Chapter XXXII: Part I (12)

Hies a reader on the morrow
Through the busy street called “Strand”;
Sees the notice――hastes to borrow
From a friend the verses grand.
Gets them――reads them; thinks he, “Surely,
Tennyson, not this your own?
‘Hands all Round’――’tis nonsense, purely,
Worthy Salisbury alone!”

In his chamber sits the poet――
Pale his face, his eye is dim;
See the table――gold o’erflows it――
Publishers have sent it him.
For a time no word he utters――
Fullest hearts the slowest speak――
But at length he feebly mutters,
“I’m astonished at my cheek!”

J. T. G.

_The Weekly Dispatch._ June 25, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE SAGA OF AHAB DOOLITTLE.

Who hath not thought himself a poet? Who,
Feeling the stubbed pin-feathers pricking through
His greenish gosling-down, but straight misdeems
Himself anointed? They must run their course,
These later measles of the fledgling mind,
Pitting the adolescent rose with brown,
And after, leaving scars; and we must bear,
Who come of other stirp, no end of roil,
Slacken our strings, disorient ourselves,
And turn our ears to huge conchyliar valves
To hear the shell-hum that would fain be sea.

O guarding thorn of life’s dehiscent bud,
Exasperation! Did we clip thee close,
Disarm ourselves with non-resistent shears,
And leave our minds demassachusetted,
What fence ’gainst inroad of the spouting throng?

For Fame’s a bird that in her wayward sweep
Gossips to all; then, raven-like, comes home
Hoarse-voiced as autumn, and, as autumn leaves
Behind her, blown by all the postal winds,
Letters and manuscripts from unknown hands.
Thus came not Ahab’s: his he brought himself,
One morn, so clear with impecunious gold.
I said: “Chaucer yet lives, and Calderon!”
And, letting down the gangways of the mind
For shipment from the piers of common life,
O’er Learning’s ballast meant some lighter freight
To stow, for export to Macarian Isles
But it was not to be: a tauroid knock
Shook the ash-panels of my door with pain,
And to my vexed “Come in! “Ahab appeared.
Homespun, at least,――thereat I swiftly felt
Somewhat of comfort,――tall, knock-kneed, and gaunt:
Face windy-red, hands horny, large, and loose,
That groped for mine, and finding, dropped at once
As half ashamed: and thereupon he grinned.
I waited, silent, till the silence grew
Oppressive: but he bore it like a man;
Then, as my face still queried, opened wide
The stiff portcullis of his rustic speech,
Whence issued words: “You’d hardly kalkelate
That I’m a poet, but I kind o’ guess
I _be_ one; so the people say to hum.”
Then from his cavernous armpit drew and gave
The singing leaves, not such as erst I knew.
But strange, disjointed, where the unmeasured feet
Staggered allwhither in pursuit of rhyme,
And could not find it: assonance instead,
Cases and verbs misplaced――remediable those――
Broad-shouldered coarseness, fondly meant for wit.

I turned the leaves; his small, gray, hungry eye
Stuck like a burr; agape with hope his mouth.
What could I say? the worn conventional phrase
We use on such occasions,――better wait,
Verse must have time; its seed, like timothy-grass,
Sown in the fall to sprout the following spring,
Is often winter-killed: none can decide;
A single rain-drop prints the eocene,
While crowbars fail on lias: so with song:
The Doom is born in each thing’s primitive stuff.

Perchance he understood not; yet I thrust
Some hypodermic hope within his flesh,
Unconsciously; erelong he came again.
Would I but see his latest? I _did_ see;
Shuddered and answered him in a sterner wise.
I love to put the bars up, shutting out
My pasture from the thistle-cropping beasts
Or squealing hybrids, who have range enough
On our New England commons,――whom the Fiend,
Encouragement-of-Native-Talent, feeds,
With windy provender, in Waverley,
And Flag, and Ledger, weakly manger-racks.

Months passed: the catbird on the elm-tree sang
What “Free from Ahab!” seemed, and I believed.
But, issuing forth one autumn morn, that shone
As earth were made October twenty-seventh
(Some ancient Bible gives the date), he shot
Across my path as sped from Ensign’s bow,
More grewsome, haggard-seeming than before.
Ere from his sinister armpit his right hand
Could pluck the sheets, I thundered forth, “Aroint!”

Not using the Anglo-Saxon shibboleth,
But exorcismal terms, unusual, fierce,
Such as would make a saint disintimate.
The witless terror in his face nigh stayed
My speech, but I was firm and passed him by.
Ah, not three weeks were sped ere he again
Waylaid me in the meadows, with these words:
“I saw thet suthin’ riled you, the last time;
Be you in sperrits now?”――and drew again――
But why go on? I met him yesterday,
The nineteenth time,――pale, sad, but patient still.

When Hakon steered the dragons, there was place,
Though but a thrall’s, beside the eagle-helms,
For him who rhymed instead of rougher work,
For speech is thwarted deed: the Berserk fire
But smoulders now in strange attempts at verse,
While hammering sword-blows mend the halting rhyme,
Give mood and tense unto the well-thewed arm,
And turn these ignorant Ahabs into bards!

From _Diversions of the Echo Club_, by Bayard Taylor.

These somewhat ponderous lines are written in imitation of Lowell’s serious poems, such as “The Cathedral.”

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes.

