Chapter IX: Letter VIII: The Rejected “national Hymns.” (3)

There he was with mien so stately, looking solemn and sedately.
Like a monk he was “complately,” thinking something deeply o’er,
All at once his wings he fluttered, and in tone sepulchral muttered
Something indistinctly uttered, as it came from o’er the door;
Most intently did I listen, listened as I ne’er before
To a raven o’er a door.

――At the Prince’s Pierhead, said he, there you’ll find a policeman
steady,
Strutting proudly ever ready to annoy the cabmen there,
With the Jehus roughly dealing, causing them a bitter feeling,
Vain it is the men appealing, one and all they now declare
Pierhead rank they’ll never stand in, never ply for landing “fare”
Whilst that “bobby’s” stationed there!

At the Town Hall banquet lately, was a Colonel bold and stately,
Full of pomp he was “complately,” sitting rigid in his chair.
When the Army’s health was toasted, up he rose and proudly boasted,
Whilst with with’ring tongue he “roasted” Captain Douglas sitting
there,
That the Naval forces never, whilst he sat upon that chair
With the Army must compare!

When the Colonel Yates, conceited, had his fulsome speech completed,
And upon his chair was seated,――Colonel Steble, gallant “Maire,”
Said with gracious tone and manly, how the noble House of Stanley
Oft in former times like him had sat upon the civic chair;
Then the noble Earl, replying, said with truth he might declare
“Such an honour now was rare!”

Chinamen out there in “_Pee_king,” Treaty obligations breaking,
Our Ambassador is seeking wily stubborn men to awe,
Telling them the British nation anger’d cannot brook evasion;
Better listen to persuasion, or he threatens he’ll withdraw;
So they wisely yield submission. Frightened of the Lion’s paw,
China says she’ll keep the law.

Sea is rough and weather breezy, still “Serapis,” steaming easy,
Slowly sails from out Brindisi, bearing son of Britain’s Queen,
Foaming billows nobly riding, Eastern seas her prow dividing,
Soon in sunny waters gliding Royal Standard will be seen;
Prince will have a royal welcome, Rajahs proud, of royal mien,
Greeting son of India’s Queen――

Thus he spake what he intended, and his croaking speech was ended,
Flapping wings he soon descended from his perch above the door.
Not another word was spoken, nor again the silence broken,
He had given me the token, and he hopp’d along the floor,
Thro’ the window into darkness――glancing at my parlour door,
Raven saw I nevermore!

_The Porcupine_ (Liverpool), October 30, 1875.

――――――――

A BLACK BIRD THAT COULD SING BUT WOULDN’T SING.
(_A Lyric of the American Southern States._)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
O’er the War of the Rebellion and the things that were before;
While I sat absorbed in thinking, brandy cocktails slowly drinking,
Suddenly I saw a blinking, one-eyed figure at my door――
Saw a nasty, stinking, blinking, one-eyed figure at my door,
Standing up as stiff as steel-yards, just across my chamber floor,
Peeping in, and――nothing more.

Ah! I never shall forget it, how in glancing round I met it,
And I ever shall regret it that I looked towards that door,
For I saw a monstrous figure――like a giant, only bigger,
And there stood a big buck nigger, with his back against the door,
Darting, with a hideous snigger, glances right across my floor,
A reeking, lantern-jaw’d buck nigger bolt upright against my door,
Glancing in, and――nothing more.

Quick instinctively espying where my ham and eggs were frying,
There I saw a poker lying near the hearth upon the floor,
And with most determined vigour seized and hurled it at the nigger,
But so quick was he on the trigger, as he jump’d it struck the door,
Struck beneath him, as he bounded just like lightning from the floor,
As like a tarr’d and feather’d Mercury, up he bounded from the floor,
Grazed his heel, and――nothing more.

Back toward my hearth-stone looking, where my ham and eggs were
cooking,
Shaking, quaking as no mortal ever shaked or quaked before,
Soon I heard the ugly sinner mutter forth these words, “_Some dinner_,”
Looking still more gaunt and thinner, even than he looked before,
These the words the heathen mutter’d――the sole and only sound then
uttered,
As down from his high jump he flutter’d ’lighting on his major toe,
“Dinner,” said he, nothing more.

Then his impudence beginning, he displayed his gums in grinning,
And with eyes aught else but winning, leer’d upon me from the door,
Speaking thusly: “’Tis your treat, man, I’ll never go into the street,
man,
Till I get some grub to eat, man, I shall _never_ leave your door,
Never quit them aigs and bacon, now just done, I’m very sure,
Never till I’ve cleaned the platter, though you beat me till I roar,
Treat me, or I’ll charge ’em sure.”

Then toward the fireplace marching, where my coffee too was parching,
Boldly stalked this sassy nigger right across my chamber-floor,
Never stopped to bend or bow, sir, then I knew there’d be a row, sir,
For I made a solemn vow, sir, he should soon recross that floor,
And I kicked him through the room, sir, back again toward the door,
Kick’d and cuffed him, in my anger, back against my chamber-door,
Then I kicked him yet once more.

But this midnight bird beguiling my stirr’d spirit into smiling,
By the wretched, rabid, ravenous look his hungry visage wore,
“Tho’,” I said, “thou art a freedman, thou hast gone so much to seed,
man,
So I’ll give you one good feed, man, as you seem to be so poor――
One good feed in your sore need, man, as you seem so very poor;
The eggs and meat _shall_ be my treat, if with light work you’ll pay
the score.”
Quoth the nigger――“Work no more.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly nigger should refuse so plainly
Just to do a little work, for food he craved and needed sore,
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Should decline to labour seeing that he was so deuced poor;
Should refuse to earn a dinner, which he hungered for I’m sure,
And would have damned his soul by stealing had he hoped to make the
door;
Escaping thence to――work no more.

