But my main source of information

Is mystical confabulation,

With similar forms and kindred souls

Which human hands for human soles

Have drilled to keep their ranks and show

Their noses, red-coat-like, in row:

I mean the stones, which, when your eyes 1150

shows his companions; viz.,

Were ope’d, appeared like heads to rise.

“A goodly confrèrie we are,

Gathered together from afar:

a Scotch stone,

That granite fellow five rows off,

Ah, he’s the Stone to laugh and scoff

At men, and, when he’s in the mood,

You’ll hear him swearing by the rood

He’s a twin brother to the Stone

The Scottish kings scratched on at Scone;*

And oft he sneers; in tones forlorn, 1160

‘Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn

Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn,’†

And bitterly declares no wonder

That men prefer the pound to pund, or

That sterling silver crowns weigh down

Th’ uneasy head-dress called a crown.

a Turkish stone,

Yon marble chap once stood as high as

The topmost moon of St. Sophia’s!

You’ve read, I s’pose, what fuss they

made

About the farce called Crusade?” 1170

“Yes! cursorily——”

* The Lea Fail, or “Fatal Stone,” stolen from Tara by Feargus of Scotland, and stolen from Scone Abbey by Edward I.; it is placed in Westminster, and is still used for good omen.—F. B.

† From the patriotic Smollett.—F. B.

“Well, man! well,

Your Pinnock’s cathechism will tell

How, when men failed, boys went to try

Their hand against the heatheny;

And faith the heathen treated ’em

Better by far than Christendom.

One young Crusader with a Turk

Lived, till beard grew, exempt from work;

But, when his face its beauty mourned,*

Finding himself hard used and scorned, 1180

He took ’t to heart and straight levanted,

And, as he naturally wanted

To show some trophy, bore a bit

Of stone, picked up from offal pit,

Home to his friends, swore ’twas the rock

On which St. Peter stood the shock

Of Hell-gates. All believed of course,

And worshipped it and him—a curse

On human fickleness! Now see

How trampled and how low lies he! 1190

and, lastly, Enoch’s stone.

Yonder Red Sandstone (with the spittle

Upon his patient brow), how little

You yester-things can guess how great

The honours of his former state.

Fellow! indulge me with thy ear—

I wish not other Stones to hear.

When mighty Enoch planned to keep

Intact from flame and the great deep

That invaluable mystery

Procataclysmal masonry, 1200

* A conceit of an Oriental poet, who, referring to the growth of his beard, declared that his face was putting on mourning for the loss of its beauty.—F. B.

He graved it on two pillars—one

Copper or brass, the other stone.

That stone was of the column’s base,

And bore inscribed upon his face

Th’ ineffable symbols A. S. S.

When the Flood came, his front was rolled or

Dashed against a brother boulder:

Now ’tis his solace to declaim

Against th’ event that marred his fame—

With fifty-parson-power damn 1210

The waves that spoiled his trinogram;

While folks upon his old head walk

As if he were but upstart chalk.

How are the mighty fallen! ’oons!

Now ye despise e’en Enoch’s stones!

Were I no Stone, but modern bard,

With my description ’twould go hard,

But duly introduced you to

Every thing that meets your view:

Not being such, I merely say what 1220

Is wanted, and what’s not I say not.”

“Stone! you’ve most sillily digressed,

Dr. Polyglott, Ph.D., returns to the subject

of Pagan Rome.

Wand’ring about from East to West.

I wish to speak of Rome; you’ll own

’Twas but a Pagan brood, whose crown

Was of this world.”

He gave a look

Like gloomy Pitt, or cynic Tooke,

And thus resumed: “I never knew

That Pagan Rome offended you;

I always thought that Christian Rome 1230

The Stone defends it against Great Britain;

Was your great eyesore: have not some

Declared they deem Stamboul’s sultan

A king more likely to attain

The heavenly crown than any Pope?

You contradictious mites that hope

To conquer worlds by brother love,

Yet in your inner hearts approve

Of solemn Christian curses thrown

Against the creed that bare your own,

Of periodic anathemas 1240

Which, to the ear of sense, but seem as

The railings of a shrewish maid

And curses on her mother’s head.

Say, why d’ye strive to prove before

The world you come from scarlet w—

Of Babylon, to whose broad base

Seven hills afford but sitting place?

And own ye no predestination

When volleying your execration

excuses the Pope Pio Nono, alias Count Mastai,

Against th’ unhappy Count whom chance 1250

Drew from Spain, Italy, or France?

In India born, he would have bowed

To Vishnu, or, mid Shiva’s crowd,

Yemen had taught to love and fear

One Allah and his Prophet dear:

by predestina-

tion, and

In Scotland raised, he would have bow’d

’Fore ‘minister,’ not stone and wood;

While Afric rude had made his mind

In every bush a God to find. [1260

Chance birth, chance teaching—these decide

The faiths wherewith men feed their pride;

And, once on childhood’s plastic mind

The trace deep cut, you seldom find

Effaceable, unless the brain

Be either wanting or insane.

But what care you for brain or head,

Ye stiff-necked herd, well paid and fed.

“bangs”

the new lights.

And clothed by human ignorance?

What reck ye eke of choice or chance,

Ye new-light saints, whose dear delight 1270

Is envy, hatred, malice, spite—

Is sending a whole world to hell

By troops and squadrons mixed pell-mell,

Except yourselves? If heaven be

Filled with th’ insensate company

Of those whose only title to ’t

Is that of being a human brute

With a big boss of veneration

And no Causality, I say shame

Such Paradise—a cul-de-sac 1280

Appropriate to the groaning pack.

Pray, why should ye exclude the ass

And dog from future happiness

Beside destroying all their pleasure

Here? O injustice beyond measure!” [no

“Ah! Stone, Stone, stop!—those brutes have

Reason or soul; their actions show——”

The Stone then identifies reason and instinct,

“Reason? A soul? Ay, ay, a store

Of misconceived and useless lore

Of dark, hard, dull great words to close 1290

Man’s eyes and lead him by the nose.

What is a soul but life derived

From life’s Eternal Fount deprived

Of power to gain its upward source

Or leave unbid the prison-corse?

atheistically or pantheistically.

Your cerebral machinery

Is Reason—Mind. Chicanery

Tells you the gift is one distinct

From that it gravely dubs Instinct.

Words! words! A similar spirit reigns 1300

In human and in bestial brains:

In that it sits on jewelled throne,

In this on block of roughest stone;

Still is it One,—for ever One.