An English edition of _The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_ was published some years ago by Messrs. Chatto and Windus, with an Introduction by Mr. George Augustus Sala. Holmes was not then well known, or understood, in this country, yet surely such a veteran _litérateur_ as Sala might have found some more appropriate opening sentence for his Introduction than this:――“Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes is essentially what is termed a ‘funny fellow.’”

Written of Artemus Ward, Bret Harte, or Mark Twain, the assertion might have been true, though not new, as applied to Holmes it is neither the one, nor the other.

Pathos there is in plenty, with dry humour and playful wit, which occasionally tempt a smile, as in the following poem, though most assuredly it cannot be termed “funny” in the ordinary acceptation of the word.

CONTENTMENT.

“_Man wants but little here below._”

Little I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone
(A _very plain_ brown stone will do),
That I may call my own;――
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten:――
If Nature can subsist on three,
Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice,――
My _choice_ would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;――
Give me a mortgage here and there.
Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,
Or trifling railroad share,――
I only ask that Fortune send
A _little_ more than I shall spend.

Honours are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names;
I would, _perhaps_, be Plenipo――
But only near St. James;
I’m very sure I should not care
To fill our Gubernator’s chair.

Jewels are baubles; ’tis a sin
To care for such unfruitful things;――
One good-sized diamond in a pin,
Some, not _so large_, in rings,
A ruby, and a pearl, or so,
Will do for me;――I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire
(Good, heavy silks are never dear);
I own perhaps I _might_ desire
Some shawls of true Cashmere,――
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive
So fast that folks must stop and stare;
An easy gait――two, forty-five――
Suits me; I do not care;――
Perhaps, for just a _single spurt_,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians and Raphaels three or four――
I love so much their style and tone――
One Turner, and no more
(A landscape, foreground golden dirt,
The sunshine painted with a squirt).

Of books but few,――some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor;――
Some _little_ luxury _there_
Of red morocco’s gilded gleam,
And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,――such things as these,
Which others often show for pride,
_I_ value for their power to please,
And selfish churls deride;
_One_ Stradivarius, I confess,
_Two_ Meerschaums I would fain possess.

Wealth’s wasteful tricks I will not learn,
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But _all_ must be of buhl?
Give grasping pomp its double share,――
I ask but _one_ recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas’ golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them _much_,――
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content!

From _The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_.

――――

CONTENTMENT.
(_A Parody._)

Little I ask; my wants are few
I only wish a hut of stone,
Or one of good plain brick will do
That I may call my own.
And close at hand in Downing Street,
Is just the house my wants to meet.

I care not much for gold or land――
Give me an office fairly paid.
The Premiership was wisely planned
For statesmen such as I was made.
And then, perhaps, five thou’ a year
Is not too much of worldly gear.

Honours are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names;
I could a marquis be, and so
Beat Beaconsfield at those small games.
I’m very sure I should not care
To fill our Sovereign’s royal chair.

As for the Commons, why require
A very large majority?
One member for each rural shire,
One for each town will do for me.
No small vexation turns me sour
When I am once installed in power.

Though fond of praise to some extent,
Unmingled flattery I despise,
So that it be sincerely meant,
A daily dose or two I prize――
There is no god that I can find
Whose cult extends to all mankind.

The Classes! pooh! I heed them not,
The masses still are reckoned mine;
And if they say, “They will be shot
Ere they support me,” why repine?
The asses surely will be true,
And they are neither far nor few.

Were I fastidious, I might tout
Among the great ones of the land;
Give me the lubbard and the lout,
Who bargain not to understand,
One vote as t’other’s just as good,
And all heads count, although of wood.

Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for what I cannot get.
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall net miss them, yet
Too grateful for the blessings lent
Of simple wants and mind content.

_The St. James’ Gazette._ W. E. G.

(Copied from John Bull) July 17, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE DEACON’S MASTERPIECE.
OR, THE WONDERFUL “ONE-HOSS SHAY.”

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way,
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it――ah, but stay,
I’ll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,――
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
_Georgius Secundus_ was then alive,――
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock’s army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot,――
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, throroughbrace,――lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,――
Above or below, or within or without,――
And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise _breaks down_, but doesn’t _wear out_.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell _yeou_”),
He would build one shay to beat the taown
’n’ the keounty ’n’ all the kentry raoun’;
It should be so built that it _couldn’_ break daown:
――“Fur,” said the Deacon, “’t’s mighty plain
Thut the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain;
’n’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain.
Is only jest
T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.”

* * * * *

That was the way he “put her through.”――
“There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew!”

Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less.
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren――where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there’s nothing that keeps it youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it――You’re welcome.――No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER,――the Earthquake-day.――
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavour of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn’t be,――for the Deacon’s art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn’t a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,

And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub _encore_.
And yet, _as a whole_, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be _worn out_!

First of November, ’Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
“Huddup!” said the parson.――Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday’s text,――
Had got to _fifthly_, and stopped perplexed
At what the――Moses――was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet’n’ house on the hill,
――First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,――
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet’n’-house clock,――
just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
――What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?

The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce.
How it went to pieces all at once,――
All at once, and nothing first,――
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That’s all I say.

O. W. HOLMES.

From _The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_.

――――

SEQUEL TO THE “ONE-HOSS SHAY.”

Doubtless my readers all have heard
Of the “wonderful one-horse shay,”
That “went to pieces all at once
On the terrible earthquake day.”

But did they ever think of the horse
Or mourn the loss of him――
The “ewe-necked bay (who drew the “shay,”)
So full of life and vim?