Awhile I sat absorbed in musing, what meant he by this refusing,
Till, mad, I turned into abusing the odious, odorous blackamoor.
“Sure,” said I, “you must be crazy, to be so infernal lazy,
So cussedly, outrageous lazy, as to want to work no more;
You ugly, grim, ungainly, ghastly, heathen, savage blackamoor,
Will you even work for wages――food and clothes and payment sure?”
Quoth the nigger――“Work no more.”

“Nigger,” said I, “horrid demon! _Nigger still if slave or freeman_,
Pause and ponder ere you answer this one question, I implore:
Have you got no sense of feeling? do you mean to live by stealing?
Or by working and fair dealing; tell me truly, I implore,
On your honour as a nigger, will you ever labour more?
Plough in corn or hoe in cotton, as you did in days of yore?”
Quoth the Nigger――“Nevermore!”

Startled by the stillness broken by reply so flatly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “this big nigger once could eat enough for four,
When on some grand rice plantation, he could out-eat all creation,
Until his corporal situation warned him he could eat no more;
Scorning any calculation of how much cash it cost I’m sure,
For the master paid the piper in the good old days of yore,
Days he’ll revel in no more!”

“Nigger,” said I, “thing of evil! quit my sight! _go to the devil!_
Or even yet, pause, reconsider terms I’ll offer you no more,
Tell me truly, I implore you, for the last time I conjure you,
If good wages I ensure you, and clothes the best you ever wore,
Will you work three days in seven, at tasks far lighter than of yore?
Only three short days in seven――labour light and payment sure?”
Quoth the nigger――“Work no more.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, nigger man,” I said upstarting,
“Get you gone to where you came from, let me see your face no more.
Quick, vamose, cut dirt――skedaddle――seek some far-off, distant shore,
Haste, relieve me of that visage――_darken_ not again my door,
Join the army――go to Texas! Never come back here to vex us,
Take your gaze from off my victuals――take your carcase from my door”――
Quoth the nigger――“Nevermore.”

And the nigger, never working, still is shirking――still is shirking
Every kind of honest labour, in the house or out of door,
And his eye has all the seeming of a vulture’s starved and dreaming,
And my bacon, gently steaming tempts him still to cross my floor.
But I’ll gamble with that poker that I hurled at him before,
That I’ll maul his very lights out, if he dares to pass that door,
He _shall_ work or――eat no more!

_The Figaro_, February 16, 1876.

――――――――

COWGATE PHILANTHROPY.

Once, while in the Cowgate dirty, on an evening damp and murky,
Mournfully I gazed at objects swarming there from door to door,
From a whisky palace, swearing, a poor woman issued, bearing
A child upon her bosom bare, and that bosom stained with gore,
And she uttered dreadful threats against the man that kept the store――
Idle threats, and nothing more.

To myself I said, in terror, “Surely here there is some error;
This woman seems in deep distress――distress which pierces to the core;”
So I stepped into the palace, with the view of getting solace,
For that creature whose deep sorrow my soft heart with anguish tore,
That shadow of an angel bright, for her countenance yet bore
Trace of beauty, now no more.

But the jingling of the glasses, and the glare of many gases,
Made me feel so very squeamish that I was almost forced to roar,
When my tongue its wonted action ceased, as if by some attraction,
So I stood a perfect dummy at this dreadful gin-house door,
Pointing to that weeping woman, whom no one would now adore;
This I did, and nothing more.

To my speech at last succeeding, I asked gravely why the bleeding,
Helpless, ill-clad, ill-fed woman had been out-cast from the store?
And the answer from the monster who had been this woman’s wrongster
Was, she had not filthy lucre to pay off her whisky score;
He’d be blowed, or something stronger, if he’d give her any more;
And he thought her quite a bore.

Then I felt my fingers itching, and my muscles all a twitching,
To seize the rascal by the throat, and stretch him straight upon the
floor;
But he gave a loud hoarse chuckle, let me see his mighty knuckle,
And advised me for my safety that I’d better seek the door――
If I didn’t vanish quickly I might go upon all four:
So I vanished――nothing more.

_The Modern Athenian_ (Edinburgh), March 11, 1876.

――――――――

LINES
_Respectfully dedicated to the_
Right Honourable Henry Bouverie William Brand, M.P.,
Speaker of the House of Commons.

“Once upon a Wednesday dreary, while I listened somewhat weary,
To the dull and dismal business going on upon the floor,
On me, in my melancholy, broke the voice of Mr. Whalley,
Pouring forth of words a volley, and this, too, I meekly bore;
‘’Tis near five o’clock,’ I muttered, and my lot I meekly bore,
Hoping there was little more.

“For since noon I had been sitting, and the daylight now was flitting,
As M.P.’s, their places quitting, noiselessly pass’d through the door,
Motions, though, in such a number did the notice-book encumber,
That I’d vainly sought to slumber, though my eyes were tired and sore,
Dared not nap like those around me, though my eyes were red and sore;
But a watchful look I wore.

“Tired of talking, Whalley finished, and my list was thus diminished
By the Bill on ‘Open Spaces’――this it was his name that bore――
Next, I saw with heartfelt pleasure, came an agricultural measure;
For methought no member surely over this dry Bill will pore――
They will not discuss its details, they will never o’er it pore;
Merely pass it――nothing more.

“So I thought, until up-glancing, I beheld a form advancing
From the seats below the gangway, boldly out upon the floor,
‘Stay,’ mused I; ‘I know that figure. Yes, it is――it must be Biggar!’
Through the House there passed a snigger, but my heart was very sore;
For he caught my eye, confound him! and my heart was very sore;
Hope was left in it no more.

“Not the least obeisance made he, nor where he had risen stay’d he;
But he strode across the gangway, nearer to me than before.
All the time that he was walking, he was hoarsely at me talking,
Nothing stopping him nor baulking, not a moment he forebore,
Caring not for sneers nor laughter, not a moment he forebore,――
But talked on for evermore.