The life ye please to term your souls

Through matter’s ev’ry atom rolls—

From mote that swims the sun’s gay beam

To the vast might of ocean stream;

Dr. Polyglott, Ph.D., bids

him “bow and believe.”

And man’s——”

“Why, you’re an atheist!

Or, what’s the same, a Pantheist— 1310

Worshipping all the world because

Such giant faith hath grandest flaws!

Humility is all you want—

He replies he can’t, explain-

ing the pith

of Moses’ rod.

Bow and believe!”

Said he, “I can’t!

Quit we the theme: it never fails

To lead from words to teeth and nails

And mighty fistings to convince

One’s ‘’doxy’ is of creeds the prince.

The Baculine strong argument

Was all that Moses’ rod-myth meant— 1320

Its pith a parable to teach

Expediency, not safe to preach

That the true arm ecclesiastic

Is a wonder-working stake or a stick.”

“Well, modern Memnon!* still you’ll grant

That we can boast (the Romans can’t)

“Pol.” objects our philan-

thropists.

Of an Emancipation Bill,

Which, charity-wise, veils many an ill-

deed: philanthropic Wilberforce——”

“Yes! yes!” cried he; “yes! yes! of

course!——” 1330

* The celebrated speaking statue of Egypt.—F. B.

“What, then, hard-head! darest thou despise

Our Howards, Godwins, Owens, Frys?”

“No! They were stars sufficient bright

Each for its tiny sphere of light;

But their small glitter largely looms

Because of the surrounding glooms.

What say the wise mid rustic men?

‘One swallow makes no summer:’ when

Appears a throng of screaming swifts,

The Stone casts in his teeth our shopkeeperish-

ness,

The peasant knows the season shifts. 1340

A country so commercial could

Not be unselfish, an it would.

A land of traders ne’er can hope

Truly t’ enact the philanthrope.

Still its ambition’s highest range

Is what for good affects exchange:

Did China sink beneath the seas,

What would result? Demand for teas!

Unhappy Malwa starving dies—

Opium, of course, must have a rise! 1350

And Gallic revolutions get

Fame for affecting bobinet.

“Futurity shall tell the tale

of what befel in Tezeen’s vale,

By Kabul’s hills, whose ice-winds rave

O’er the bleached bones of many a brave—

O’er some ten thousand corpses strewed

Upon the snow, with red gore dewed.

our making money of every national dis-

aster,

Was this tragedy fittest scene

T’ enable painted mime to glean 1360

Pence from the pockets of the scum

Of town by ‘Sail’em Alick’em’?*

* Alluding to the minor theatres, which reproduced Lady Sale’s Capture. Enter two Moslems: quoth one, “Sail’em Alick’em!” (Assalamo Alaykum); responds the other, “Alick’em Sail’em!” (W’alaykum us Salàm).—F. B.

“Where ‘fabulous Hydaspes’ rolls

His real wave, a freight of souls

(Some fifteen thousand Sikhs) was hurled

Into th’ abyss of ‘other world.’

The wholesale massacre created

A little stir; that soon abated

Of course: who cares for distant blacks,

Die they by ones, die they by lacs? 1370

The grand sensation of the time

and thinking of Rush more

than of 15,000 Sikhs.

Was a small county-Norfolk crime.

On this your people’s fancy fed

With pleasing horror as they read

Detailed details: see, all the crush

Of Sikhdom’s hardly worth a ‘Rush!’

Such your philanthropy! In English

Another compound hath more relish—

Th’ intelligible philo-pelf,

Or veritable philo-self 1380

Faith you have all the perfidy

And all the fury of the sea!”*

“‘A man convinced against his will

Is of the same opinion still,’”

Cried I in wrath; “you, Stone, reflect!

Dr. Polyglott, Ph.D., accuses the Stone of envying man

Think ye I cannot e’en detect

The cause that set this storm a-brewing

And started off your tongue a-shrewing.

You vainly ape man’s dignity,

And, therein sadly failing, try, 1390

Radical-like, to bring us down

T’ a proper standard—viz., your own—

* So says M. Emile de Girardin.—F. B.

As Procrustes, first Radical,

To his own size cut down the tall—

A practical Pantisocrat;

But there the simile falls flat,

For the same thief un-Radically

Increased the small, to make them tally.

and of wrang-

ling like a Camford boy,

Thy arguments are raw and rare

As those of new-laid Baccalare, 1400

The sleeve-frocked sons of Alma Mater

(Abandoned mother! where’s the Pater?),

The full-grown calf of old Camford

(Or ‘Isis’ bower’—‘what’s in a word?’),

That holds no earthly joy so dear

As wrangling o’er his wine and beer,

Till right seem wrong, wrong right

appear,

Till white be black, and black be white,

Till one is three, three one are hight;

For he can take one side or t’other, 1410

In front and rear the foe to bother:

ending with the Amphis-

bæne.

So th’ Amphisbæne, of whom ’tis said

Now head is rump, now rump is head.”

The Stone cautions him against the Amphisbæne,

“Well wrangled, man! your eloquence,

However, smacks of virulence,

And ’s strong in simile, not sense

(That of the Amphisbæn’ is pretty,

But far too Millerish to be witty).

Methinks you weren’t just quite the

kind

Of lad to Mother Camford’s mind: 1420

Did she prescribe in rus t’ ye

and supports Camford against Lon-

don.

That ye must rail so cross and crusty?

Or gave a nunc dimitto ’cause

You broke her more than Median laws?

Against her I’ll back the city-

Effluvian University*

For impudence of London sparrows,

And shallow noisiness that harrows

My every feeling. Quit the theme!

It jars me like a drayman’s team.” 1430

“Quit we it, then: I wish to try

The fortunes of one more query,

Dr. Plyglott, Ph.D., harps

on the Eman-

cipation glories of England,

and gibes the United States.

Since you so quibbled off my last.

Say! is the age of Slavery past

From Britain? do we hunt and chain

The sons of Abel or of Cain?

Say! have we not full right to gibe

That contradictious New World tribe

‘Whose fustian flag of Freedom waves

In mock’ry o’er a land of slaves?’”† 1440

“Why, Spartan-like, I must reply:

You talk so long and wordily,

Before your speech’s tail appear,

Its head slips through mine other ear.

The Stone advises glass-

dwellers not to throw stones

You men of glass should not begin

Stone-throwing at your New World kin:

There slaves are but their servants; here

Your servants are the slaves ’tis clear.”