He was a wonderful nag, I’m told,
In spite of his old “rat-tail,”
And though he always minded the _rein_,
He laughed at the snow and hail.

He had the finest stable in town,
With plenty of oats and hay;
And to the parson’s oft “Hud-dup”
He never would answer _neigh_.

To the parson’s shay he was ever true,
Though the other _felloes_ were _tired_,
To live and die with his _fiancée_
Was all his heart desired.

He was much _attached_ to his ancient mate;
So the parson “hitched them together,”
And, when they went-on their _bridle_ tour,
His heart was as light as a feather.

We all remember her awful fate,
On that sad November day,
When nothing remained but a heap of trash,
That once was a beautiful “shay.”

Oh! what could _stir-up_ the equine breast
Like this fearful, harrowing blow?
Which put a _check_ on his happiness
And filled his heart with _w(h)oa_.

As he _wheeled_ about, a _shaft_ of pain
Entered his faithful breast,
As he there beheld the sad remains
Of her whom he loved the best.

With a sudden bound and fearful snort,
He sped away like the wind;
And a fact most queer I’ll mention here――
No _traces_ were left behind.

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

――――:o:――――

“Here is a little poem I sent a short time since to a committee for a certain celebration. I understood it was to be a festive and convivial occasion, and ordered myself accordingly. It seems the president of the day was a ‘teetotaler.’ I received a note from him in the following words:――”

_Dear Sir_,――Your poem gives good satisfaction to the
Committee. The sentiments expressed with reference to liquor
are not, however, those generally entertained by this
community. I have therefore consulted the clergyman of this
place, who has made some slight changes, which he thinks
will remove all objections, and keep the valuable portions
of the poem.
Yours with respect, etc., etc.,

ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING.
(_With slight alteration by a teetotaler._)

Come! fill up a bumper――for why should we go,

#logwood#
While the nector still reddens our cups as they flow?

#decoction#
Pour out the rich juices still bright with the sun,

#dye-stuff#
Till o’er the brimmed crystal the rubies shall run.

#half-ripened apples#
The purple-globed clusters their life-dews have bled;

#taste# #sugar-of-lead!#
How sweet is the breath of the fragrance they shed!

#rank poisons# #wines!!#
For summer’s last roses lie hid in the wines,

#stable-boys smoking long-nines.#
That were garnered by maidens who laugh’d thro’ the vines.

#scowl# #howl# #scoff# #cheer#,
Then a smile, and a glass, and a toast, and a cheer.

#strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer!#
For all the good wine, and we’ve some of it here!

In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,

#Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all!#
Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

――――

THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
_Poet (in fine frenzy rolling)._

Object redolent of grass,
Daisies, lowing kine, and that,
Fresh from hands of dairy lass,
Dear delightful yellow pat!

Hark! I almost hear the “swish”
Of the milk in tinny vat
(“Pail” won’t rhyme as I could wish),
Perfume-breathing moulded pat!

I recall one passing fair
Milking maiden, as she sat;
Sweet was she as you, with hair
Just your colour――golden pat!

’Twas _her_ fingers, I’ll be sworn,
Churned you up, and rolled you flat――
Fingers rosy as the dawn――
_Poet’s Wife (speaking in the light of recent investigations)._
Stuff, John Smith――it’s bullock’s fat!

_Funny Folks._ November, 1879.

There is a burlesque of O. W. Holmes in Bayard Taylor’s _Diversions of the Echo Club_, entitled “The Psycho-Physical Muse,” but it is not an interesting specimen of Taylor’s power of imitation. A parody, “The Wheelless,” relating to bicycling, appears in _Lyra Bicyclica_, by J. G. Dalton (published in Boston, U.S., in 1880), but it is not of general interest.

WALT WHITMAN.

It is the part, one might almost say, _the duty_, of the parodist to exaggerate the defects of his original, and in the case of Whitman assuredly no mercy, and little justice have been shown. This is to be regretted, because Whitman has not so many readers in this country, as his parodists can command, and it is distinctly an advantage to have read the original poem before getting imbued with the bathos, and intentional nonsense of a parody. It is comparatively easy to reproduce and caricature Whitman’s _manner_. Consequently his mannerisms are far more familiar to most English readers than the vigour of his poetry, especially as owing to the mock-modesty of editors and publishers, many of his finest thoughts on the mysteries of nature, and the philosophy of life, have been omitted in English editions of his works.

Whitman is emphatically a poet for _men_, not for “Select Academies for the Daughters of Gentlemen only;” and whilst much that he has written is glorious poetry to those who will, and can imbibe its spirit freely, to those who cannot thus absorb it the Parodies will appear nearly as poetical as the original. His principal volume, “Leaves of Grass,” as published by James R. Osgood & Company, of Boston, U.S., is a marvellous book, but one from which it is extremely difficult to make a satisfactory selection of quotations which, whilst doing justice to Whitman, shall, at the same time, illustrate the parodies.

Not to be chosen from his solemn _Salut au Monde_, nor the pathetic _Drum-taps_, nor even from the much abused _Children of Adam_, these must be read entire, or not at all.

Walt Whitman’s egotism is a favourite topic with the parodists, here is a small extract from his

SONG OF MYSELF.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance.
Retiring back awhile sufficed at what they are, but never Forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

* * * * *

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and
self-contained,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning
things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of
years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
So they show their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their
possession.
A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses,
Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,
Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,
Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.
His nostrils dilate as my heels embracing
His well-built limbs, tremble with pleasure as we race around and
return.
I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion,
Why do I need your paces when I myself can out-gallop them?
Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.