“Much it grieved me this ungainly man to hear discourse so plainly,
Though his phrases little meaning, little relevancy bore,
For I knew his stubborn nature, knew, too, in the Legislature,
That so obstinate a member it had never known before;
That a member so pig-headed never had been known before,
Never would be evermore.

‘‘Far too “narrer” is this measure,’ quoth he, slowly, at his leisure;
‘Yes, it’s very much too “narrer!”’ then he went its clauses o’er;
Turn’d it inside out, and twisted its provisions, as he listed;
While his friend Parnell assisted――helped this most portentous bore;
Backed him up, and often prompted this unmitigated bore;
Who kept speaking evermore!

“Presently my wrath grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
‘Sir!’ I said, ‘you’re not in order; keep in order, I implore!
This is but the second reading, yet you are in sooth proceeding
As though in Committee pleading; cease from this or leave the floor!
Mean you long to go on speaking, mean you long to keep the floor?’
Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Evermore!’

“Then methought his voice grew hoarser, and his manner rather coarser;
Till that he my eye had ever caught, I did at heart deplore;
Why, I thought, has Cavan sent thee? can no earthly power prevent thee?
None bring respite and nepenthe, from thy rudeness and thy roar?
Am I doomed to always listen to thy inharmonious roar?’
Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Evermore.’

“‘Biggar,’ said I, ‘Joseph Biggar, why thy most undoubted vigour,
Didst thou not devote to business on thy own Ulsterian shore?
Why not give to lard and bacon, all the energies mistaken,
Thou from night to night art wasting on this House of Commons floor?
Stick to lard! Drop legislating! This of thee I would implore!’
Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Nevermore.’

“‘Biggar,’ said I, ‘tell me truly, wilt thou always be unruly?
Is there nothing thy lost senses can to thee at last restore?
Wilt this chamber long be haunted by thy presence so undaunted?
Or would’st thou at home be wanted if pigs fetched much less per
score――
If lard fell a lot per bladder? Tell me――tell me, I implore?”
Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Nevermore!’

“‘Joseph,’ said I, ‘have a care, sir, lest thou shouldst me too much
dare, sir,
For I give thee warning, fair sir, that if thou art much a bore,
I will henceforth always try, sir, that thou mayst not catch my eye,
sir,
When in future thou mayst rise, sir, and stand out upon this floor!――
Stand in all thy blatant boldness on this desecrated floor;
Thou shalt catch it nevermore!

“But J. Biggar never stirring, went on stating and averring,
Naught him staying or deterring, still his speech did he outpour,
And back on my cushion sinking, I was filled with dread at thinking
That this grim and greasy member might for ever harshly roar――
That this grim, ungainly, lardy man might never cease to bore,――
But talk on for evermore!”

_Truth_, March 8, 1877.
――――――――

THE BABY.

Once upon a midnight dreary, whilst I waited, faint and weary,
On the landing till the doctor the expected tidings bore;
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, dreaming of what then was happing――
Dreaming of what then was happing t’other side yon chamber door,
Stood the doctor there, and whispered, opening the chamber door,
“’Tis a boy!” and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember, by my chilblains, ’twas December,
And I stamped each smarting member, stamped it smartly on the floor.
Eagerly I wished for slumber, as my feet and hands grew number;
Oh, could I some bed encumber, oh, how quickly I would snore!
Oh, how I would wake the echoes with my deep sonorous snore!
But my vigil was not o’er.

For as I thus thought of snoring, came a sound of liquid pouring――
’Twas a sound that oft, when thirsty, I had heard with joy before;
And when it I heard repeating, thro’ the darkness sent I greeting,
Saying, “Who is that that’s drinking something in behind my door?”――
For the sound came from a chamber, mine erstwhile, now mine no more――
“Who are you and what d’you pour?”

But no answer came, so rising with a rashness most surprising,
“Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, when I heard some liquid lapping,
Lapping, lapping, softly lapping, in behind this chamber-door.
Who are you in there, I pray you?”――here I opened wide the door――
Smell of spirits, nothing more!

Deeply that strong odour sniffing stood I “butting” there and
“if-ing;”
Guessing, wondering, surmising who it was that I’d heard pour.
Still the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token;
But a bottle brandy-soaken I remarked upon the floor.
This I noticed, black and empty, lying there upon the floor――
Merely that, and nothing more!

From the chamber I was turning, all my soul within me yearning
For a little cup of cognac: since my chilblains were so sore――
When I heard a sound of rustling, as of some stout woman bustling――
“Ah,” said I, “this chamber’s mystery I will linger and explore――
Stay will I another minute and its mystery explore――
Why I heard that brandy pour?”

Opened here a folding-door was; and in a few seconds more was
A full stout and snuffy matron coming towards me o’er the floor;
Not the least obeisance made she; not a minute stopped or stayed she,
But upon a chair down sitting, beckoned me to what she bore:
’Twas a tiny roll of flannel in her portly arms she bore――
Only that, and nothing more!

Then this flannel roll beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the strange and utter contrast that it to the matron bore,
Sought my thoughts another channel, and I spoke unto the flannel,
Saying, “What art thou and wherefore art thou brought here, I
implore?――
Tell me why thou art thus carried, why so gently, I implore?”
But it sobbed, and nothing more!

Much I marvelled at its sobbing, and my heart was quickly throbbing
As unto the ponderous matron said I, ‘Turn that flannel o’er!’
For you cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet beheld a bundle that could sob, and nothing more――
Ever yet a roll of flannel saw that sobbed and nothing more!”
Quoth the matron, “Shut the door.”

Then the flannel pink unfolding, soon was I with awe beholding
Something like to which my eyes had never gazed upon before.
Nothing further then it uttered――but I mouthed awhile and stuttered
Till I positively muttered, “Tell me all, I would implore!”
Said the matron, “There is little to inform you on that score:
’Tis your son, and nothing more!”

“Ah,” said I, no longer dreaming, with a sudden knowledge gleaming,
“You’ve a monthly nurse’s seeming, and ’twas you that I heard pour;
Tell me, then, when I may slumber, when this room you’ll cease to
cumber,
Since of chilblains such a number in the passage I deplore;
Tell me when I may turn in and cease their smarting to deplore.”
Quoth that woman, “Never more!”