“Slaves? and to whom?”

“To social life—

As dire a shrew as any wife! — 1450

points to the white slave,

To Circumstance! to want inbred

Of food and meat and roof and bed!

To rank, ‘gentility,’ and pride,

And twenty other lords beside.

* Poor old Stinkamaree.—F. B.

† From some English poet; we forget his name.—F. B.

What is the genus Governess?

The dame de compagnie? I guess,*

The veriest slaveys of their kind,

Tho’ you be to the fact stone-blind.

“Trace me a class that has not money

For purchasing of matrimony, 1460

Your cooks and maids must starve to

marry;

So footman John, or Master Harry,

(Your son), becomes a sire or not

As chance directs. The mother’s lot

Is pleasant! Virtue shows the gate,

and Hunger drives to sadder state

(Hence the infanticides that grace

The purlieus of your dwelling-place,

Th’ exposures and barbarities

That seem to rend all human ties), 1470

Till, when all foul resources fail,

She dies in Magdalen or jail;

Whence—useful still—her remnant goes

Where practised porter right well knows—

T’ expose before the tyro’s eye,

With crimson size, each artery;

And, when he’s learned to cut and maim,

The pauper-corpse no friends will claim.

The scalpel’s work when past and done,

They shovel pieces, not of one, 1480

But half-a-dozen subjects dead—

One arm, three legs, and dubious head—

That, ere the mass begin to fester,

The priest may pray for ‘this our sister.’”

* Quoth Wordsworth (this “guess” is not Yankee):—“He was a lovely youth; I guess.”—F. B.

“’Tis but one class!”

“How many die

Blaspheming foodless Liberty?

Britain declares she’s free; go, test her

Truth in the dread dens of Manchester!

Go, and with Freedom’s boastings, cram

The ravening maw of Birmingham! 1490

On Galway’s hills perhaps you’ll find

Mouths to support you—When they’ve dined!

“Fair sir, your wealthy vanities

Have frozen human charities

Within your breasts; as icebrook’s steel,

Your hardened hearts forget to feel

for any but yourselves. I saw

Last night a starv’ling seized by law

Because he dared to beg for bread

‘O where is Charity?’ cried I. ‘Where?’” 1500

The next Stone echo’d,* “Here, sir! here!”

“None of your sneering, gaby; I

Fear no levator labii.”

“Our theory is good, at least,

In segregating man and beast——”

“Theory? Stop!” cried he; “don’t prate

Of theory to me. I hate

To see th’ interminate duello

’Twixt theory and practice, fellow!

and shows

anti-slavery to be mere humbug;

I do not mean to test and try 1510

The moral grounds of slavery;

But your ideas sound far too good,

Methinks, for human flesh and blood.

Sir! all your patriarchs had slaves;

Your holy prophets, too, had slaves;

* Echo has, it is true, had of late very hard work, like the albatross and the travelling schoolmaster.—F. B.

Your early Christian saints had slaves;

Your Lord-anointed kings had slaves.

They all were wrong: you right, ye knaves!

Since one-idea’d Wilberforce [1520

Preached others deaf, talked himself hoarse,

From John Bull’s purse to loose the string,

And make you do a foolish thing.”

“Foolish—and why?”

“Because ’twas mere

Quixotic fancy to appear

Serving a tit-bit of romance,

Dished up with facts of eloquence—

Culled for a ‘Senate’s’ taste, and sorted

For minds that love the Great Distorted,

Whereon to waste your tears and coins,

opining that charity should begin at home,

When every rule of right enjoins 1530

Charity to begin at home.

But, when can homely horror come

Near the wild, distant, gloomy tales

Of blacks bepacked like cotton bales,

Sold like cattle, lashed till raw

By nankeen’d whites in hats of straw?

This for your theory: now attend!

I’ll try your practice—this the end

To which I make my theories tend. [1540

“Sir! when your cruisers plough the seas,

Now freeing slaves, now stealing teas

(Spending some million pounds a-year

In way John Bull e’er holds most

and that, as

it is, captured slaves are not liberated, but transported.

dear—

Namely, the silly ostentation

Of being such a liberal nation—

As if commissioned from on high

Finger to thrust in every pie,

Yet laughing loudly when ye see a

Neighbour contending for ‘idea,’

Although, methinks, ideas are 1550

Than bales of cotton manlier far)

A slaver caught, do they restore

The captive to his native shore?

No, no! the negro’s kept and fed

Till, for some £7 10. per head,

A skipper tender ship to take a

Cargo of free men to Jamaica,

Or other colonies that pay

For labour hired so much a day.

Surely ’tis queer humanity 1560

To transport sine crimine—

To banish all your free men! Whew!

A most eccentric race are you

Islanders; as the Germans dream,

You all so many islands seem

Cut off from rest of human kind

By the fierce Channel’s ‘billows blind.’*

‘Whose fustian flag of Freedom waves

In mock’ry o’er a land of slaves!!!’

Yes, tinkling rhymer! well you sing, 1570

Alliterating little string.

How easy ’tis with writer’s art

To make of bad the better part!

Proving how words and jingle find

Easy approach to human mind.

Come, Southron, hear my tongue profer

A Rowland for their Oliver:

‘The meteor flag that blazes o’er

Free slaves on many a stolen shore.’”

* With which the Arab imagination filled the Atlantic.—F. B.

I threatened him with prosecution; 1580

He seemed to court such persecution:

Like old “professor,”* ne’er content

Till by main force to heaven sent;

Or modern patriot whose strong reason

Succumbs before charms of safe treason;

For still he sang, and louder sang,

With a most classic “Secesh” twang,

“The meteor flag that blazes o’er

Free slaves on many a stolen shore.”

Then, with abundant jeer and gibe, 1590

The Stone points to India,

He thus pursued his diatribe:

“Your slave-walks, sir, you’re pleased to call

‘Colonies’—change of name, that’s all;

And, when for ‘slave’ one ‘pauper’ reads,

There’s scanty difference ’twixt the breeds.

Mr. Legree, in Maryland,

Lashes his own with sparing hand;

Your fine East-Indian magistrate

To freemen deals far harder fate.

where women were, till lately, flogged,

Oft have I heard of women stripped,† 1600

Lashed to a tree, and fairly whipped

(List, shade of Haynau!) with the thong

Of cat-o’-nine-tail, sharp and long,

Laid by the Briton on her back.