* * * * *

I too, am not a bit tamed, I too, am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest, and true as any on the shadow’d
wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

He has been accused of irreverence, of materialism, yet he writes thus on

MIRACLES.

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses towards the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the
water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk in the day with any one I love or sleep in the bed at night
with one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of instincts in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining, so quiet
and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim――the rocks――the motion of the waves――the ships
with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

This is not poetry of the tinkling rhyme, and those who require to hear the changes rung on the old, old peal of bells――love, dove, heart, part,――must seek elsewhere than in the writings of Walt Whitman. Lord Tennyson considers him a true poet, so did Swinburne till he took to renouncing all the opinions of his youth, and turned from the praise of revolution, and the anticipation of the happy time when “Prince that clogs and priest that clings, Be cast as weeds upon the dunghill of dead things,” to become the reciter of Jubilee odes. Here are a few extracts from his verses “_To Walt Whitman in America_:”――

Send but a song oversea for us,
Heart of their hearts who are free,
Heart of their singer, to be for us
More than our singing can be;
Ours, in the tempest at error,
With no light but the twilight of terror;
Send us a song oversea!

O strong-winged soul with prophetic
Lips hot with the bloodbeats of song,
With tremor of heartstrings magnetic,
With thoughts as thunders in throng,
With consonant ardours of chords
That pierce men’s souls as with swords,
And hale them hearing along.

As long ago as 1855, Emerson, a clear sighted critic, wrote: “I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of ‘Leaves of grass.’ I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed. I am very happy in reading it, as great power makes us happy. I give you joy of your free and brave thought. I have great joy in it; I find incomparable things, said incomparably well, as they should be.”

ON THANKSGIVING DAY.

Thanks in old age――thanks ere I go,
For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air――for life, mere life,
For precious, ever-lingering memories (of you, my mother, dear――you,
father――you, brothers, sisters, friends).
For all my days――not those of peace alone――the days of war the same.
For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,
For shelter, wine, and meat――for sweet appreciation.
(You distant, dim unknown――or young, or old――countless, unspecified,
beloved.
We never met, and ne’er shall meet――and yet our souls embrace, long,
close, and long;)
For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books,――for colours, forms,
For all the brave, strong men――devoted, hardy men――who’ve forward
sprang in freedom’s help, all years, all lands,
For braver, stronger, more devoted men (a special laurel ere I go to
life’s war’s chosen ones.
The cannoneers of song and thought――the neat artillerymen――the
foremost leaders, captains of the soul;)
As soldier from an ended war return’d――as traveller out of myriads,
to the long procession retrospective.
Thanks――joyful thanks――a soldier’s, traveller’s thanks.

WALT WHITMAN.
January, 1888.

――――:o:――――

Now for the Parodies. The first is taken From _Once a Week_ of twenty years ago, it is prefaced by the satirical announcement:――

“The following is supposed to be an original poem by Whitman:

I am Walt Whitman.
You are an idiot,
O, intellectual ingurtilations of creeds!
To such I am antiseptic.
I met a man
Where?
In a gutter. We were at once friends.
O homogeneities of cotemporaneous antiloxo-dromachy!
He _would_ try to stand on his head. O divinely crapulent
hysteron-proteron!
“Our meeting,” he said, is a palingenesis of Paradise; hast thou,
O Philadelphian, hast thou eighteen pence?”
I embraced him――I wept, I have it not, I shrieked――or――

* * * * *

Whom do I love? Whom do I admire? Not two lounging in a carriage,
but twelve bulging out of a cart.
I am not respectable. You are an idiot.
I am Walt Whitman.”

_Once a Week._ (London.) December 12, 1868.

――――

WALT WHITMAN ON OXFORD.

I am Walt Whitman――who are you?
Who art thou, O brother of me, art thou an Englishman, Welshman,
Styrian farmer, or Last of the Red Indians? Oh indescribable
idiosyncracies! O, mighty grandeur of ratiocination!
I, Wall Whitman, I, the great I――ineffable I――I have been to Oxford!
O crumbling-ruinous monuments, O velvet-cloathed Proctorial espionage,
I am an Americano, yet I am of you, I am you, you are me. Oh!
Yea, but the time all-democratic shall come, all will come to an end
of this.
O, America! Libertad! thou shalt swallow up all. Oxford, thy days
are gone, thou shalt cringe to Harvard.
O democracy! O my world-brother!
I am Walt Whitman! I have been to Oxford. I too am wise, I am learned.
I salute you! Je vous salue, Omnes! Omnes! I am a scholar.
Home of learning! Oxford, mingled up with the past, the Greek, the
Roman, the Sanscrit, all these are thine. But there is America,
there is Maine, New York, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts,
Delaware.
Ah, Latitude 41°. Oh, Longitude 74°.
Ye are one! Red-skin and White-skin, Proctor and Bulldogs,
Boden-scholar and Vice-Chancellor, ye are all one! O glory of
interjections! Oh!
I am one――I am all! Who is the great poet but I?
I am Walt Whitman. You are a fool.

From _The Shotover Papers_. Oxford, May 16, 1874.