“Woman!” said I, “nurse, how dare you? If you do not have a care, you
Soon will find that I can spare you, for I’ll show to you the door!”
But that woman, calmly sitting, and her brows engaged in knitting,
In a way most unbefitting took the bottle from the floor,
Took it up, although ’twas empty, took it up from off the floor;
Waved it and said, “Never more!”

“Nurse,” I shouted, “I won’t stand it; put it down, at once, unhand
it!
As your master, I demand it, and this room to me restore;
Take yon saucepan from my table; clear my bed, for you are able,
Of your wardrobe, and the baby take where it was heretofore;
For I long to sink in slumber: nurse, I’m dying for a snore!”
Quoth that woman, “Never more!”

“Be that word our sign of parting, monthly nurse,” said I, upstarting,
“Get thee gone, thou Gamp outrageous, to where’er thou wast before;
Leave that bottle as a token of the rest that thou hast broken――
Now be off――have I not spoken? Get thee gone, Gamp, there’s the door――
Take thy wardrobe from my bed, and take thyself out through that door!”
Quoth that woman, “Never more!”

And that monthly nurse is sitting, drinking in a way unfitting,
In an easy-chair luxurious just behind my chamber-door;
There for weeks she has been sleeping, me from my own chamber keeping;
Degradations on me heaping, till my heart of hearts is sore;
Fearing that her shadow never will be lifted from my floor,
And that, smelling strong of spirits, she through yonder open door
Shall be lifted――Never more!

_Finis_ (Beeton’s Christmas Annual, 1877.)

――――――――

THE MAIDEN.

Once upon a summer morning, whilst I watched the sun adorning
All the hilltops lying round me with an ever-golden hue,
Suddenly I saw a maiden with a basket heavy laden,
Yes, a basket heavy laden with some clothes which looked like new,
And I cried, “My pretty maiden, these look just as good as new;
Have they, pray, been washed by you?”

Ah! distinctly I remember how my soul burned like an ember,
As the maiden’s eyes grew brighter――eyes of such a lovely blue;
How her auburn tresses glistened in the sunlight while I listened,
Wondering how she had been christened; but her answering words
were few,
And somehow they didn’t please me, these her answering words so
few――
“Truly, sir, what’s that to you?”

Then I said, “O, lovely maiden, with this basket heavy laden,
Tell me truly, I implore thee, from what parent-stock you grew?
If your father is a humble, honest, labourer like the Bumble-
Bee that works, but does not grumble at the work he has to do?
Maiden did you ever grumble at the work you had to do?”
Quoth the maid, “What’s that to you?”

Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
For I felt a little angry, and thus said what wasn’t true:
“Hark you, maid, my friend, Joe Simmen, says that all you washerwomen
Are as sour as any lemon, cross as any _ole clo’_ Jew;
Tell me maiden, is it not so, that you’re like some _ole clo’_ Jew?”
Quoth the maid “What’s that to you?”

Deep into that countenance peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Lest the girl should prove a vixen, and begin to hit me too;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only words there spoken were the whispered words, “Pooh!
pooh!”
These I whispered, for I feared her, whispered just the words,
“Pooh! pooh!”
And I knew not what to do.

Round about myself then turning, all my soul within me burning,
For I did not dare to face her, as she was I knew not who;
I began at once to wonder how on earth I could thus blunder,
And why I thus should cower under these her answering words so few,
And I could not find a reason why her words should be so few;
Still I knew not what to do.

Then I glanced across my shoulder, as it were some sheltering boulder,
And I saw the maiden laughing, laughing till her face was blue.
Then I thought “’Tis now or never,” so I said (and thought it clever),
“Pretty maiden, did you ever have a nice young sweetheart, who
Was, as I am, tall and handsome? If so, prithee tell me who?”
Quoth the maid “What’s that to you?”

And the maiden, thus beguiling all my angry soul to smiling,
Made me say, “Ah! lovely maiden, fairly I’m in love with you.”
Then began my heart to flutter, and began my tongue to stutter,
And began my lips to mutter, while around me objects flew.
Thus I muttered, while the objects round about me swiftly flew,
“Maiden, I’m in love with you.”

But the maiden, sitting lonely on the velvet sod, spoke only
These four words when I made of her some interrogation new;
So upon the green grass sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what on earth I now should do,
And I asked the washer maiden, what on earth I now should do?
Quoth the maid “What pleases you.”

“Torment!” said I, “thing of evil! you, at least, might have been
civil,
And not given such answers to the questions I have put to you.
When I told you that I loved you, surely then I think I moved you,
And I think it had behoved you to make answers straight and true,
’Stead of which you gave me answers which were anything but true.”
Quoth the maid, “What’s that to you.”

“Be these words our sign of parting, saucy maid!” I shrieked,
upstarting.
“Get you back into the village, take these clothes along with you!
Leave no thread even as a token of these horrid words you’ve spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! Take these clothes which look like
new,
And return to where you came from, with these clothes as clean as
new!”
Quoth the maiden, “Not for you.”

So _I_ left the washer maiden and her basket heavy laden,
And I hope that I may never, never more behold the two;
Yet my sleep is oft enchanted, and my dreams are often haunted
By her form when just not wanted, and the basket seems there too,
And she asks in tones of mockery, pointing at the basket, too,
“What is this, now, sir, to you?”
D. J. M.
_Edinburgh Paper_, November, 8, 1879.

――――――――

THE PROMISSORY NOTE.

ZOïLUS _reads_:
In the lonesome latter years,
(Fatal years!)
To the dropping of my tears
Danced the mad and mystic spheres
In a rounded, reeling rune,
’Neath the moon,
To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.

Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,
(Ulalume!)
In a dim Titanic tomb,
For my gaunt and gloomy soul
Ponders o’er the penal scroll,
O’er the parchment (not a rhyme),
Out of place,――out of time,――
I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,
(O, the fifty!)
And the days have passed, the three,
Over me!
And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!

’Twas the random runes I wrote
At the bottom of the note
(Wrote, and freely
Gave to Greeley),
In the middle of the night,
In the mellow, moonless night,
When the stars were out of sight,
When my pulses, like a knell,
(Israfel!)
Danced with dim and dying fays
O’er the ruins of my days,
O’er the dimeless, timeless days,
When the fifty, drawn at thirty,
Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty
Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!

Fiends controlled it,
(Let him hold it!)
Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen;
Now the days of grace are o’er,
(Ah, Lenore!)
I am but as other men:
What is time, time, time,
To my rare and runic rhyme,
To my random, reeling rhyme,
By the sands along the shore,
Where the tempest whispers, “Pay him!” and I answer
“Nevermore!”

GALAHAD: What do you mean by the reference to Horace Greeley?

ZOïLUS: I thought everybody had heard that Greeley’s only autograph of Poe was a signature to a promissory note for fifty dollars. He offers to sell it for half the money. Now, I don’t mean to be wicked, and to do nothing with the dead except bone ’em, but when such a cue pops into one’s mind, what is one to do?

THE ANCIENT: O, I think you’re still within decent limits! There was a congenital twist about poor Poe. We can’t entirely condone his faults, yet we stretch our charity so as to cover as much as possible. His poetry has a hectic flush, a strange, fascinating, narcotic quality, which belongs to him alone. Baudelaire and Swinburne after him have been trying to surpass him by increasing the dose; but his Muse is the natural Pythia, inheriting her convulsions, while they eat all sorts of insane roots to produce theirs.

GALAHAD (_eagerly_): Did you ever know him?

THE ANCIENT: I met him two or three times, heard him lecture once (his enunciation was exquisite), and saw him now and then in Broadway,――enough to satisfy me that there were two men in him: one, a refined gentleman, an aspiring soul, an artist among those who had little sense of literary art; the other――

ZOïLUS: Go on!

THE ANCIENT: “Built his nest with the birds of night.” No more of that!

_Diversions of the Echo Club._ By Bayard Taylor (John Camden Hotten, London.)

――――――――

“THE AGER.”

This clever parody, by Prof. J. P. Stelle, editor of the _Progressive Farmer_, and of the agricultural department of the Mobile _Register_, has been repeatedly published in United States newspapers, though generally in a mutilated form. The following is believed to be the correct version:――

Once upon an evening bleary,
While I sat me dreamy, dreary,
In the sunshine, thinking over
Things that passed in days of yore;
While I nodded, nearly sleeping,
Gently came a something creeping
Up my back, like water seeping――
Seeping upward from the floor.
“’Tis a cooling breeze,” I muttered,
From the regions ’neath the floor――
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah! distinctly I remember
It was in that wet September,
When the earth and every member
Of creation that it bore
Had for days and weeks been soaking
In the meanest, most provoking
Foggy rains that, without joking,
We had ever seen before;
So I knew it must be very
Cold and damp beneath the floor――
Very cold beneath the floor.

So I sat me nearly napping,
In the sunshine, stretching, gaping,
Craving water, but delighted
With the breeze from ’neath the floor,
Till I found me waxing colder,
And the stretching growing bolder,
And myself a feeling older――
Older than I’d felt before;
Feeling that my joints were stiffer
Than they were in days of yore――
Stiffer than they’d been before.

All along my back the creeping
Soon gave place to rushing, leaping,
As if countless frozen demons
Had concluded to explore
All the cavities――the “varmints”――
’Twixt me and my nether garments,
Up into my hair and downward
Through my boots into the floor;
Then I found myself a shaking,
Gently first, but more and more――
Every moment more and more.

’Twas the “ager,” and it shook me
Into many clothes, and took me
Shaking to the kitchen――every
Place where there was warmth in store;
Shaking till the dishes clattered,
Shaking till the tea was spattered,
Shaking, and with all my warming
Feeling colder than before;
Shaking till it had exhausted
All its powers to shake me more――
Till it could not shake me more.

Then it rested till the morrow,
Then resumed with all the horror
That it had the face to borrow,
Shaking, shaking as before;
And from that day in September――
Day that I shall long remember――
It has made diurnal visits,
Shaking, shaking, oh so sore!
Shaking off my boots, and shaking
Me to bed, if nothing more――
Fully this, if nothing more.

And to-day the swallows flitting
Round my cottage see me sitting
Moodily within the sunshine
Just inside my silent door,
Waiting for the ages, seeming
Like a man forever dreaming,
And the sunlight on me streaming
Throws no shadows on the floor;
For I am too thin and sallow
To make shadows on the floor;
’Nary shadow――any more!

――――――――

THE CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER AND THE SURPLUS.

Lately on a midnight dreary, whilst I studied, though so weary,
Several sheets of close-writ figures I had gone through times before;
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the Treasury door.
“Is that Kempe?” I slowly mutter’d. “If it is, pray leave the door――
I shall want you here no more!”

Oh! distinctly I remember, for it happen’d this December
And each separate, dying ember seem’d a figure on the floor.
Nervously I wish’d the morrow; for so far I’d failed to borrow――
From the Bank of England borrow――at the same rate as before――
At the same low rate of interest I had borrow’d at before――
They would lend at Two no more.

And I had a sort of notion that this fact was known to Goschen,
Whilst the dread of Childers fill’d me with a fear not felt before,
So that now to still the beating of my heart I’d been repeating:
“P’rhaps some luck may yet befall you ere you stand upon the floor――
Stand next April with your Budget at the table on the floor――
And a Surplus yet restore!”