’Tis true the wretch’s skin was black,

And epidermis dark, you see,

Somewhat like raiment seems to be.

Three dozen lashes! As descends

The manly blow, each hard knot sends

* Of the days of martyrdom—not to be confounded with the modern sense of the expression.—F. B.

† It has not, we believe, taken place since 1849.—F. B.

A burning pang through all her frame, 1610

Yet mild compared with outraged shame.

The first half-score, when duly plied,

Raise lengthy wheals from side to side;

And each fresh stripe, like molten lead,

Removes the strips of flesh that shed

Large blood-drops on the stones below,

Who blush them red.”

“But is it true?”*

“I’ve said, sir, we leave lies to you.

Dreadful, you cry?

I would contrast

and to more modest Persia.

Another scene with that just past. 1620

See the embattled hosts that stand

Upon the plains of Persian land;

Why points the gun, why bared the brand

Quiv’ring in every soldier’s hand?

Two brothers meet, in impious strife,

To fight for prize of crown and life;

And one shall fall a clay-cold thing

That one may sit a sceptr’d king.

The lines are formed, the standard reared,

Yet not a soul as yet hath dared 1630

To break that stirring pause, whose spell

The lawless men all feel so well.

“But whence those female sobs and wails?

Who come, in Burkas† wrapped and veils,

Hurrying ’twixt the hosts to try

If love or hate hath mastery?

Their prayers, their tears are all in vain!

Vainly in shrieks their voices strain!

* The scene referred to happened in a province of Western India. The woman was very insubordinate—still!—F. B.

† Mantillas covering the face.—F. B.

It is not on the battle-plain

That woman’s hest is heard. Again 1640

They try, again they fail; at last,

As mist before the Eastern blast,

Melts the sanguinary horde—

The spear is lowered, sheath’d the

sword,

The horseman springs from saddle-bow,

And tears, not blood, begin to flow:

Even the brothers must embrace

Before the mothers threat’ning face—

E’en they that hated for a crown

For smiling look change angry frown. 1650

“What might of miracle had power

Man’s heart to melt in such an hour?

Will ye believe it? Civilized set!

The empty sound of female threat,

The royal matron in despair

Offering to stranger eye to bare

The bosom whence existence drew

The twain that led that barbarous crew?*

These are the Turks for whom ye pray,

The heathen these for whom you pay 1660

A missionary mob to preach

Faith, Hope, and Charity—t’ unteach

More modest men t’ immure the fair—

deriding the former’s claim to superiority and mission-

ing.

Inculcate the true English stare,

Produce the brazen, reckless air

Which so distinguish women here.

Europe, the Moslems greet your plan

Of propagating courtesan-

* This romantic incident took place, exactly as described, after the death of Fatteh Alee Shah, King of Persia, when two of his sons prepared to fight for the succession.—F. B.

ship and dispensing to their breed

Strong waters and a ‘purer creed.’ 1670

“The civilizer aye delights

In neophytes, converts, proselytes:

Stir not an inch the graceless heathen

To bid their brother men to Heaven.

“This world is Heaven or is Hell

As you abuse or use it well,

And, in the graceless heathen’s sight,

Whatever is, is good, is right:

You’d make good better, and, of course,

You very oft’ make matters worse; 1680

The Stone defends the heathen against Dr. Polyglott, Ph.D.,

And, since you fail so signally,

I need not ask the reason why

You wish the world to be as bad.

The Hindu, you affirm, ’s a sad

Heathen, and yet, as such, he’s good.

The savage Moslem sheds men’s blood,

Marries four wives, and, what is worse,

Keeps concubines, allows divorce:

Still he is a righteous Mussulman.

The Parsee tricks his brother man 1690

And half adores his Ahriman,*

Yet’s a good Guebre. So the Jew—

In fact, all to their faiths are true,

And in them good, save, Christians, you!†

“And now, sir, as I’ve answered all

and calls for an explanation of the national thirst;

Interrogations, great and small

(Kindly remove your long thick leg),

I, in my turn, presume to beg

* The evil principle opposed to Hormuzd in the dualism of Old Persia.—F. B.

† Πας άγαθος ή άγαθος · έθνικος και πας χριστιανος ή χριστιανος κακος.—F. B.

Enlightment on a point which sore

Puzzles my brains each day the more. 1700

Tantalus-like are all you cursed

With an eternal raging thirst——”

“Dog-stone!” cried I, “intoxication

Is the pet vice of Northern nation;

Danes, Swedes, and Germans drink, while French

And Southron men prefer to wench

And eke to gamble——”

He pursued

Queries indelicate and rude:

“D’ye worship swine, like Taheitans,

And hog your minds like ponies’ manes? 1710

Else why go pigging all about

The streets and stations, in and out

Of houses, reeling, fighting, sing-

ing, weeping, laughing, puking, wring-

ing hands, until your presence shocks

The feelings of the stones and stocks?

Britannia, rise from off the edge

Of oval shield, and take the pledge!”

The question made me rather pensive;

I faintly muttered ’twas offensive— 1720

That drunkenness is now confined

of balls and theatres;

To snobs—obnoxious to be fined——

“And is it true you spend your nights,”

Asked he, “in viewing godless sights

Of women in flesh-coloured tights,

Whose only art is, as you know,

What’s better hidden all to show?

I’m told ’tis deemed the best of taste

To hug and paw strange woman’s waist,

Calling it fashion, custom, and 1730

The pleasures of a civilized land.

Like men less cynic, why not pay

Women to sing and dance and play?

Again, I hear no trade more thrives

of men mid-

wives;

Than accoucheurs and men mid-wives.

Can it be true you have no schools

Where sages femmes learn to litter fools?”

“Stone, we have reasons—there’s a chance——”

“Of what in England not in France?

Unless, perhaps, your women’s stays* 1740

And waspy waists you love to praise.

Produce the risk: why not reduce

The whalebone, and the tags disuse?

The Chinese cramp in swathes and shoes

The growth of dainty maiden’s toes,

Thinking that, next to woman’s tongue,

Gadding from home leads most to wrong.

But these corsets? Haply they’re placed

To keep your gentlewomen chaste?

As crinoline and farthingale, 1750

Which no hot amorist dare assail.

of wasp-waists;

But, no, methinks ’tis polished ‘taste’

That teaches you to bind the waist.

