Part 3

The Second Voice

[Picture: They walked beside the wave-worn beach]

They walked beside the wave-worn beach; Her tongue was very apt to teach, And now and then he did beseech

She would abate her dulcet tone, Because the talk was all her own, And he was dull as any drone.

She urged “No cheese is made of chalk”: And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk, Tuned to the footfall of a walk.

Her voice was very full and rich, And, when at length she asked him “Which?” It mounted to its highest pitch.

He a bewildered answer gave, Drowned in the sullen moaning wave, Lost in the echoes of the cave.

He answered her he knew not what: Like shaft from bow at random shot, He spoke, but she regarded not.

She waited not for his reply, But with a downward leaden eye Went on as if he were not by

Sound argument and grave defence, Strange questions raised on “Why?” and “Whence?” And wildly tangled evidence.

When he, with racked and whirling brain, Feebly implored her to explain, She simply said it all again.

Wrenched with an agony intense, He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense, And careless of all consequence:

“Mind—I believe—is Essence—Ent— Abstract—that is—an Accident— Which we—that is to say—I meant—”

When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed, At length his speech was somewhat hushed, She looked at him, and he was crushed.

It needed not her calm reply: She fixed him with a stony eye, And he could neither fight nor fly.

While she dissected, word by word, His speech, half guessed at and half heard, As might a cat a little bird.

[Picture: He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense]

Then, having wholly overthrown His views, and stripped them to the bone, Proceeded to unfold her own.

“Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss Of other thoughts no thought but this, Harmonious dews of sober bliss?

“What boots it? Shall his fevered eye Through towering nothingness descry The grisly phantom hurry by?

“And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air; See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare And redden in the dusky glare?

“The meadows breathing amber light, The darkness toppling from the height, The feathery train of granite Night?

“Shall he, grown gray among his peers, Through the thick curtain of his tears Catch glimpses of his earlier years,

[Picture: Shall Man be Man?]

“And hear the sounds he knew of yore, Old shufflings on the sanded floor, Old knuckles tapping at the door?

“Yet still before him as he flies One pallid form shall ever rise, And, bodying forth in glassy eyes

“The vision of a vanished good, Low peering through the tangled wood, Shall freeze the current of his blood.”

Still from each fact, with skill uncouth And savage rapture, like a tooth She wrenched some slow reluctant truth.

Till, like a silent water-mill, When summer suns have dried the rill, She reached a full stop, and was still.

Dead calm succeeded to the fuss, As when the loaded omnibus Has reached the railway terminus:

When, for the tumult of the street, Is heard the engine’s stifled beat, The velvet tread of porters’ feet.

With glance that ever sought the ground, She moved her lips without a sound, And every now and then she frowned.

He gazed upon the sleeping sea, And joyed in its tranquillity, And in that silence dead, but she

To muse a little space did seem, Then, like the echo of a dream, Harked back upon her threadbare theme.

Still an attentive ear he lent But could not fathom what she meant: She was not deep, nor eloquent.

He marked the ripple on the sand: The even swaying of her hand Was all that he could understand.

He saw in dreams a drawing-room, Where thirteen wretches sat in gloom, Waiting—he thought he knew for whom:

He saw them drooping here and there, Each feebly huddled on a chair, In attitudes of blank despair:

Oysters were not more mute than they, For all their brains were pumped away, And they had nothing more to say—

Save one, who groaned “Three hours are gone!” Who shrieked “We’ll wait no longer, John! Tell them to set the dinner on!”

The vision passed: the ghosts were fled: He saw once more that woman dread: He heard once more the words she said.

He left her, and he turned aside: He sat and watched the coming tide Across the shores so newly dried.

[Picture: He sat and watched the coming tide]

He wondered at the waters clear, The breeze that whispered in his ear, The billows heaving far and near,

And why he had so long preferred To hang upon her every word: “In truth,” he said, “it was absurd.”

[Picture: He sits]

The Third Voice

[Picture: Quick tears were raining down his face]

Not long this transport held its place: Within a little moment’s space Quick tears were raining down his face

His heart stood still, aghast with fear; A wordless voice, nor far nor near, He seemed to hear and not to hear.

“Tears kindle not the doubtful spark. If so, why not? Of this remark The bearings are profoundly dark.”

“Her speech,” he said, “hath caused this pain. Easier I count it to explain The jargon of the howling main,

“Or, stretched beside some babbling brook, To con, with inexpressive look, An unintelligible book.”

Low spake the voice within his head, In words imagined more than said, Soundless as ghost’s intended tread:

“If thou art duller than before, Why quittedst thou the voice of lore? Why not endure, expecting more?”

