the dull clerk slow-rounding to his cheese, flicked a full dozen flies that flecked the pane- all crystal-cheated of the fuller air, blurted a free 'good-day t'ye,' left and right, and shaped his gathering choler to this head:- 'custom! and yet what profit of it all? the old order changeth yielding place to new, to me small change, and this the counter-change of custom beating on the self-same bar- change out of chop. ah me! the talk, the tip, the would-be-evening should-be-mourning suit, the forged solicitude for petty wants more petty still than they,--all these i loathe, learning they lie who feign that all things come to him that waiteth. i have waited long, and now i go, to mate me with a bride who is aweary waiting, even as i!' but when the amorous moon of honeycomb was over, ere the matron-flower of love- step-sister of to-morrow's marmalade- swooned scentless, mariana found her lord did something jar the nicer feminine sense with usage, being all too fine and large, instinct of warmth and colour, with a trick of blunting 'mariana's' keener edge to 'mary ann'--the same but not the same: whereat she girded, tore her crisped hair, called him 'sir churl,' and ever calling 'churl!' drave him to science, then to alcohol, to forge a thousand theories of the rocks, then somewhat else for thousands dewy cool, wherewith he sought a more pacific isle and there found love, a duskier love than hers. measure for measure. by o--r k--m. wake! for the closed pavilion doors have kept their silence while the white-eyed kaffir slept, and wailed the nightingale with 'jug, jug, jug!' whereat, for empty cup, the white rose wept. enter with me where yonder door hangs out its red triangle to a world of drought, inviting to the palace of the djinn, where death, aladdin, waits as chuckerout. methought, last night, that one in suit of woe stood by the tavern-door and whispered, 'lo, the pledge departed, what avails the cup? then take the pledge and let the wine-cup go.' but i: 'for every thirsty soul that drains this anodyne of thought its rim contains- free-will the _can_, necessity the _must_, pour off the _must_, and, see, the _can_ remains. 'then, pot or glass, why label it "_with care_"? or why your sheepskin with my gourd compare? lo! here the bar and i the only judge:- o, dog that bit me, i exact an hair!' we are the sum of things, who jot our score with caesar's clay behind the tavern door: and alexander's armies--where are they, but gone to pot--that pot you push for more? and this same jug i empty, could it speak, might whisper that itself had been a beak and dealt me fourteen days 'without the op.'- your worship, see, my lip is on your cheek. yourself condemned to three score years and ten, say, did you judge the ways of other men? why, now, sir, you are hourly filled with wine, and has the clay more licence now than then? life is a draught, good sir; its brevity gives you and me our measures, and thereby has docked your virtue to a tankard's span, and left of my criterion--a cri'! retrospection. after c. s. c. when the hunter-star orion (or, it may be, charles his wain) tempts the tiny elves to try on all their little tricks again; when the earth is calmly breathing draughts of slumber undefiled, and the sire, unused to teething, seeks for errant pins his child; when the moon is on the ocean, and our little sons and heirs from a natural emotion wish the luminary theirs; then a feeling hard to stifle, even harder to define, makes me feel i 'd give a trifle for the days of auld lang syne. james--for we have been as brothers (are, to speak correctly, twins), went about in one another's clothing, bore each other's sins, rose together, ere the pearly tint of morn had left the heaven, and retired (absurdly early) simultaneously at seven- james, the days of yore were pleasant. sweet to climb for alien pears till the irritated peasant came and took us unawares; sweet to devastate his chickens, as the ambush'd catapult scattered, and the very dickens was the natural result; sweet to snare the thoughtless rabbit; break the next-door neighbour's pane; cultivate the smoker's habit on the not-innocuous cane; leave the exercise unwritten; systematically cut morning school, to plunge the kitten in his bath, the water-butt. age, my james, that from the cheek of beauty steals its rosy hue, has not left us much to speak of: but 'tis not for this i rue. beauty with its thousand graces, hair and tints that will not fade, you may get from many places practically ready-made. no; it is the evanescence of those lovelier tints of hope- bubbles, such as adolescence joys to win from melted soap- emphasizing the conclusion that the dreams of youth remain castles that are an delusion (castles, that's to say, in spain). age thinks 'fit,' and i say 'fiat.' here i stand for fortune's butt, as for sunday swains to shy at stands the stoic coco-nut. if you wish it put succinctly, gone are all our little games; but i thought i 'd say distinctly what i feel about it, james. why this volume is so thin. in youth i dreamed, as other youths have dreamt, of love, and thrummed an amateur guitar to verses of my own,--a stout attempt to hold communion with the evening star i wrote a sonnet, rhymed it, made it scan. ah me! how trippingly those last lines ran.