Ask all your painters, statuaries,

Which finds more favour in their eyes—

The full luxuriant contour

Which Nature sketched in happier hour,

Or this pinched wretch, encased, enrolled

Like rotten mummy in its fold

Of linen swaddlings? I prefer 1760

A camel-load of flesh to her—

Th’ obesest Mooress that e’er trod

Of Atlas hills the verdant sod,

* Under which obsolete name he apparently alludes to the secret armour worn by the sex under the dress.—F. B.

Larding their earth. I’ faith, I’d rather

See Hottentots berigged in leather.

“Pity that Nature, when she drew

Out plans and estimates for you,

Forgot to beg your vanities,

To save her some inanities.

Could poor Archeus* ever guess 1770

of shaving;

You’d bare your facial ugliness,

And daily shave your cheeks as clean

As virgins, to improve your mien?

Whilst some cut landscape in the hair,

Their whiskers nurture, chins mow bare,

Of malar pile leave but a strip,

Rob of its honours th’ upper lip,

Leaving the chops and teeth to catch

Complaints, denuded of their thatch!

of hair-

hogging;

Dame Nature bade your chevelure flow 1780

Adown your shoulders: again no

Says Madame Mode to silly throng—

‘I’m right! old Gammer’s clearly wrong!

Clip one part shortish, t’other long

(As Frenchman poodles shaves and shapes

A la lion—i. e., like apes),

Part it behind, like terrier’s back,

Bethatch the front like wheaten stack,

The corners twist towards your eyes,

Correct with stiff’ning, oil, and dyes.’ 1790

Now from the barber’s chair arise—

A thing gorillas would despise!

‘Beast!’ Adam† cries, ‘what madness docks

The “clust’ring hyacinthine locks”

* The living and all-pervading principle of creation.—F. B.

† Milton’s Adam—not he of the “Vestiges.”—F. B.

I left t’ ye for a heritage?

and of dress generally,

What, you abortion, made you cage

Your members in that habit, shocking

Your head in pot but fit to cook in?

Was it th’ Old Serpent made you pack

Your toes in bags of leather black? 1800

Stick bits of ore and coloured stones

Round etiolated finger-bones?

Come, Eva, look; full sure these loons

to the disgust of Dr. Poly-

glott, Ph.D.

Have been intriguing with baboons!’”

This was too much, “Ruffian”, cried I,

“You beg the question you decry.

Our men and women dress and town

For mere externals. Bow ye down

Before the master-charm of mind—

The Stone de-

nies the fitness of women’s education.

Our women’s training—education——” 1810

“There, stop,” cried he, “your declamation!

And first of begging questions, sir.

When angry passions dullards stir

The first tone of Eristike (έριςτικη),

Pitched in a very testy key,

Is, sir, ‘You beg the question.’ Logic,

Per se, is e’er amphibologic,

But, petitio principii,

Hath finger deep in every pie—

A figure ultra-Judëan, 1820

As his goose-quill, who penned ye an

Address to Wat* and Laureate Ode;

But this by way of episode.

As for your training boast, I am

Sore tempted t’, ad modestiam,

Argument, but that Aldrich took

No heed of that in all his book

* Wat Tyler, we presume.—F. B.

(And wisely, for ’twould, in this age,

Be formula the most unsage:

The very boys and girls would cry 1830

Shame on the man of modesty).

This reading, writing, ciphering, strumming,

Use of the globes and art of humming,

Or shrieking, dignified as music,

That makes me, if it don’t make you, sick;

Practice in entering a carriage,

Largest ideas of love and marriage,

Some twenty several sorts of dances

(Saltation market-price enhances),

The science of disposing dress 1840

To set forth charms, hide ugliness;

A thousand rules for choosing hats,

A proper taste in men’s cravats,

The art to show the brodequin’s top

And yet before mid-leg to stop;

To deal with tradesmen all unknown

To parents till the bills are blown,

Or when, upon the marriage day,

The ‘happy man’ is called to pay;

A connoisseurship of champagne, 1850

Slang words, and horses, dogs, and men;

A high aspire to take the chair

In club meant only for the fair;

How to distinguish stones from paste,

And eke to pawn them; how to waste

Time on plays, novels, and romances,

Before the glass to practise glances—

Now soft and sweet, now hard, distressing,

Careless, encouraging, repressing—

And similar feminine arts to net 1860

The foolish fish that like the bait:

Is this your boasted way to show

The young idea how to go?

By Jove! you lavish too much care

In training of a Bayadère!

But t’other day I heard Miss A.

Unto Miss B., her ‘crony,’ say,

‘I hate your pale-faced things, and own

To liking a nice sailor brown.’

The little minx, though hardly ten, 1870

Pronounces on the points of men:

At twenty, think ye, will the nice

Brown sailor but her eye entice?”

“Nonsense, my Lithy, girls are gay

In moral races, sages say;*

Dr. Polyglott, Ph.D., sup-

ports the virtue of the married she-

Bull.

But they reform when passed the church,

And leave their lovers in the lurch.

Our boast is home, and ever stranger,

Except a Signor or Bushranger,

Who knows our life, must e’er confess 1880

Our hearths are rich in happiness.

Must I suppose this all a dream

Unreal as the Seráb’s stream†—

Existentless as lights that seem

Before ophthalmic eyes to gleam?”

The Stone retorts;

“In this rich mine of humbug strain

There runs of fact a slender vein.

There’s far less happiness than pride

In crying up one’s own fireside:

’Tis mostly done when known the hearer 1890

Holds ball and opera much dearer—

Prefers, as Frenchman does, to sit

Out evenings in th’ estaminet.

* Rousseau.—F. B.

† In Persian, the mirage.—F. B.

calls happy home a hell;

Your ‘happy hearth’ is oft a hell

Where Temper, Spite, and Disgust dwell,

And Ennui sheds her baleful gloom,

Making the place a living tomb;

Till your son, dog-sick, flies it, and

To swindling turns a ready hand,

And your poor daughter, tired of life, 1900

Prefers to be a lackey’s wife.

‘The homes of Merry England’—zounds!

I hate to hear the well-worn sounds,

Your parrot-poets, pie-poetesses—

Humbugs!—emit. Come now, confess, is

Not the fire-side, where reign immense

Felicity and innocence,

More often far a perfect Cape

Of Storms than Hope? But, mark me, ape,

Your kind’s belief in things affords 1910

The strangest contrast to their words:

You know the place is stormy, thus

You call it Hopeful. And what fuss

You make when self-compelled to roam

From British boast, the ‘happy home’!