“Rather than that,” he groaned aghast, “I’d writhe in depths of cavern vast, Some loathly vampire’s rich repast.”

[Picture: He groaned aghast]

“’Twere hard,” it answered, “themes immense To coop within the narrow fence That rings _thy_ scant intelligence.”

“Not so,” he urged, “nor once alone: But there was something in her tone That chilled me to the very bone.

“Her style was anything but clear, And most unpleasantly severe; Her epithets were very queer.

“And yet, so grand were her replies, I could not choose but deem her wise; I did not dare to criticise;

“Nor did I leave her, till she went So deep in tangled argument That all my powers of thought were spent.”

A little whisper inly slid, “Yet truth is truth: you know you did.” A little wink beneath the lid.

And, sickened with excess of dread, Prone to the dust he bent his head, And lay like one three-quarters dead

The whisper left him—like a breeze Lost in the depths of leafy trees— Left him by no means at his ease.

Once more he weltered in despair, With hands, through denser-matted hair, More tightly clenched than then they were.

When, bathed in Dawn of living red, Majestic frowned the mountain head, “Tell me my fault,” was all he said.

When, at high Noon, the blazing sky Scorched in his head each haggard eye, Then keenest rose his weary cry.

And when at Eve the unpitying sun Smiled grimly on the solemn fun, “Alack,” he sighed, “what _have_ I done?”

[Picture: Tortured, unaided, and alone]

But saddest, darkest was the sight, When the cold grasp of leaden Night Dashed him to earth, and held him tight.

Tortured, unaided, and alone, Thunders were silence to his groan, Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:

“What? Ever thus, in dismal round, Shall Pain and Mystery profound Pursue me like a sleepless hound,

“With crimson-dashed and eager jaws, Me, still in ignorance of the cause, Unknowing what I broke of laws?”

The whisper to his ear did seem Like echoed flow of silent stream, Or shadow of forgotten dream,

The whisper trembling in the wind: “Her fate with thine was intertwined,” So spake it in his inner mind:

[Picture: a scared dullard, gibbering low]

“Each orbed on each a baleful star: Each proved the other’s blight and bar: Each unto each were best, most far:

“Yea, each to each was worse than foe: Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low, AND SHE, AN AVALANCHE OF WOE!”

TÈMA CON VARIAZIÒNI

[Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed “setting” by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.

For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme Venison—whose every fibre seems to murmur “Excelsior!”—yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also—

I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle— _Nor anything that cost me much_: _High prices profit those who sell_, _But why should I be fond of such_?

To glad me with his soft black eye _My son comes trotting home from school_; _He’s had a fight but can’t tell why_— _He always was a little fool_!

But, when he came to know me well, _He kicked me out_, _her testy Sire_: _And when I stained my hair_, _that Belle_ _Might note the change_, _and thus admire_

And love me, it was sure to dye _A muddy green or staring blue_: _Whilst one might trace_, _with half an eye_, _The still triumphant carrot through_.

A GAME OF FIVES

[Picture: Five little girls]

FIVE little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One: Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.

Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six: Sitting down to lessons—no more time for tricks.

Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven: Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!

[Picture: Now tell me which you mean]

Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen: Each young man that calls, I say “Now tell me which you _mean_!”

Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one: But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?

Five showy girls—but Thirty is an age When girls may be _engaging_, but they somehow don’t _engage_.

Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more: So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!

* * * *

Five _passé_ girls—Their age? Well, never mind! We jog along together, like the rest of human kind: But the quondam “careless bachelor” begins to think he knows The answer to that ancient problem “how the money goes”!

POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR

[Picture: Child on old man’s knee]

“How shall I be a poet? How shall I write in rhyme? You told me once ‘the very wish Partook of the sublime.’ Then tell me how! Don’t put me off With your ‘another time’!”

The old man smiled to see him, To hear his sudden sally; He liked the lad to speak his mind Enthusiastically; And thought “There’s no hum-drum in him, Nor any shilly-shally.”

“And would you be a poet Before you’ve been to school? Ah, well! I hardly thought you So absolute a fool. First learn to be spasmodic— A very simple rule.

“For first you write a sentence, And then you chop it small; Then mix the bits, and sort them out Just as they chance to fall: The order of the phrases makes No difference at all.

“Then, if you’d be impressive, Remember what I say, That abstract qualities begin With capitals alway: The True, the Good, the Beautiful— Those are the things that pay!

“Next, when you are describing A shape, or sound, or tint; Don’t state the matter plainly, But put it in a hint; And learn to look at all things With a sort of mental squint.”

“For instance, if I wished, Sir, Of mutton-pies to tell, Should I say ‘dreams of fleecy flocks Pent in a wheaten cell’?” “Why, yes,” the old man said: “that phrase Would answer very well.