- _o hesperus! o happy star! to bend o'er helen's bosom in the tranced west, to match the hours heave by upon her breast, and at her parted lip for dreams attend- if dawn defraud thee, how shall i be deemed, who house within that bosom, and am dreamed?_ for weeks i thought these lines remarkable; for weeks i put on airs and called myself a bard: till on a day, as it befell, i took a small green moxon from the shelf at random, opened at a casual place, and found my young illusions face to face with this:--'_still steadfast, still unchangeable, pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast to feel for ever its soft fall and swell, awake for ever in a sweet unrest; still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, and so live ever,--or else swoon to death._' o gulf not to be crossed by taking thought! o heights by toil not to be overcome! great keats, unto your altar straight i brought my speech, and from the shrine departed dumb. --and yet sometimes i think you played it hard upon a rather hopeful minor bard. nugae oxonienses. twilight. by w--ll--m c--wp--r. 'tis evening. see with its resorting throng rude carfax teems, and waistcoats, visited with too-familiar elbow, swell the curse vortiginous. the boating man returns, his rawness growing with experience- strange union! and directs the optic glass not unresponsive to jemima's charms, who wheels obdurate, in his mimic chaise perambulant, the child. the gouty cit, asthmatical, with elevated cane pursues the unregarding tram, as one who, having heard a hurdy-gurdy, girds his loins and hunts the hurdy-gurdy-man, blaspheming. now the clangorous bell proclaims the _times or chronicle_, and rauca screams the latest horrid murder in the ear of nervous dons expectant of the urn and mild domestic muffin. to the parks drags the slow ladies' school, consuming time in passing given points. here glow the lamps, and tea-spoons clatter to the cosy hum of scientific circles. here resounds the football-field with its discordant train, the crowd that cheers but not discriminates, as ever into touch the ball returns and shrieks the whistle, while the game proceeds with fine irregularity well worth the paltry shilling.- draw the curtains close while i resume the night-cap dear to all familiar with my illustrated works. willaloo. by e. a. p. in the sad and sodden street, to and fro, flit the fever-stricken feet of the freshers as they meet, come and go, ever buying, buying, buying where the shopmen stand supplying, vying, vying all they know, while the autumn lies a-dying sad and low as the price of summer suitings when the winter breezes blow, of the summer, summer suitings that are standing in a row on the way to jericho. see the freshers as they row to and fro, up and down the lower river for an afternoon or so- (for the deft manipulation of the never-resting oar, though it lead to approbation, will induce excoriation)- they are infinitely sore, keeping time, time, time in a sort of runic rhyme up and down the way to iffley in an afternoon or so; (which is slow). do they blow? 'tis the wind and nothing more, 'tis the wind that in vacation has a tendency to go: but the coach's objurgation and his tendency to 'score' will be sated--nevermore. see the freshers in the street, the _elite_! their apparel how unquestionably neat! how delighted at a distance, inexpensively attired, i have wondered with persistence at their butterfly existence! how admired! and the payment--o, the payment! it is tardy for the raiment: yet the haberdasher gloats as he sells, and he tells, 'this is best to be dress'd rather better than the rest, to be noticeably drest, to be swells, to be swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, to be simply and indisputably swells.' see the freshers one or two, just a few, now on view, who are sensibly and innocently new; how they cluster, cluster, cluster round the rugged walls of worcester! see them stand, book in hand, in the garden ground of john's! how they dote upon their dons! see in every man a blue! it is true they are lamentably few; but i spied yesternight upon the staircase just a pair of boots outside upon the floor, just a little pair of boots upon the stairs where i reside, lying there and nothing more; and i swore while these dainty twins continued sentry by the chamber door that the hope their presence planted should be with me evermore, should desert me--nevermore. the sair stroke. _o waly, waly, my bonnie crew gin ye maun bumpit be! and waly, waly, my stroke sae true, ye leuk unpleasauntlie!_ _o hae ye suppit the sad sherrie that gars the wind gae soon; or hae ye pud o' the braw bird's-e'e, ye be sae stricken doun?