’Tis then the sturdy Saxon grows

Watery as a sea cow’s nose,

And maunders like a sick girl o’er

That commonplace his native ‘shore.’

Home is the sole abode of bliss; 1920

Tourist, the exile comfortless;

His heart’s the loadstone, home the pole—

Thought streams, home sea to which they roll.

O canting nonsense! Why the deuce

Don’t they go home? What is the use

Of this lip-stuff when they might prove

shows how gladly we flee;

By marching back that home they love?

“But see, this exile, when returned

To all for which his sick heart yearned,

Growls, grumbles, damns, until once more 1930

Escaped from dearest native shore,

Self-banished as he was before:

Ahasuerus-like,* he starts

Once more for hateful ‘foreign parts.’”

“Yet, my Lithophonist, our wives,

Without whom Briton never thrives;

and, when Dr. Polyglott Ph.D., reite-

rates his assertion,

Our dear domestic better parts,

Whose truthful, faithful, loving hearts

Are our prime boast; whose constancy

It ‘riles’ the outer world to see; 1940

Upon whose bosom man may find

Console from Fate, howe’er unkind;

Who, like the Suttees, burn to burn,

And mingle dust in husband’s urn——”

He rolled his head and winked his eyes

In most ill-bred irreverent guise,

shows how girls are brought up for the marriage market;

And thus proceeded: “Now don’t eat

Abominations† in the street.

Your girls brought up to show their faces

At chapels, ‘sights,’ and bathing-places, 1950

Pic-nics and archery meetings, where

Liquor abounds, sobriety’s rare;

Who deem a ball and ball-room dress

The ne plus ultra of happiness;

For bal masqué would give their ears;

Who learn each actor’s name and years,

And every scandalous anecdote

In town or country ken by rote;

* The Wandering Jew—F. B.

† A common Orientalism, meaning “don’t talk nonsense.”—F. B.

Who know whate’er their mothers know

In mind, perhaps in physique too; 1960

Who quizzically send a friend

To Paris till her waist is thinned:

Such pretty, polking, flirting fools,

That graduate in Folly’s schools,

The shortest cuts to sin and crime

Beknown to man in modern time;

Taught from the earliest age to try

Their little hands at coquetry,

To break men’s hearts ere Nature lend

Specific* remedy to mend 1970

The fractured member; trained to trace

Love-letters with aplomb and grace;

The sing’d young lady, wide awake,

Resolved Mamma’s advice to take,

No shame to know, to feel no fear

In hunting rent-roll or a peer;

Who limit wedlock’s full extent

To diamonds and settlement;

Who views the matrimonial mart

With stony eye and callous heart, 1980

Trots out from her paternal stall

As nag for sale by Tattersall,

To highest bidder is knocked down

Like any slave in Stamboul town,

And swears to honour, love, obey,

The while her heart has gone astray

With some old flame, who bides his day;

The girl whom modish parent teaches

To win and wear marital breeches

* Query, “Generic”? The Stone, however, has become so rabid that he is indifferent to the use of adjectives.—F. B.

By studies physiological, 1990

As they their ‘natural history’ call,

Of Balzac, Kahn, Feydeau, and Walker,*

To turn half-addled brains, and talk her

Into believing all the scribble

Wherewith their flimsy goose-quills dribble;

Strong-minded spinsters who prefer

The ’Spital’s tainted atmosphere

And Fame to path of hiding life;†

Your patriot girls to whom the strife

Of brigandism and Secesh 2000

Serves their embryo thoughts t’ enmesh;

The advocates of ‘women’s rights;’

Abolitionists whom most delights

To ape the mad Lucretia Mott,‡

And all the politician lot,

Or those that ‘go for’ Education,

Or those that build on ‘Emigration’:

Such make good wives, such make life sweet

As hours in Newgate or the Fleet.

Immortal Gods, my better friend 2010

From such abhorrent fate defend!

contrasting them with Pica;

“Did’st ever hear of Pica’s name—

A noted noble Roman dame?

Yes! Then you know of her ‘tis told

She ne’er saw man, or young or old,

After her nuptials. Once among

Her friends a gossip said how strong

Smelt Mister Pica’s breath of wine.

The poor dame marvelled, and, in fine,

* The author of a certain book called “Woman.”—F. B.

† “Fallentis semita vitæ.”—F. B.

‡ Notorious anti-slavery lady in the once United States.—F. B.

Declared that all must smell the same! 2020

instancing

Sir Cresswell Cresswell’s court,

I tell the tale as told by fame.

And now you have to shift your course

By Court of Probate and Divorce,

Cast loose the tie fast tied by Fate,

Let either wretch unyoke its mate—

Condition’lly that th’ whole foul tale

Defile the once pure homestead’s pale—

Teach every little miss to see

What Mistress A. with Mr. B.

Was apt to do—teach every boy 2030

Sometime the like delight t’ enjoy,

And o’er society to throw

Of lust and crime the hellish glow.

“Of your fair studies the result,

See hare-brained Hall stand up t’ insult

The sense, the ‘spirit of the age’

and various vile scandals.

By lectures on concubinage.

Another case: see high-born dame

Lend her fair self to the foul shame

Of confarreation with a black, 2040

The lord of many a dirty lac.

’Twas legal, for the blackamoor

Paid fullest price for his amour;

The lady swore to love, obey,

And honour her dark popinjay.

Yet scarce six months had lapsed

before,

Un-Desdemona-like, she tore

The tie asunder, on the plea

Of the poor Moor’s insanity.

This, braver than Tyndaridæ, 2050

Helped by two well-feed, pompous men

That proved the lord non compos men-

tis, by one bolder deed of strife

Settled Othello’s hash for life.

And now, his occupation gone,

He walks the Continent alone,

Ne’er to recross the British main

Or to his own return again.”

Dr. Polyglott Ph.D., in-

stances the warm paternal affection of John Bull.

“But, Petrus, our paternal love——”

“That kicks you out of doors to rove, 2060

Without an extra hour’s delay,

Over the sea and far away,

Only praying you never may

The Stone replies deri-

sively,

Homewards stray for many a day——

“Man, are you sporting with your ills?

The rugged ruffian on the hills

Of barbarous Belochistan,

Give him his due, doth all he can

To keep his child at home; for him

He risks with pleasure life and limb, 2070

Robs, murders, fights, and all to feed

The young ’uns, his four spouses breed.”

“They’re savages.”

“Of course! If not,

The door would be the younkers’ lot.