――――

HOME――SWEET HOME.
(_With Variations._)

You over there, young man with the guide book, red bound, covered
flexibly with red linen.
Come here, I want to talk with you; I, Walt, the Manhattanese,
citizen of these States, call you.
Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with oil’d hair;
a garlickly look about him generally; him, too, I take in, just as
I would a coyote, or a King, or a toad-stool, or a ham sandwich, or
anything, or anybody else in the world.
Where are you going?
You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good time; in
Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a good time; you want to
see Venice.
Come with me. I will give you a good time; I will give you all the
Venice you want, and most of the Paris.
I, Walt, I call to you! I am all on deck. Come and loafe with me!
Let me take you around by your elbow and show you things.
You listen to my ophicleide!
Home!
Home I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspired by the thought
of home.
Come in! take a front seat. All you have to pay me is to take in my
romanza.

* * * * *

Part of a long parody, which appeared in _Scribner’s Monthly_. May, 1881.

――――

THIS IS A POEM.

I am the Poet of progress:
I sing the athletic life of the great University, the triumphs of
the river, the apotheosis of muscle.
I sing the river, sluggish, opaque, sewage-breathing, but boat
carrying,
I sing boating: the attempts of the beginner, the failures in
feathering, the deep and jerky stroke, the play of the blades like
the sails of the windmill, the frequent crab;
I sing the unsympathetic criticisms of the horny-handed denizens of
the towing path, their laughter, profanity, and readiness in
repartee;
I sing the toils of training; the troubles of regular exercise, the
tired arms, legs, shoulders, neck and breastbone, the bothersome
blister, the discomforts in diet, the unsatisfied craving for
tobacco;
I sing the pleasures of boating, the joys of the practised oarsman.
I sing the excitement of the race.
The gun, the start, the flying banks, the encouraging shouts from
the shore, the confused roar of the tow-path.
The swirl, the rush of the river, the frail ship shooting forward
under the efforts of her oarsmen.
The crowd on the bank, the rush, the riot, the rattle, and the rumpus;
The bump, and the glory of the bumpers;
The bump, and the shame of the bumped.

* * * * *

From _The Cambridge Meteor_. No. 7. June 14, 1882. Fabb and Tyler, Cambridge.

――――

CAMERADOS.

Everywhere, everywhere, following me;
Taking me by the buttonhole, pulling off my boots, hustling me with
the elbows;
Sitting down with me to clams and the chowder-kettle;
Plunging naked at my side into the sleek, irascible surges;
Soothing me with a strain that I neither permit nor prohibit;
Flocking this way and that, reverent, eager, orotund, irrepressible;
Denser than sycamore leaves when the north winds are scouring
Paumanok;
What can I do to restrain them? Nothing, verily nothing.
Everywhere, everywhere, crying aloud for me;
Crying, I hear; and I satisfy them out of my nature;
And he that comes at the end of the feast shall find something over.
Whatever they want I give: though it be something else, they shall
have it.
Drunkard, leper, Tammanyite, small-pox and cholera patient, shoddy
and codfish millionaire,
And the beautiful young men, and the beautiful young women, all the
same,
Crowding, hundreds of thousands, cosmical multitudes,
Buss me and hang on my hips and lean up to my shoulders,
Everywhere listening to my yawp, and glad whenever they hear it;
Everywhere saying, say it, Walt, we believe it:
Everywhere, everywhere.

From _Diversions of the Echo Club_, by Bayard Taylor.

――――

A PARODY FROM SAN FRANCISCO.

I dump my soul and seek repose;
I lay oft in the shadow of the summer leaves and smoke Spanish;
I dump my soul and lay off――you’d better believe it.
I am the poet of filibusters, the poet of Kinney;[130]
But I do not refuse to be the poet of Walker also.
Yes, I am the poet of Kinney and of Walker, you may bet your life
on it.
I could go to Nicaraqua and loll in my hammock,
I could go to a fandango and dance with negro beauties until I
perspired very much,
Yes, sir-ee, I could indeed, and double!
I could eat tortillas and mark the dark-eyed quadroons making
frijoles the greater part of the afternoon,
Well, I could.
I could fillibust the government, and make myself president,
And form a cabinet,
And do several things of that sort:――
I could do nothing shorter![131]
I could also colonize and do some agriculture,
And fix the flints of the natives,[132]
And help my countrymen to go in for their chances,
And make the King of the Musquitoes clean my boots,
And make him dance a reel for my enjoyment;
And I could come all sorts of gum games,[133]
Now mind I tell you.

――――

The following are extracts from a very long parody which occurs in a curious book entitled “_The Fate of Mansfield Humphreys_,” by Richard Grant White. Boston, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1884. An edition of this work was also published by Sampson, Low & Co., London.

I happily myself.
I am considerable of a man. I am some. You also are some. We are all
considerable, all are some.
Put all of you and all of me together, and agitate our particles by
rubbing us up into eternal smash, and we should still be some.
No more than some, but no less.
Particularly some, some particularly, some in general, generally some,
but always some, without mitigation. Distinctly, some!
O ensemble! O quelque-chose!
Some punkins, perhaps;
But perhaps squash,[134] long necked squash, crooked-necked squash,
cucumber, beets, parsnips, carrots, turnips, white turnips, yellow
turnips, or any sort of sass,[135] long sass or short sass, or
potatoes, Men, Irish potatoes; women, sweet potatoes.
Yes, women.
I luxuriate in women,
They look at me, and my eyes start out of my head; they speak to me,
and I yell with delight; they touch me, and the flesh crawls off my
bones.
Women lie in wait for me, they do. Yes sir!
They rush upon me, seven women laying hold of one man; and the divine
efflux that thrilled all living things before the nuptials of the Saurius, overflows, surrounds, and interpenetrates their souls, and they say, Walt, why don’t you come and see us? You know we’d be happy to have you.
O mes sœurs!