_ i hae na suppit the sad sherrie, for a' my heart is sair; for keiller's still i' the bonnie dundee, and his is halesome fare. but i hae slain our gude captain, that c'uld baith shout and sweer, and ither twain put out o' pain- the scribe and treasurere. there's ane lies stark by the meadow-gate, and twa by the black, black brig: and waefu', waefu', was the fate that gar'd them there to lig! they waked us soon, they warked us lang, wearily did we greet; '_should he abrade_' was a' our sang, our food but butcher's-meat. we hadna train'd but ower a week, a week, but barely twa, three sonsie steeds they fared to seek, that mightna gar them fa'. they 've ta'en us ower the lang, lang coorse, and wow! but it was wark; and ilka coach he sware him hoorse, that ilka man s'uld hark. then upped and spake our pawkie bow, --o, but he wasna late! 'now who shall gar them cry _enow_, that gang this fearsome gate?' syne he has ta'en his boatin' cap, and cast the keevils in, and wha but me to gae (god hap!) and stay our captain's din? i stayed his din by the meadow-gate, his feres' by nuneham brig, and waefu', waefu', was the fate that gar'd them there to lig! o, waly to the welkin's top! and waly round the braes! and waly all about the shop (to use a southron phrase). rede ither crews be debonair, but we 've a weird to dree, i wis we maun be bumpit sair by boaties two and three: sing stretchers of yew for our toggere, sith we maun bumpit be! the doom of the esquire bedell. adown the torturing mile of street i mark him come and go, thread in and out with tireless feet the crossings to and fro; a soul that treads without retreat a labyrinth of woe. palsied with awe of such despair, all living things give room, they flit before his sightless glare as horrid shapes, that loom and shriek the curse that bids him bear the symbol of his doom. the very stones are coals that bake and scorch his fevered skin; a fire no hissing hail may slake consumes his heart within. still must he hasten on to rake the furnace of his sin. still forward! forward! for he feels fierce claws that pluck his breast, and blindly beckon as he reels upon his awful quest: for there is that behind his heels knows neither ruth nor rest. the fiends in hell have flung the dice; the destinies depend on feet that run for fearful price, and fangs that gape to rend; and still the footsteps of his vice pursue him to the end:- the feet of his incarnate vice shall dog him to the end. 'behold! i am not one that goes to lectures.' by w. w. behold! i am not one that goes to lectures or the pow-wow of professors. the elementary laws never apologise: neither do i apologise. i find letters from the dean dropt on my table--and every one is signed by the dean's name- and i leave them where they are; for i know that as long as i stay up others will punctually come for ever and ever. i am one who goes to the river, i sit in the boat and think of 'life' and of 'time.' how life is much, but time is more; and the beginning is everything, but the end is something. i loll in the parks, i go to the wicket, i swipe. i see twenty-two young men from foster's watching me, and the trousers of the twenty-two young men, i see the balliol men _en masse_ watching me.--the hottentot that loves his mother, the untutored bedowee, the cave-man that wears only his certificate of baptism, and the shaggy sioux that hangs his testamur with his scalps. i see the don who ploughed me in rudiments watching me: and the wife of the don who ploughed me in rudiments watching me. i see the rapport of the wicket-keeper and umpire. i cannot see that i am out. oh! you umpires! i am not one who greatly cares for experience, soap, bull-dogs, cautions, majorities, or a graduated income-tax, the certainty of space, punctuation, sexes, institutions, copiousness, degrees, committees, delicatesse, or the fetters of rhyme- for none of these do i care: but least for the fetters of rhyme. myself only i sing. me imperturbe! me prononce! me progressive and the depth of me progressive, and the bathos, anglice bathos of me chanting to the public the song of simple enumeration. caliban upon rudiments[1]. or autoschediastic theology in a hole. rudiments, rudiments, and rudiments! 'thinketh one made them i' the fit o' the blues. 'thinketh one made them with the 'tips' to match, but not the answers; 'doubteth there be none, only guides, helps, analyses, such as that: also this beast, that groweth sleek thereon, and snow-white bands that round the neck o' the same. 'thinketh, it came of being ill at ease. 'hath heard that satan finds some mischief still for idle hands, and the rest o 't. that's the case. also 'hath heard they pop the names i' the hat, toss out a brace, a dozen stick inside; let forty through and plough the sorry rest. 'thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in them, only their strength, being made o' sloth i' the main- 'am strong myself compared to yonder names o' jewish towns i' the paper. watch th' event- 'let twenty pass, 'have a shot at twenty-first, 'miss ramoth-gilead, 'take jehoiakim, 'let abner by and spot melchizedek, knowing not, caring not, just choosing so, as it likes me each time, i do: so they. 'saith they be terrible: watch their feats i' the viva! one question plays the deuce with six months' toil. aha, if they would tell me! no, not they! there is the sport: 'come read me right or die!' all at their mercy,--why they like it most when--when--well, never try the same shot twice! 