Look at the foreign marts and fairs,

Where you exhort your sons and heirs

As any other trading wares:

Banish the hapless half-grown boy

(The father’s hope! the mother’s joy!)

From all he loves, from all in life 2080

That makes life sweet, to bitter strife—

On a grand tour in search of Fortune—

With stony-fisted jade, Misfortune;

Drive him, when barely breeched, to reap

A golden harvest from the deep;

’Neath polar latitudes to freeze,

Or broil upon the torrid seas,

Or to the haunts so blithe and

merry

Of small-pox, plague, and Berri-Berri,

Where Ague guards her native coast, 2090

And Yellow Jack still rules the roast:

How few will e’er return! and, when

They do, you barely call them men—

Old, haggard, wasted, broken, gone

In mind and body. Yet each one

A score or two in ’s day have seen

Retire, clime-slaughtered, from the scene—

Die on the straw, alone, like dog—

Die with split throat, like fatted hog—

In some huge trench, with general

heap 2100

Of corpses, seek a long last sleep,

Or find a watery grave—which is

To find no grave at all, I wis.

Are windows not sufficient high?

Is rope so dear, no charcoal nigh?

Then take a penknife, boy, let out

At once your sire’s sad gift.

I doubt

You deem me rugged stuff, my good

Sir, all unused to melting mood;

Yet sometimes tales will meet my

ear 2110

quoting bad cases,

That e’en from stones demand a tear.

Listen. The dying soldier leaves

Ind’s sultry shores; dying, he cleaves

To the one hope, the only prayer,

Once more to breathe his natal air.

Where gentlewomen most appear

Perniciously ‘bemused with beer,’*

The bad land left, mind-tonic lends

Delusive strength, his brow unbends,

His eye is clearer, and his tread 2120

Falls on the deck inspirited.

A fortnight gone, the fit hath passed

Away; he feels now firm and fast

Hurrying to the dark dread goal:

The grip of Death is on his soul.

He leaves the poop; at meals his

chair

Is empty, though still standing there;

And all forget him, save, perchance,

When, through the open door, a glance

Detects a gasping skeleton, 2130

Reclined, half dressed, the couchlet on

Under the open port. At last

’Tis whispered he is sinking fast.

Some few seek out his berth, to cheer

The spirit ’parting to its drear,

Dark exploration; but he lies

Motionless, wordless, hardly tries

The mind to struggle; his eyes glaze

And fix on vacancy their gaze;

especially one

Drops down his jaw, as though its weight 2140

Was grievous to his weakly plight.

Where is the parent’s—sister’s care?

The relative, the friend; ah! where?

Indeed they are all wanted here.

The strangers shudder; even they,

However kindly, will not stay

* Sir Ronald Martin’s “Influence of Tropical Climates,” etc., p. 174.—F. B.

To stare at Death, especially

As Doctor says ’tis uselessly.

And yet at times a curious head,

Inthrust, asks if the poor man’s dead. 2150

The last throe is a silent one:

S * * * ll’s sad earthly race is run.

“The event made known, some hurry down

To see the body; others own

They’d rather not. The new ‘step’ all

Discuss, save anatomical

Galen, preferring to deliver a

Discourse upon the corpse’s viscera;

The ladies, sighing with each breath

‘In midst of life we are in death,’ 2160

Dress and sit down to dine—to eat

And drink sad thoughts, to reverie sweet.

At sunset hour, well packed and pitched,

By sail-maker close tacked and stitched

(The last run through its nose for luck),

Comes forth a canvas bag. In duck

The passengers in coarser gear;

The ‘gallant tars’ are met to hear

A kind of prayer. Bill whispers Jack,

‘Bo, twig the skipper rigg’d in black.’ 2170

On grating out-thrust at the lee

Gangway, and covered jauntily

With Union Flag, so placed its feet

Clear standing end of the fore sheet,

What was man lies. The captain reads,

And purser acts as clerk when needs.

ending in a “watery grave.”

‘To the deep!’ (then the signal). Heave!

The long bag slides, and fluttering wave

The bunting’s ends. Hearken, a splashing!

Look, a thin line of brine-foam dashing 2180

Against, behind the ship! Adieu,

S * * * ll; adieu, brave heart and true.

“Who killed S * * * ll? ’Tis strange to tell,

’Twas she that bare him killed S * * * ll.

In her opinion younger sons

Were born to die ’neath Indian suns.

His pride repelled him from his home,

A home where none would cry ‘Well come!’

Till nearing death revived the will

To see that home, to bid farewell 2190

And sleep in peace—that killed S * * * ll.”

Of his rude speech the latter part

Woke a soft echo in my heart.

“Alas! I also had a friend,

By India brought t’ untimely end.

A fatal land that was to me:

It wrecked my hopes eternally.

In earliest youth, ere love began

To feel the passions of the man,

This being Indian, revives the senti-

mentalisms of Dr. Polyglott, Ph.D.

I loved a maid——”

“What! number two?” 2200

“No! number one, and virgin too.—

I loved a maid: how deep that love

The long course of a life may prove.

What hours of happiness they were,

Passed in that dearest presence, ere

Harsh poverty and cursed pride

Combined to drive me from her side,

And sent me forth to win a name,

The trinket wealth, the bauble fame!

Years toiled I on in vain, in vain; 2210

At last I saw that face again.

Ay me! it looked on me no more

As it was wont to do of yore.

Her soul was not as ’twas before,

Unlearned in life’s heart-numbing lore:

The lesson had been told and read,

Till heart owned all the rule of head.

Ah, fatal change! can words express

That moment’s utter bitterness,

When she ’fore whom I bent the knee 2220

As man doth to divinity

Sank to a common thing of earth,

Vile as the dust that gave it birth—

When she whose single hair to save

I gladly would have sought the grave,

Because I could not pay the price,

Made me her Mammon’s sacrifice?

Away, vain thought!

Alone, forlorn,

Through sad and barren life I mourn;

And, as to wretches sometimes haps, 2230

Nor might of Change, nor Time’s long

lapse,

From my sick heart can e’er remove

Whereat the Stone recom-

mended liquor.

The memory of that early love.”

Pensive he looked—methought a streak

Glistened adown his tawny cheek;

He pleased to praise my constancy,

But seethed to do so doubtfully,

And recommended anodynes

Of beers and brandies, ales and wines. [2240

Pricked me the sneer: “’Twas thought of old

That stones permuted lead to gold:

The wrong deductions of your head

Seem to debase all gold to lead.”