“Then fourthly, there are epithets That suit with any word— As well as Harvey’s Reading Sauce With fish, or flesh, or bird— Of these, ‘wild,’ ‘lonely,’ ‘weary,’ ‘strange,’ Are much to be preferred.”

“And will it do, O will it do To take them in a lump— As ‘the wild man went his weary way To a strange and lonely pump’?” “Nay, nay! You must not hastily To such conclusions jump.

[Picture: The wild man went his weary way]

“Such epithets, like pepper, Give zest to what you write; And, if you strew them sparely, They whet the appetite: But if you lay them on too thick, You spoil the matter quite!

“Last, as to the arrangement: Your reader, you should show him, Must take what information he Can get, and look for no im- mature disclosure of the drift And purpose of your poem.

“Therefore, to test his patience— How much he can endure— Mention no places, names, or dates, And evermore be sure Throughout the poem to be found Consistently obscure.

“First fix upon the limit To which it shall extend: Then fill it up with ‘Padding’ (Beg some of any friend): Your great SENSATION-STANZA You place towards the end.”

“And what is a Sensation, Grandfather, tell me, pray? I think I never heard the word So used before to-day: Be kind enough to mention one ‘_Exempli gratiâ_.’”

And the old man, looking sadly Across the garden-lawn, Where here and there a dew-drop Yet glittered in the dawn, Said “Go to the Adelphi, And see the ‘Colleen Bawn.’

“The word is due to Boucicault— The theory is his, Where Life becomes a Spasm, And History a Whiz: If that is not Sensation, I don’t know what it is.

“Now try your hand, ere Fancy Have lost its present glow—” “And then,” his grandson added, “We’ll publish it, you know: Green cloth—gold-lettered at the back— In duodecimo!”

Then proudly smiled that old man To see the eager lad Rush madly for his pen and ink And for his blotting-pad— But, when he thought of _publishing_, His face grew stern and sad.

[Picture: His face grew stern and sad]

SIZE AND TEARS

[Picture: When on the sandy shore I sit]

WHEN on the sandy shore I sit, Beside the salt sea-wave, And fall into a weeping fit Because I dare not shave— A little whisper at my ear Enquires the reason of my fear.

I answer “If that ruffian Jones Should recognise me here, He’d bellow out my name in tones Offensive to the ear: He chaffs me so on being stout (A thing that always puts me out).”

Ah me! I see him on the cliff! Farewell, farewell to hope, If he should look this way, and if He’s got his telescope! To whatsoever place I flee, My odious rival follows me!

For every night, and everywhere, I meet him out at dinner; And when I’ve found some charming fair, And vowed to die or win her, The wretch (he’s thin and I am stout) Is sure to come and cut me out!

[Picture: He’s thin and I am stout]

The girls (just like them!) all agree To praise J. Jones, Esquire: I ask them what on earth they see About him to admire? They cry “He is so sleek and slim, It’s quite a treat to look at him!”

They vanish in tobacco smoke, Those visionary maids— I feel a sharp and sudden poke Between the shoulder-blades— “Why, Brown, my boy! Your growing stout!” (I told you he would find me out!)

“My growth is not _your_ business, Sir!” “No more it is, my boy! But if it’s _yours_, as I infer, Why, Brown, I give you joy! A man, whose business prospers so, Is just the sort of man to know!

“It’s hardly safe, though, talking here— I’d best get out of reach: For such a weight as yours, I fear, Must shortly sink the beach!”— Insult me thus because I’m stout! I vow I’ll go and call him out!

[Picture: For such a weight as yours . . .]

ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN

Ay, ’twas here, on this spot, In that summer of yore, Atalanta did not Vote my presence a bore, Nor reply to my tenderest talk “She had heard all that nonsense before.”

She’d the brooch I had bought And the necklace and sash on, And her heart, as I thought, Was alive to my passion; And she’d done up her hair in the style that the Empress had brought into fashion.

I had been to the play With my pearl of a Peri— But, for all I could say, She declared she was weary, That “the place was so crowded and hot, and she couldn’t abide that Dundreary.”

[Picture: On this spot . . .]

Then I thought “Lucky boy! ’Tis for _you_ that she whimpers!” And I noted with joy Those sensational simpers: And I said “This is scrumptious!”—a phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.

And I vowed “’Twill be said I’m a fortunate fellow, When the breakfast is spread, When the topers are mellow, When the foam of the bride-cake is white, and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!”

O that languishing yawn! O those eloquent eyes! I was drunk with the dawn Of a splendid surmise— I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by a tempest of sighs.