'hath fled himself and only got up a tree. 'will say a plain word if he gets a plough. [1] caliban museth of the now extinct examination in the rudiments of faith and religion. solvitur acris hiemps. my juggins, see: the pasture green, obeying nature's kindly law, renews its mantle; there has been a thaw. the frost-bound earth is free at last, that lay 'neath winter's sullen yoke 'till people felt it getting past a joke. now forth again the freshers fare, and get them tasty summer suits wherein they flaunt afield and scare the brutes. again the stream suspects the keel; again the shrieking captain drops upon his crew; again the meal of chops divides the too-laborious day; again the student sighs o'er mods, and prompts his enemies to lay long odds. again the shopman spreads his wiles; again the organ-pipes, unbound, distract the populace for miles around. then, juggins, ere december's touch once more the wealth of spring reclaim, since each successive year is much the same; since too the monarch on his throne in purple lapped and frankincense, who from his infancy has blown expense, no less than he who barely gets the boon of out-of-door relief, must see desuetude,--come let's be brief. at those resolves last new year's day the easy gods indulgent wink. then downward, ho!--the shortest way is drink. a letter. addressed during the summer term of 1888 by mr. algernon dexter, scholar of -----college, oxford, to his cousin, miss kitty tremayne, at -----vicarage, devonshire. after w. m. p. dear kitty, at length the term's ending; i 'm in for my schools in a week; and the time that at present i'm spending on you should be spent upon greek: but i'm fairly well read in my plato, i'm thoroughly red in the eyes, and i've almost forgotten the way to be healthy and wealthy and wise. so 'the best of all ways'--why repeat you the verse at 2.30 a.m., when i 'm stealing an hour to entreat you dear kitty, to come to commem.? oh, come! you shall rustle in satin through halls where examiners trod: your laughter shall triumph o'er latin in lecture-room, garden, and quad. they stand in the silent sheldonian- our orators, waiting--for you, their style guaranteed ciceronian, their subject--'the ladies in blue.' the vice sits arrayed in his scarlet; he's pale, but they say he dissem -bles by calling his beadle a 'varlet' whenever he thinks of commem. there are dances, flirtations at nuneham, flower-shows, the procession of eights: there's a list stretching _usque ad lunam_ of concerts, and lunches, and fetes: there's the newdigate all about 'gordon,' --so sweet, and they say it will scan. you shall flirt with a proctor, a warden shall run for your shawl and your fan. they are sportive as gods broken loose from olympus, and yet very em -inent men. there are plenty to choose from, you'll find, if you come to commem. i know your excuses: red sorrel has stumbled and broken her knees; aunt phoebe thinks waltzing immoral; and 'algy, you are such a tease; it's nonsense, of course, but she _is_ strict'; and little dick hodge has the croup; and there's no one to visit your 'district' or make mother tettleby's soup. let them cease for a se'nnight to plague you; oh, leave them to manage _pro tem_. with their croups and their soups and their ague) dear kitty, and come to commem. don't tell me papa has lumbago, that you haven't a frock fit to wear, that the curate 'has notions, and may go to lengths if there's nobody there,' that the squire has 'said things' to the vicar, and the vicar 'had words' with the squire, that the organist's taken to liquor, and leaves you to manage the choir: for papa must be cured, and the curate coerced, and your gown is a gem; and the moral is--don't be obdurate, dear kitty, but come to commem. 'my gown? though, no doubt, sir, you're clever, you 'd better leave fashions alone. do you think that a frock lasts for ever?' dear kitty, i'll grant you have grown; but i thought of my 'scene' with mcvittie that night when he trod on your train at the bachelor's ball. ''twas a pity,' you said, but i knew 'twas champagne. and your gown was enough to compel me to fall down and worship its hem- (are 'hems' wearing? if not, you shall tell me what is, when you come to commem.) have you thought, since that night, of the grotto? of the words whispered under the palms, while the minutes flew by and forgot to remind us of aunt and her qualms? of the stains of the old _journalisten_? of the rose that i begged from your hair? when you turned, and i saw something glisten- dear kitty, don't frown; it _was_ there! but that idiot delane in the middle bounced in with 'our dance, i--ahem!' and--the rose you may find in my liddell and scott when you come to commem. then, kitty, let 'yes' be the answer. we'll dance at the 'varsity ball, and the morning shall find you a dancer in christ church or trinity hall. and perhaps, when the elders are yawning and rafters grow pale overhead with the day, there shall come with its dawning some thought of