They spar.

“Ah! I suppose that was a myth;

And yet, good sir, it hath its pith,

The ancient Oriental tale.

Even in these days sages veil,

You know, in th’ East a curious store

Of abstract truths, ‘Alekta’ lore,

’Neath quirk and fable. And, I’m told, 2250

There are some stones that still make gold,

In Europe too. So please attend

To a short anecdote, the end

Of which shall prove the myth, and show

Th’ interpretation. Allons, Clio.”*

* * * * *

* * * *

* * *

* *

*

“Petrus, although I like your wit,

The illustration’s quite unfit

For publication, altho’ none

Could doubt the wisdom of a stone.”

Dr. Polyglott, Ph.D., talks of publishing;

“By Salagram!” the cynic muttered, 2260

“A word of sense Macaque has uttered!”

Then I resumed: “Since you approve

Of publication, please remove

One obstacle I sadly fear:

Your words will vex the polish’d ear,

Startle the fair, to men appear

of delicacy;

Against me as an evidence

Of irreligion and prurience.”

“Man, all the Satiristic race,

From Wolcot up to old Horace, 2270

With naked fists hit straight and hard,

And nought for Fashion’s mufflers cared;

* Here I have omitted much, because it is far too Oriental for Occidental ears.—L. B.

of calling a spade “a spade.”

Bravely like men their parts they played,

And even called a spade ‘a spade,’

Not ‘agricultural implement;’

And, if a canteen girl they meant,

They called her ‘canteen girl.’ Dare thou

To do the same with dauntless brow?

Truth, sir, is nude: perish the hand

That buttons round her waist the band 2280

Of green-silk breeches,* to induce

The thoughts to guess its wanton use.

Search ye the world, you’ll ever find

The nice a very nasty mind;

And of one proverb e’er be sure,

‘To the pure everything is pure,’

Whilst those on things uncleanly bent

In fairest words see foul’st intent.”

“An hour before I think you said

Truth was a satyr, sprite, mermaid, 2290

A Proteus, or a courtesan?”

“Sir, ’twas of Truth as known to man

I spoke; surely you might divine

I now speak of Truth’s genuine

Semblance in stone or alabaster—

In fact, as we have formed and faced

her.

Yes, Truth is nude, but knows no shame,

Because she knows nor sin nor blame;

And, as for Satire, I declare

That Muse at least should aye go

bare, 2300

His passions must be bad indeed

When naked stones or words have need

* As has been done to nude statues in the dis-United States.—F. B.

Of gear.

If with ill faith they tax ye,

Why, nominate ’t Religio Saxi—

As good a set of tenets, I

Think, as Medici or Laici—

A faith strong founded on a rock,

’Gainst which the puny critics’ shock

Shall break as waves that vainly roar

Upon old Cornwall’s granite shore— 2310

Of pillars it hath goodly stock,

Buckland, Lyell, and all the stock

Of men known as geologists

That strive to pierce Auld Lang Syne’s mists

By means of us, sir, placed before

Dr. Polyglott, Ph.D., resolves to “do it,”

Their eyes to make them see the more.”

These words encouraged me to do ’t,

To incur the wrath of many a brute

Eager to vent his criticism

On free or feeble witticism. 2320

“Humboldt achieved an athanasia

Of fifty years by Central Asia;

Why can’t I thrive—at least I’ll try—

For section of a century,

On you and your lithophony?

When Brahmans fill up many a tome

With chippings of the letters ‘O’M.’*

I, honest man, may pass my time

Awhile with hammering at ‘I’m,’

Which, put through all categories 2330

And cases that from Ego rise,

Mystifications, and what not,

From Isis down to Polyglott,

* A very mystic word, the “essence of Vedas.”—F. B.

despite all reviewers, critics, et hoc genus omne.

Would, you may swear, wipe every nose

From Humboldt’s up to Didymos.”*

He mused a little and pursued:

“Man, do whate’er t’you seemeth good;

But, mind, what bile the critics vent,

That you must eat and rest content:

I cannot aid you, and, if able, 2340

Would not—a quiet life’s my faible.”

The Stone visionizes a battle of authors and critics.

Again he paused, once more took thought,

And thus resumed: “Indeed, you ought,

Bohemians of the scribbling rout,

To call the critic rabble out,

Old and new grievances to settle

In a decisive general battle.

Scene—Hyde Park; hour—the break of day,

T’ afford ye time to maim and slay;

Arms—rulers, folio, and steel pen. 2350

Miséricorde for light men;

Ready to scour the glorious field,

Scissors and paste, and foolscap shield.

See, there they stand, arrayed and keen,

Squares linked by lines, great guns between;†

The staff round General Sam Surly,

On their best hobbies urging, hurl a

Shower of shouts; mark well his air,

Almost half saint and quite half bear.

Now he harangues, now brow-beats, prays 2360

In six-foot word and six-yard phrase,

Concluding with a benison

Each bloodier critic’s hand upon.

* — Chalkenteros, who wrote 4000 books.—F. B.

† The wretch is describing the tactics of the battle of the Pyramids.—F. B.

Lag ye behind! no, by Jove, no!

Your eyes flash fire, your bosoms glow

With all the hero. Look ye now,

Field-Marshal Byr’n on hobby horse,

And Keats and Burns, than whom none worse

Hated yon impious host, prepare

Strategic arts with choicest care. 2370

Little harangue ye need, I swear.

But laissez-aller—go in and win—

The hardship is to hold ye in.

Spirits of all the brave! look down

(Or up) at these far braver. Flown

The signal, charges—note, ye Nine—

En échelon the Author-line.

They near the foe and straight begin

The wreck of nose, the rent of skin,

Rupture of sconce and eke of shin. 2380

‘Up, Bards, and at ’em! Now the day

Is ours, is ours—hoorray! hoorray!

Thump, valiants, thump! kick, heroes, kick!

Belabour, bite, butt, slash, curse, stick

Your stylet up t’ its very hilt

In their short ribs. Of coat and kilt

Strip forms obscene—the war-cry shout,

‘St. Liber, ho!’ Each pen choose out,

For sure destruction, him he hates

With writer-rage no vengeance sates. 2390

The field is strewn with many a pair

Locked in a horrid hug; the air

Resounds with war, the green sward bears

Hillocks of head and whisker hairs!

Muse, Muse, though scanty shame remain

To woman in these days, retain

Thy thoughts so feeble, words so vain!