* * * * *

Libertad, and the divine average!
I tell you the truth, Salut!
I am not to be bluffed off. No, sir!
I am large, hairy, earthy, smell of the soil, am big in the shoulders,
narrow in the flank, strong in the knees, and of an inquiring and
communicative disposition.
Also instructive in my propensities, given to contemplation;
And able to lift anything that is not too heavy.
Listen to me, and I will do you good.
Loafe with me, and I will do you better.
And if any man gets ahead of me, he will find me after him.

VALE!

――――

Who am I?
I have been reading Walt Whitman, and know not whether he be me, or
me he;――
Or otherwise!
Oh, blue skies! oh, rugged mountains! oh, mighty, rolling Niagara!
Oh, chaos and everlasting bosh!
I am a poet; I swear it! If you do not believe it you are a dolt, a
fool, an idiot!
Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too,
perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close.
_We_ send our resonance echoing down the adamantine _canons_ of the
future!
_We_ live for ever! The worms who criticise us (asses!) laugh, scoff,
jeer and babble――die!
Serve them right.
What is the difference between _Judy_, the pride of Fleet Street,
the glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman?
Start not! ’Tis no end man of a minstrel show who perpends this query;
’Tis no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the _Family
Herald_;
No charade, acrostic (double or single), conundrum, riddle, rebus,
anagram or other guess-work.
I answer thus: We both write truths――great, stern, solemn,
unquenchable truths――couched in more or less ridiculous language.
I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not; therefore, I am his Superior
(which is also a lake in his great and glorious country.)
I scorn, with the unutterable scorn of the despiser of pettiness, to
take a mean advantage of him.
He writes, he sells, he is read (more or less); why then should I
rack my brains and my rhyming dictionary? I will see the public
hanged first!
I sing of America, of the United States, of the stars and stripes,
of Oshkosh, of Kalamazoo, and of Salt Lake City.
I sing of the railroad cars, of the hotels, of the breakfasts, the
lunches, the dinners, and the suppers;
Of the soup, the fish, the entrées, the joints, the game, the
puddings and the ice-cream.
I sing all――I eat all――I sing in turn of Dr. Bluffem’s Antibilious
Pills.
No subject is too small, too insignificant, for Nature’s poet.
I sing of the cocktail, a new song for every cocktail, hundreds of
songs, hundreds of cocktails.
It is a great and a glorious land! The Mississippi, the Missouri,
and a million other torrents roll their waters to the ocean.
It is a great and a glorious land! The Alleghanies, the Catskills,
the Rockies (see atlas for other mountain ranges too numerous to
mention) pierce the clouds!
And the greatest and most glorious product of this great and glorious
land is Walt Whitman;
This must be so, for he says it himself.
There is but one greater than he between the rising and the setting
sun.
There is but one before whom he meekly bows his humbled head.
Oh, great and glorious land, teeming producer of all things, creator
of Niagara, and inventor of Walt Whitman.
Erase your national advertisements of liver pads and cures for
rheumatism from your public monuments, and inscribe thereon in letters of gold the name of _Judy_.

_Judy._ December 10, 1884.

――――

WHITMAN IN LONDON.

Oh, site of Coldbath Fields Prison!
Oh, eight and three-quarter acres of potential Park for the plebs;
I gaze at you; I, Walt, gaze at you through cracks in the black
hoarding,
Though the helmeted blue-coated Bobby dilates to me on the advantages
of moving on.
I marvel at the stupidity of Authorities everywhere.
I stand and inhale a playground, which in a week or two will be
turned into a Post Office by Government orders!
Instead of plants growing here, bricks will be planted.
Instead of girlhood, boyhood playing here, cash will be counted,
stamps will be affixed (savagely) by the public, and letters weighed
when the young women have time, and also inclination, to do so.
I, from the wild Western Continent, wilder myself, weep for this Park
soon to be devoured.
I am like a buck-jumper: I buck at it.
I am like the Giant Cowboy: only I am not gigantic, and I am cowed
by it.
Oh, Northerly end of Farringdon Street! Oh, Coldbath Fields Square!
Oh, dwellers in all the adjacent slums and rookeries, redolent of
old clothes’ shops, swarthy Italian organ-grinders, and the
superannuated herring.
Are you going to see another House of Correction――a Postal one――built
where the old one stood?
If so, it is _I_ who correct you: I, who am so correct myself!

And you, too, Clerkenwell Gaol!
What are the dodrotted Authorities going to do with _you_?
Eh? Clear you away, and build a Board School there?
But why build anything?
Clerkenwell is mine: I am _à propos_ of Clerkenwell: Clerkenwell is
_à propos_ of me.
Morally, if not legally, it is mine; morally it is yours as well,
you wizened, pallid, blue-nozed, dunderheaded Metropolitan Citizen!
In this jungle of houses, what is wanted is fresh air.
Everyone of you toilers should be given the real “Freedom of the
City,” by having free spaces bestowed on you.
It is better to learn how to expand the limbs, and play rounders, and
leap over the frog, and fly kites,
Than to acquire in a school-room elementary education, consisting of
algebra and Assyrian hieroglyphics, spelling, Greek, Italian, and
advanced trigonometry.
_Allons_, then! _Esperanza!_ Also _cui bono_! Go to your Home
Secretary, your Postmaster in General, and tell them that no Post
Office, or School, shall be built on this spot.
Because I, Walt, hailing hoarsely from Manhattan, have spotted it,
And _Punch_, the lustrous _camerado_, the ineffable dispensator, will
spot it too!