that sentence unsaid. be it this, be it that--'i forget,' or 'was joking'--whatever the fem -inine fib, you'll have made me your debtor and come,--you _will_ come? to commem. occasional verses. anecdote for fathers. designed to show that the practice of lying is not confined to children. by the late w. w. (of h.m. inland revenue service). and is it so? can folly stalk and aim her unrespecting darts in shades where grave professors walk and bachelors of arts? i have a boy, not six years old, a sprite of birth and lineage high: his birth i did myself behold, his caste is in his eye. and oh! his limbs are full of grace, his boyish beauty past compare: his mother's joy to wash his face, and mine to brush his hair! one morn we strolled on our short walk, with four goloshes on our shoes, and held the customary talk that parents love to use. (and oft i turn it into verse, and write it down upon a page, which, being sold, supplies my purse and ministers to age.) so as we paced the curving high, to view the sights of oxford town we raised our feet (like nelly bly), and then we put them down. 'now, little edward, answer me'- i said, and clutched him by the gown- 'at cambridge would you rather be, or here in oxford town?' my boy replied with tiny frown (he'd been a year at cavendish), 'i'd rather dwell in oxford town, if i could have my wish.' 'now, little edward, say why so; my little edward, tell me why.' 'well, really, pa, i hardly know.' 'remarkable!' said i: 'for cambridge has her "king's parade," and much the more becoming gown; why should you slight her so,' i said, 'compared with oxford town?' at this my boy hung down his head, while sterner grew the parent's eye; and six-and-thirty times i said, 'come, edward, tell me why?' for i loved cambridge (where they deal- how strange!--in butter by the yard); and so, with every third appeal, i hit him rather hard. twelve times i struck, as may be seen (for three times twelve is thirty-six), when in a shop the _magazine_ his tearful sight did fix. he saw it plain, it made him smile, and thus to me he made reply:- '_at oxford there's a crocodile_;[1] and that's the reason why.' oh, mr. editor! my heart for deeper lore would seldom yearn, could i believe the hundredth part of what from you i learn. [1] certain obscure paragraphs relating to a crocodile, kept at the museum, had been perplexing the readers of the _oxford magazine_ for some time past, and had been distorted into an allegory of portentous meaning. unity put quarterly[1]. by a. c. s. the centuries kiss and commingle, cling, clasp, and are knit in a chain; no cycle but scorns to be single, no two but demur to be twain, 'till the land of the lute and the love-tale be bride of the boreal breast, and the dawn with the darkness shall dovetail, the east with the west. the desire of the grey for the dun nights is that of the dun for the grey; the tales of the thousand and one nights touch lips with 'the times' of to-day.- come, chasten the cheap with the classic; choose, churton, thy chair and thy class, mix, melt in the must that is massic the beer that is bass! omnipotent age of the aorist! infinitely freely exact!- as the fragrance of fiction is fairest if frayed in the furnace of fact- though nine be the muses in number there is hope if the handbook be one,- dispelling the planets that cumber the path of the sun. though crimson thy hands and thy hood be with the blood of a brother betrayed, o would-be-professor of would-be, we call thee to bless and to aid. transmuted would travel with er, see the land of the rolling of logs, charmed, chained to thy side, as to circe the ithacan hogs. o bourne of the black and the godly! o land where the good niggers go. with the books that are borrowed of bodley, old moons and our castaway clo'! there, there, till the roses be ripened rebuke us, revile, and review, then take thee thine annual stipend so long over-due. [1] suggested by an article in the _quarterly review_, enforcing the unity of literature ancient and modern, and the necessity of providing a new school of literature in oxford. fire! by sir w. s. written on the occasion of the visit of the united fire brigades to oxford, 1887. i. st. giles's street is fair and wide, st. giles's street is long; but long or wide, may naught abide therein of guile or wrong; for through st. giles's, to and fro, the mild ecclesiastics go from prime to evensong. it were a fearsome task, perdie! to sin in such good company. ii. long had the slanting beam of day proclaimed the thirtieth of may ere now, erect, its fiery heat illumined all that hallowed street, and breathing benediction on thy serried battlements, st. john, suffused at once with equal glow the cluster'd archipelago, the art professor's studio and mr. greenwood's shop, thy building, pusey, where below the stout salvation soldiers blow the cornet till they drop; thine, balliol, where we move, and oh! thine, randolph, where we stop. iii. but what is this that frights the air, and wakes the curate from his lair in pusey's cool retreat, to leave the feast, to climb the stair, and scan the startled