Presently the rap was stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Kempe!” said I, “or Law, or Lingen, is that you outside my door?
If it be, pray cease your tapping; if you have no cause for rapping,
Cease, and let me strike my balance ere I sleep, I you implore.
Do come in if you are out there!” Here I open’d wide the door――
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Seeing ghosts of former Budgets――Gladstone’s Budgets――o’er me soar;
But the silence was unbroken, and of Kempe I saw no token;
He had gone with Law and Lingen shortly after half-past four.
So I “H-s-s-h’d”――perchance assuming there were cats about the floor――
Merely cats, and nothing more.

Back into my room returning, where two composites were burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.
“’Tis too soon for chimney-sweeper; can it be the office-keeper?”
This I said, and once more rising, tried the mystery to explore.
“I will go and try the window, for there’s no one at the door”――
This I said, and nothing more.

Open then I flung the shutter, when with quite a fussy flutter,
In there stalk’d a handsome Surplus of the Liberal years of yore;
Not the least obeisance made it, not a minute stopp’d or stay’d it,
But――nor tried I to dissuade it――hopp’d on something on the floor;
Hopp’d upon my rough-drawn Budget, which I’d thrown upon the floor――
Hopp’d, then sat; and nothing more!

Then this welcome guest beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the cheery and contented cast of countenance it wore;
“Welcome,” said I, “Surplus comely! though you have arrived so
‘rumly,’
For ’tis some years since a Budget drawn by me a Surplus bore;
Let this be a happy omen――that they’ll come as heretofore!”
Quoth the Surplus――“Nevermore!”

Much I marvell’d that so plainly it should answer, and so sanely;
Though in sooth I hoped its answer little relevancy bore.
For ’t had fill’d my heart with pleasure, and with ecstacy past
measure
Once again to see a Surplus come within the Treasury door,
To observe a real Surplus on my Budget on the floor,
Like the one in ’Seventy-four.

But the Surplus, sitting lonely on my Budget draft, spake only
That one word already mention’d――I refer to “Nevermore.”
And not for its answer caring, and by no means yet despairing,
I took heart and said: “Six millions was there left in ’Seventy-four;
When shall I next get a Surplus large as that in ’Seventy-four?”
Quoth my guest: “Why, nevermore!”

But this time ’twas not contented with the word I so resented,
But went on and said: “Oh, Northcote, ruin is for you in store!
Thanks to your mysterious master, dearth will follow on disaster,
Ills will follow fast and faster, trade will wholly leave your shore;
And the people, so impoverish’d, will your taxes pay no more.
Debt will haunt you more and more!

“Now your revenue is sinking――it’s no use the matter blinking,
Every day, you know, Sir Stafford, your big deficit grows more,
And you have to borrow, borrow (three more millions, eh, to-morrow?)
You have now a floating debt that’s ten times what it was of yore;
Think upon the splendid Budget Gladstone left in ’Seventy-four,
And your muddle now deplore!”

As the Surplus thus declaiming, me to blushes deep was shaming,
Straight I wheel’d my cushion’d seat in front the Budget on the floor,
Sat on the morocco padding, and betook myself to adding
Figure unto figure, madding though the look the total bore;
Whilst that grim, ungainly, ghastly Surplus still upon the floor
Went on croaking: “Nevermore!”

“Surplus!” said I, “by thy figure, which methinks I see grow bigger,
Whether Gladstone sent, or whether Fate has toss’d thee here to bore,
Tell me, desperate and daunted, by a score of failures haunted,
Soon by Childers to be taunted, tell me, tell me, I implore,
Is there――can I――shall I――ever get things straight――say, I implore?”
Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!”

“Surplus!” said I, “much I question, if I don’t to indigestion
Owe the vision of thy presence; still I’d ask thee this once more:
In the name of Ewart Gladstone, whose finance I did adore,
Tell me, here with debt so laden, if, before I go to Aidenn,
I shall ever make a Budget with a Surplus, as of yore?
Shall I e’er announce a Surplus from my place upon the floor?”
Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!”

“Be that word our sign of parting, cruel thing!” I cried, upstarting;
“Get thee back to Mr. Gladstone, who created thee of yore;
Go, and leave behind no token of the words that thou hast spoken;
Leave my vigil here unbroken, quit my Budget on the floor!
Take thy figure off my Budget, lying there upon the floor.”
Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!”

“No, I will not think of flitting, but still sitting, ever sitting,
On thy wretched, feeble Budgets, on the table or the floor,
Will remind thee of the figure, sometimes less and sometimes bigger,
Of the noble Gladstone’s Surplus, always left in years of yore
Yes, I’ll always stay and haunt you――always stay and ever taunt you――
As you draw up hopeless Budgets, and then throw them on the floor;
And my figure you shall ever see upon your study floor――
I will leave you nevermore!”

And it doubtless had been sitting still, nor shown a sign of
flitting――
Had I not with sudden impulse started, falling by the door,
And discover’d, slowly rising――what is not at all surprising――
That my composites were out, whilst daylight stream’d across the
floor,
Then I knew I had been dreaming, but my brain continued teeming
With the vision, and the Surplus that had come from years of yore,
And my thoughts on what that Surplus said whilst there upon my floor
Will be fixèd evermore!

_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1879.

――――――――

THE RAVEN.
(_A Version, respectfully dedicated to the Duke of Somerset._)

Late, upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, chill but cheery,
Over certain prosy volumes of Contemporary lore――
’Midst prophetic pages prowling, suddenly I heard a growling,
As of something faintly howling, howling at my chamber-door.
“’Tis some poor stray tyke,” I muttered, “howling at my chamber-door;
Only that, and nothing more.”

Eugh! distinctly I remember it was in the cold December,
And my fire to its last ember burned, while outer blasts did roar.
Fearfully I funked the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow
From my friends, or, to my sorrow, add to my coal-merchant’s score――
To that swollen, heavy-laden thing poor devils call a “score”――
To be settled――nevermore.

And the windy, wild, uncertain flapping of my window curtain
Filled me, thrilled me with fantastic fancies never known before;
So that, now, to check the cheating of my mind I stood repeating,
“’Tis that JONES’S dog entreating entrance at my chamber-door――
Bibulous JONES’S pug entreating entrance at my chamber-door,――
Only that, and nothing more.”