_Punch._ September 3, 1887.

――――

A PENSION FOR WALT WHITMAN.

A prosaic bill, drawn up in the tiresome form of such measures, was introduced into the United States Congress in 1887, to give Walt Whitman a pension. He was a hospital nurse in the war, and earned such a recognition.

When the bill reaches the Senate, however, says the _Boston Record_, Senator Blair or some other poet, ought to substitute a bill couched in Whitmanese, somewhat as follows:――

“Be it enacted, solidified, plastered, pasted, nailed, tied,
hem-stitched, and generally made invulnerable,
That Walt Whitman, bard, slinger of pronouns, server of mixed
drinks in the form of verbs, adjectives, and other adverbs,
Be granted, allowed, made to swallow, consume, and digest the
sum of dollars, ducats, promises to pay hereinafter
mentioned, said, sung, and cast up.”

――――

ST. SMITH OF UTAH (A.D. 1844.)

A song of the Far West,
A song of the Great Salt Lake, of Utah, Nauvoo, Jackson County, and
the new Jerusalem.
Listen, individuals, communities, sects, nations;
I am (for this occasion only) a Transatlantic bard,
None of your smooth court-poets of worn-out Eur_òpi_an monarchies,
But a bird of the backwoods――a loud-throated warbler of the forest;
My inspiration is the breath of the boundless prairie; my mental
food is the _roll_ of the raging Atlantic.
Rhyme?――I scorn it. Metre?――Snakes and alligators! what is that to ME?
Libertad for ever! I intend to sing anyhow――and all-how, just as I
tarnation please.
Universe, are you listening? very well, then; here goes, right away.

SMITH!!!!
Smith the Apostle!!!
Smith the Evangelist!!
Smith the Discoverer of the Book of Mormon!
His name was Joseph, and he was raised at Sharon, Windsor County,
Vermont, U.S.
His parents were tillers of the soil――poor, but dishonest,
When they wanted money, they took it; horses, they boned them; sheep,
they annexed them;
But saints may spring from sinners, as a butterfly springs from a
maggot.

Angels! heavenly visions!!
In white robes, with crowns, harps, and everything according,
Bless’d the youthful Smith with their presence beatific.
He went into solitude, loafing in caves, backwoods, and lonely
canyons.
Those angels meant business; thrice in one night they sought him.
They told him all his sins were liquidated,
Told him the history of the world (_not_ according to Moses),
Told him the Red Injuns was one of the lost tribes of Israel;
Told him where to find the sacred book of the Prophet Mormon,
Told him to bring it out, and make a good “spec” of the business.

Leap, O my soul, every 22nd of September,
For on that date Smith found the sacred volume!
Eighteen-twenty-seven――a year to be remembered!!!
Sheets of tin, with characters antique engraven――
Such was the wondrous Book of Mormon.
From that prophet Smith profited, and became a prophet also.
Mahomet, Brahma, Buddha, Confucius――Smith surpassed them all.
Getting behind a screen, he dictated to Oliver Cowdrey
(Smith was not a _literatus_, and couldn’t have jerk’d it
grammatically).
In eighteen-thirty, hurrah! the glorious Book was publish’d.
But carping critics of orthodoxy murmured “fraud!” and “humbug!”
“Where’s your authority? Show us the original!”
Smith disdained to do so; he and his friends had seen it,
But nobody else has seen it, nor will they see it forever.
Yet did Smith triumph, and gathered in converts like hay in the
sunshine.
Virtue will ever prevail, as long as the world circumvolvulates on
its axis.

Huzza for the New Jerusalem!
At Kirtland, Ohio, Smith with his Saints located,
Till, in March, ’32, there came a band of Nonconformists,
Seized Joseph the Saint, and Rigdon his mate, and gave them tar and
feathers!
O my soul, boil, boil like a potato with indignation!
From county to county, and state to state, for years the Mormons
were driven,
Sometimes camping out ’neath the snow-cold stars of winter.
At last they found a resting place――Clay county, in Missouri.
Thither came Brigham Young――at that time Brigham Younger.
Smith sent him out to bring to grace those sceptical down-easters,
Whilst Orson Pratt and Heber C. Kimball were missionaries in Europe.

In this world banks will break, and promoters be call’d swindlers:
This was the luck of Smith and his saintly companions――
Lo! the bank of Kirtland busted, the Mormons were clapp’d in prison,
Not long afterwards they received this heavenly revelation――
“Missouri’s too hot to hold you”――they “vamoused the ranche,”
according.
O, Nauvoo, city of Beauty!
Land of delight, fertility, promise, and blossoming realizations!
When I beheld thee my soul was enthrall’d, and danced a spirited
_can-can_.
Thither came 15,000 saints, and squatted in glory,
And the desert blossom’d as the rose, beneath the smile of Smith.
He preach’d the gospel, and got up a government-house and militia,
Was mayor of the town, high priest, and commander-in-chief of the
army;
O, _gloria_! triumph! bravo! hosannah! huzza! halleluiah!
(These are the words of a soul jumping out of its skin with felicity.)