street? as when perambulate the young and call with unrelenting tongue on home, mamma, and sire; or voters shout with strength of lung for hall & co's entire; or sabbath-breakers scream and shout- the band of booth, with drum devout, eliza on her sunday out, or farmer with his choir:-iv. e'en so, with shriek of fife and drum and horrid clang of brass, the fire brigades of england come and down st. giles's pass. oh grand, methinks, in such array to spend a whitsun holiday all soaking to the skin! (yet shoes and hose alike are stout; the shoes to keep the water out, the hose to keep it in.) v. they came from henley on the thames, from berwick on the tweed, and at the mercy of the flames they left their children and their dames, to come and play their little games on morrell's dewy mead. yet feared they not with fire to play- the pyrotechnics (so they say) were very fine indeed. vi. (p.s. by lord macaulay). then let us bless our gracious queen and eke the fire brigade, and bless no less the horrid mess they've been and gone and made; remove the dirt they chose to squirt upon our best attire, bless all, but most the lucky chance that no one shouted 'fire!' de tea fabula. plain language from truthful james[1]. do i sleep? do i dream? am i hoaxed by a scout? are things what they seem, or is sophists about? is our "to ti en einai" a failure, or is robert browning played out? which expressions like these may be fairly applied by a party who sees a society skied upon tea that the warden of keble had biled with legitimate pride. 'twas november the third, and i says to bill nye, 'which it's true what i've heard: if you're, so to speak, fly, there's a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort recommended as high.' which i mentioned its name, and he ups and remarks: 'if dress-coats is the game and pow-wow in the parks, then i 'm nuts on sordello and hohenstiel-schwangau and similar snarks.' now the pride of bill nye cannot well be express'd; for he wore a white tie and a cut-away vest: says i, 'solomon's lilies ain't in it, and they was reputed well dress'd.' but not far did we wend, when we saw pippa pass on the arm of a friend --doctor furnivall 'twas, and he wore in his hat two half-tickets for london, return, second-class. 'well,' i thought, 'this is odd.' but we came pretty quick to a sort of a quad that was all of red brick, and i says to the porter,--'r. browning: free passes; and kindly look slick.' but says he, dripping tears in his check handkerchief, 'that symposium's career's been regrettably brief, for it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on gunpowder-leaf!' then we tucked up the sleeves of our shirts (that were biled), which the reader perceives that our feelings were riled, and we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits of her child. which emotions like these must be freely indulged by a party who sees a society bulged on a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never divulged. but i ask,--do i dream? _has_ it gone up the spout? are things what they seem, or is sophists about? is our "to ti en einai" a failure, or is robert browning played out? [1] the oxford browning society expired at keble the week before this was written. l'envoi. as i laye a-dreamynge. after t. i. as i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, o softlye moaned the dove to her mate within the tree, and meseemed unto my syghte came rydynge many a knyghte all cased in armoure bryghte cap-a-pie, as i laye a-dreamynge, a goodlye companye! as i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, o sadlye mourned the dove, callynge long and callynge lowe, and meseemed of alle that hoste notte a face but was the ghoste of a friend that i hadde loste long agoe. as i laye a-dreamynge, oh, bysson teare to flowe! as i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, o sadlye sobbed the dove as she seemed to despayre, and laste upon the tracke came one i hayled as 'jacke!' but he turned mee his backe with a stare: as i laye a-dreamynge, he lefte mee callynge there. stille i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, and gentler sobbed the dove as it eased her of her payne, and meseemed a voyce yt cry'd- 'they shall ryde, and they shall ryde 'tyll the truce of tyme and tyde come agayne! alle for eldorado, yette never maye attayne!' stille i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, and scarcelye moaned the dove, as her agonye was spente: 'shalle to-morrowe see them nygher to a golden walle or spyre? you have better in yr fyre, bee contente.' as i laye a-dreamynge, it seem'd smalle punyshment. but i laye a-wakynge, and loe! the dawne was breakynge and rarely pyped a larke for the promyse of the daye: 'uppe and sette yr lance in reste! uppe and followe on the queste! leave the issue to be guessed at the endynge of the waye'- as i laye a-wakynge, 'twas soe she seemed to say- 'whatte and if it alle be feynynge? there be better thynges than gaynynge, rycher pryzes than attaynynge.'- and 'twas truthe she seemed to saye. whyles the dawne was breakynge, i rode upon my waye. the end 