Presently the sound grew stronger. Hesitating then no longer,
“Tyke,” said I, “low mongrel, truly this intrusion is a bore;
Where the deuce have you been prowling, that so late you come a
howling,
Keeping up this nasty growling, growling at my chamber-door?
I was hardly sure I heard you.” Here I open flung the door,――
Darkness there, and nothing more!

Back into my chamber turning, where my lamp was dimly burning,
Soon again I heard a growling, something louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely, that is something stirring at my lattice,
Let me see if ghost or cat ’tis, and this mystery explore.
Pooh! _I_ have it, what a duffer, what a booby, to be sure!
’Tis the wind, and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the casement, when, to my extreme amazement,
In there stepped a rusty Raven of the “glorious days of yore.”
Not the least obeisance dropped he, not an instant stayed or stopped
he,
But, like ghoul who hopped and flopped, he perched above my chamber
door――
On a plaster bust of DIZZY standing o’er my chamber-door――
Perched and sat, and――nothing more!

Then this seedy bird beguiling my chilled features into smiling,
By the grave lugubrious grimness of the solemn phiz he wore,
“Thou art welcome to this haven,” said I, “foul, bedraggled, shaven,
Hopeless-looking ancient Raven, croaking as of days of yore.
Tell me what thy lordly name is, is or was, in days of yore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

Much I marvelled this most sickly fowl to hear respond so quickly,
Though the _nomen_ was a rum one, it a certain aptness bore,
As to those dull dupes of folly and foreboding melancholy,
Hopeful seldom, never jolly, doting on those days of yore,――
Who esteem the present hopeless, utter failure or next door――
To be mended nevermore!

But the Raven, squatting lonely on the plaster bust spoke only
That one word, as though his soul in doldrums he would thus outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered, though his spirit seemed sore
fluttered.
“Come!” I said, or rather muttered, “you’re dyspeptic――’tis a bore,
But to-morrow you’ll be better, sleep will your lost tone restore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

Struck to find the silence broken by reply so patly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “this one word, now, is his only stock and store,
Caught from pessimistic master, who in progress saw disaster,
Coming fast and coming faster, till his wails one burden bore,――
Till his sad vaticinations one unvarying burden bore,
This same Raven’s “Nevermore!”

But the Raven still beguiling my amused soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled my easy-chair in front of bird, and bust, and door;
Then, upon the cushion sinking, thought to thought by fancy linking,
I employed my brains in thinking what this black and feathered bore,
Like all gaunt funereal vaunters of those precious days of yore,
Meant by croaking “Nevermore!”

Then methought the air grew denser, darkened as by cynic censor,
Some CASSANDRA whose forecastings are of evil days in store.
“Croak no more!” I cried. “Content thee with the gifts the gods have
sent thee;
Give us respite and nepenthe from sad dreams of days of yore!
Let us quaff hope’s sweet nepenthe, and forget those days of yore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil! ‘Things are going to the devil,’
Is the formula of fogies, I have heard that bosh before;
Times look dark, but hearts undaunted find the future still enchanted,
With fair visions such as haunted valiant souls in days of yore.
Can’t you, _can’t_ you look less glum? Keep up your pecker, I implore.”
Quoth the Raven――“Nevermore!”

“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, I don’t wish to be uncivil,
But the heavens still bend above us, happy days are still in store;
All are not with megrims laden, still the future holds its Aidenn,
For brave youth and beauteous maiden; prophets _have_ been wrong before,
Generally _are_, in fact; why can’t they learn, and cease to bore?”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

“Then, look here! we’d best be parting, croaking fowl!” I cried,
upstarting,
“You had better find your way to some Fools’ Paradise’s shore!
Leave no feather as a token of the rubbish you have spoken,
Leave my lonely rest unbroken, quit that bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my sight, and take thy blackness from my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

And the Raven still is squatting, my æsthetic paper blotting,
On the plaster bust of DIZZY, just above my chamber-door,
With his wall-eyes dully gleaming ’neath the nightmare of his
dreaming,
And the gaslight o’er him streaming, casts his shadow on the floor;
But _my_ soul in that black shadow that lies heavy on the floor,
Shall be shrouded――Nevermore!

_Punch_, January 10, 1880.

――――――――

THE GOLD DIGGER.

Once upon an evening dreary, a gold-digger, tired and weary,
Cogitated very sadly, brain and bone and heart were sore,
For no gold came by his toiling, unkind fate seemed ever foiling
All his toilsome, weary efforts, and the keeper of the store
Had pitilessly stopped his credit; quoth the keeper of the store,
“I can’t tucker you no more.”

Wild and gloomy thoughts were tumbling through his head and set him
grumbling,
And his voice in accents mumbling ’gan the harsh fates to implore,
That they’d come to some decision, either make him some provision,
Or at once their utmost fury on his willing head outpour――
“Either make me some provision, or your deadliest vials pour”――
He kept crying o’er and o’er.

Swearing, snapping, musing, napping, presently there came a tapping,
Quite an unaccustomed tapping at this fate-tossed digger’s door,
And it roused him from his musing with expectancy confusing,
Made him listen to that tapping on the night’s Plutonian shore,
Wond’ring what could cause that tapping on the night’s Plutonian
shore,
Wondering, guessing, more and more.

Softly then he seized a waddy, quietly he bore his body
To that space within his hut, immediately behind the door;
And with easiest, gentlest motion, like the wave of summer ocean,
He hove up the latch that barred all ingress to his shanty floor,
Hove it up, and grasped his waddy, scanned the night’s Plutonian
shore,
Saw the light, and nothing more.

Then cried he, “What shicer is it pays me this mysterious visit?
Is’t a snake or is’t a wild dog? either sneak I do abhor,
Well! I don’t know about funking, but I’ll just lie down my bunk in,
And I’ll leave the door wide open, open to what may explore
The old hut, and while exploring, if the explorer don’t get sore,
Cooey on me, nevermore.”