Once more “revelation” came, and spake unto Smith the prophet.
“The relation between man and woman is not only social but spiritual.
The social is bounded by two, the spiritual knows of no limit;
Wherefore, O Smith, you may take what number of wives you think
proper,
Sanctifying them by sacred mysterious ‘sealings.’”
(Reader, seekest thou further to know, then go and consult Hepworth
Dixon.)

But the cold hard world disapproved of spiritual marriage;
War rose up against Smith, and again, with his mates, he was cast
into prison,
“Revelation” helped them no more; no, nor did angels assist them;
But a gang of rowdies (A.D. 1844) broke into the prison,
Haul’d out Joseph Smith and his brother Hyram,
And with their too-true revolvers they sent them both to glory!

Sinners make martyrs, and martyrs make saints (this is logic.)
Smith was a martyr, and mourned by the Mormons according,
Especially Brigham Young, who came in for his fortune and fixtures.
In 1850 they established the Salt Lake City,
And two years later another great “revelation” set up spiritual
wifehood, the glorious cause that Smith died for.
Thus, like a beautiful tree, grew up the doctrine of spiritual
marriage,
Monogamy, bigamy, trigamy, quadrigamy, quinquigamy, and lastly
polygamy――
Till, if you ask me, “How many wives has Brigham?”
I shall answer, “Go, count the waves of the boundless Atlantic!”

They made Smith a saint――a boss saint――and was he not worthy?
Far more than the worn-out Saints of your rotten Eur_ôpi_an Kingdoms!
Bully for Joseph! my eyes fill with tears; don’t yours?
I admire Joe Smith――I _du_――I’ll wrap up his memory in lavender,
And if you love me, reader (as I’m sure you cannot help it),
Go thou and do likewise.

Mourn for Smith; mourn, mourn, ye peoples!
O songsters, bards of all times, climes, regions, and generations,
O warblers, tenori, bassi, contralti, and mezzi-soprani,
O Christian men of every land and language,
O kings, priests, presidents, khans, kaisers, and subjects.
O infinitively diversified inhabitants of this revolving kosmos,
Sing, and sing, and sing, and keep on singing his honour and glory,
Echo and re-echo for ever the name of Joe Smith, boss Saint of the
Mormons!

From _Lays of the Saintly_, by Walter Parke, author of “Songs of Singularity,” “Rhoda,” etc. London, Vizetelly and Co.

――――

“_Poem of the Ride._ A parody-mosaic, by Walt Wheelman,” is the title of a long parody relating to bicycling, contained in _Lyra Bicyclica_, by J. G. Dalton, Boston, U.S. 1880.

_Pods of Pease_, a parody of Whitman, occurs on p. 24 of _Rejected Tercentenary Songs_ published in Edinburgh in 1884, to celebrate the Tercentenary of the Edinburgh University:

“And I ask, wherefore all this merry-making, this eating and drinking? And they tell me it is the three hundredth year of the University, And so it is.”

――――

_A Mad Parson_, a short prose story by Julian Sturgis, appeared in _Longman’s Magazine_, April, 1884. The parson in question is a kind of Walt Whitman in Holy orders, and his intensely democratic speeches are comical parodies of Whitman’s poetry, but they cannot well be separated from the context. Then there comes upon the scene a wicked wit who mimics the well-meaning parson, and he out-Herods Herod:――

Covent Garden Market.
Onions, potatoes, carrots, turnips, parsnips, asparagus French and
English (_O bon jour_, French asparagus my brother!)
Good vegetables and bad musty vegetables!
Good sellers and bad musty sellers!
I devour the bad musty vegetables.
O bouquets for misses, and for opera girls!
Empty waggons and full waggons, empty baskets and full baskets,
empty people and full people!
O Covent Garden Market!
O dirt and smell and slime indescribable! I describe you all, I
love you all, I wallow in you all. I too am a vegetable. I am
likewise an animal and an angel.
Cool and sweet is the dewy grass, and the shore of the sea. Cool
and sweet is the crowded London street.
I strip myself naked in the grass, on the shore of the sea, in the
crowded street. I am free and naked; the policemen run me in.
Them also do I call brothers!

“SHERIDAN’S RIDE.”

Towards the close of the great Civil War, the United States General Sheridan made a movement against the Southern troops under the command of General Early, in the Shenandoah Valley. Sheridan wasted the valley, and broke Early all to pieces in a great battle, for which General Grant ordered a salute of a hundred guns. But soon Early, reinforced by Longstreet, was ready to move against the intruder in overwhelming force. The movement was a surprise. Sheridan had been absent at Washington, and he was returning to his post, when he met the whole army running towards him in panic and rout. Then began the famous “ride” from Winchester to the front. Deploying his cavalry across the valley to stop the first stragglers, he dashed forward with a handful of men right through his own beaten force towards the victorious foe. As he met each flying regiment he ordered the men to turn about, reminding them that, while they were making excellent progress, they were “going the wrong way.” His desperate energy, and his _bon mot_ together, saved the battle, and turned the rout into a victory.

General Philip Sheridan was born in Ireland, in March, 1831, and died at Nonquit, Massachusetts, on Sunday, August 5, 1888.

Up from the south at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain’s door,
The terrible grumble and rumble and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more――
And Sheridan twenty miles away!
And wilder still those billows of war,
Thundered along the horizon’s bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold――
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
With Sheridan _twenty_ miles away!