From the darkness came a fluttering, and a sort of subdued muttering
That developed into stuttering, stuttering at the open door;
And a lovely Cochin China, impudent as any Dinah,
Strutted proudly o’er the threshold like as he’d been there before,
Just as though he had a right that came all other rights before,
A right that still demanded more.

But a different opinion reigned without that small dominion;
There a calm recumbent digger eyed the proud bird o’er and o’er,
And then stealthily arising, with a cunning most surprising,
Ere Chanticleer had perceived it, he had fastened to the door;
Had made the door so very fast that the chanticleer’s uproar
Might undo it, nevermore.

Then said he, “This bird celestial may I civilly request he’ll
Now disclose the cause of his nocturnal tapping at my door?
Say! hath my good angel sent thee? Flutter not, nay, nay, content
thee,
Thou shalt have as warm a welcome as e’er cocky had before,
Have a regular hot old welcome, such as others had before;
I can offer nothing more.”

Ah! the bird was very wary, and of eloquence quite chary,
No clear answer did it make him as it dodged about the floor,
Never thanked him for his kindness, but with worse than colour
blindness,
It refused to see the goodness of the digger o’er and o’er,
Really flew from his advances, as esteeming him a bore,
And desiring such no more.

Spare my muse a dire narration, take the simple intimation
That by fell decapitation, Cocky weltered in his gore.
His shrill clarion brought to silence by a digger’s ruthless violence,
Never more at dawn of morning, or at close of day might pour
Its clear notes upon the air; might no matin solo pour;
Silenced quite for evermore.

Quite soon a mouth-moistening aroma, such as a famous cook’s diploma
Might certify that famed cook’s skill could draw from viands in his
store,
Filled the hut. The pot was bubbling, Cochin China’s toil and
troubling
Were at an end, and he was yielding grateful broth from every pore,
Yielding broth fit for a warden, that should our digger’s strength
restore,
And make him a good feed once more.

’Twas no ardour scientific of immense results prolific,
Nor a questioning of his fortunes by the ancient heathen lore,
Still our much depressed hero, whose luck surely was at zero,
Was examining quite closely Cocky’s crop upon the floor,
Was inspecting it minutely on his knees upon the floor,
Close and closer, more and more.

Then he rose in great elation, no swell owner of a station
Could wear a more triumphant air than now our miner wore,
For while he had been dissecting he’d been curiously prospecting,
And Cocky’s crop had yielded yellow grains of golden ore.
“No bad prospect,” quoth our miner, “a good show of golden ore,
And around there must be more.”

When the morrow’s sun had lighted up the heavens, our miner dighted
In his clay-stained looking raiment sought the ground the fowls pecked
o’er,
And with them he went a picking, and by dint of closely sticking
To his feathered mates he picked up quite a lot of golden ore――
Picked up nuggets large as brickbats, glorious lumps of golden ore,
Made a pile, and nothing more.

_Newcastle Paper_, April, 1880.

――――――――

QUART POT CREEK.
(_Australasian._)

On an evening ramble lately, as I wandered on sedately,
Linking curious fancies, modern, mediæval, and antique,――
Suddenly the sun descended, and a radiance ruby-splendid,
With the gleam of water blended, thrilled my sensitive physique,――
Thrilled me, filled me with emotion to the tips of my physique,
Fired my eye, and flushed my cheek.

Heeding not where I was going, I had wandered, all unknowing,
Where a river gently flowing caught the radiant ruby-streak;
And this new-found stream beguiling my sedateness into smiling,
Set me classically styling it with Latin names and Greek.
Names Idalian and Castalian such as lovers of the Greek,
Roll like quids within their cheek.

On its marge was many a burrow, many a mound, and many a furrow,
Where the fossickers of fortune play at Nature’s hide-and-seek;
And instead of bridge to span it, there were stepping-stones of
granite,――
And where’er the river ran, it seemed of hidden wealth to speak.
Presently my soul grew stronger, and I, too, was fain to speak:――
I assumed a pose plastique.

“Stream,” said I, “I’ll celebrate thee! Rhymes and Rhythms galore
await thee!
In the weekly ‘poets corner’ I’ll a niche for thee bespeak:
But to aid my lucubration, thou must tell thine appellation,
Tell thy Naiad-designation――for the Journal of next week――
Give thy sweet Pactolian title to my poem of next week.
Whisper, whisper it――in Greek!”

But the river gave no token, and the name remained unspoken,
Though I kept apostrophising till my voice became a shriek;――
When there hove in sight the figure of a homeward-veering digger,
Looming big, and looming bigger, and ejecting clouds of reek――
In fuliginous advance emitting clouds of noisome reek
From a tube beneath his beak.

“Neighbour mine,” said I, “and miner,”――here I showed a silver
shiner――
“For a moment, and for sixpence, take thy pipe from out thy cheek.
This the guerdon of thy fame is; very cheap, indeed, the same is;
Tell me only what the name is――(’tis the stream whereof I speak)――
Name the Naiad-name Pactolian! Digger, I adjure thee, speak!”
Quoth the digger, “Quart Pot Creek.”

Oh, Pol! Edepol! Mecastor! Oh, most luckless poetaster!
I went home a trifle faster, in a twitter of a pique;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living rhyming being
Ever yet was cursed with seeing, in his poem for the week,
Brook or river made immortal in his poem for the week,
With such a name as “Quart Pot Creek!”

* * * * *

But the river, never minding, still is winding, still is winding,
By the gardens where the Mongol tends the cabbage and the leek;
And the ruby radiance nightly touches it with farewell lightly,
But the name sticks to it tightly,――and this sensitive physique,
The already-mentioned (_vide_ supra) sensitive physique,
Shudders still at “Quart Pot Creek!”

_Miscellaneous Poems._ By J. Brunton Stephens. London (Macmillan and Co.) 1880.

――――――――