Then I whispered “I see The sweet secret thou keepest. And the yearning for _ME_ That thou wistfully weepest! And the question is ‘License or Banns?’, though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest.”

“Be my Hero,” said I, “And let _me_ be Leander!” But I lost her reply— Something ending with “gander”— For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal could quite understand her.

THE LANG COORTIN’

The ladye she stood at her lattice high, Wi’ her doggie at her feet; Thorough the lattice she can spy The passers in the street,

“There’s one that standeth at the door, And tirleth at the pin: Now speak and say, my popinjay, If I sall let him in.”

Then up and spake the popinjay That flew abune her head: “Gae let him in that tirls the pin: He cometh thee to wed.”

O when he cam’ the parlour in, A woeful man was he! “And dinna ye ken your lover agen, Sae well that loveth thee?”

[Picture: The popinjay]

“And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir, That have been sae lang away? And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir? Ye never telled me sae.”

Said—“Ladye dear,” and the salt, salt tear Cam’ rinnin’ doon his cheek, “I have sent the tokens of my love This many and many a week.

“O didna ye get the rings, Ladye, The rings o’ the gowd sae fine? I wot that I have sent to thee Four score, four score and nine.”

“They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye. “Wow, they were flimsie things!” Said—“that chain o’ gowd, my doggie to howd, It is made o’ thae self-same rings.”

“And didna ye get the locks, the locks, The locks o’ my ain black hair, Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box, Whilk I sent by the carrier?”

“They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye; “And I prithee send nae mair!” Said—“that cushion sae red, for my doggie’s head, It is stuffed wi’ thae locks o’ hair.”

“And didna ye get the letter, Ladye, Tied wi’ a silken string, Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie, A message of love to bring?”

“It cam’ to me frae the far countrie Wi’ its silken string and a’; But it wasna prepaid,” said that high-born maid, “Sae I gar’d them tak’ it awa’.”

“O ever alack that ye sent it back, It was written sae clerkly and well! Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought, I must even say it mysel’.”

Then up and spake the popinjay, Sae wisely counselled he. “Now say it in the proper way: Gae doon upon thy knee!”

The lover he turned baith red and pale, Went doon upon his knee: “O Ladye, hear the waesome tale That must be told to thee!

“For five lang years, and five lang years, I coorted thee by looks; By nods and winks, by smiles and tears, As I had read in books.

“For ten lang years, O weary hours! I coorted thee by signs; By sending game, by sending flowers, By sending Valentines.

“For five lang years, and five lang years, I have dwelt in the far countrie, Till that thy mind should be inclined Mair tenderly to me.

“Now thirty years are gane and past, I am come frae a foreign land: I am come to tell thee my love at last— O Ladye, gie me thy hand!”

The ladye she turned not pale nor red, But she smiled a pitiful smile: “Sic’ a coortin’ as yours, my man,” she said “Takes a lang and a weary while!”

[Picture: And out and laughed the popinjay]

And out and laughed the popinjay, A laugh of bitter scorn: “A coortin’ done in sic’ a way, It ought not to be borne!”

Wi’ that the doggie barked aloud, And up and doon he ran, And tugged and strained his chain o’ gowd, All for to bite the man.

“O hush thee, gentle popinjay! O hush thee, doggie dear! There is a word I fain wad say, It needeth he should hear!”

Aye louder screamed that ladye fair To drown her doggie’s bark: Ever the lover shouted mair To make that ladye hark:

Shrill and more shrill the popinjay Upraised his angry squall: I trow the doggie’s voice that day Was louder than them all!

[Picture: O hush thee, gentle gentle popinjay!]

The serving-men and serving-maids Sat by the kitchen fire: They heard sic’ a din the parlour within As made them much admire.

Out spake the boy in buttons (I ween he wasna thin), “Now wha will tae the parlour gae, And stay this deadlie din?”

And they have taen a kerchief, Casted their kevils in, For wha will tae the parlour gae, And stay that deadlie din.

When on that boy the kevil fell To stay the fearsome noise, “Gae in,” they cried, “whate’er betide, Thou prince of button-boys!”

Syne, he has taen a supple cane To swinge that dog sae fat: The doggie yowled, the doggie howled The louder aye for that.

[Picture: The doggie ceased his noise]

Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane— The doggie ceased his noise, And followed doon the kitchen stair That prince of button-boys!

Then sadly spake that ladye fair, Wi’ a frown upon her brow: “O dearer to me is my sma’ doggie Than a dozen sic’ as thou!

“Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears: Nae use at all to fret: Sin’ ye’ve bided sae well for thirty years, Ye may bide a wee langer yet!”

Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor And tirlëd at the pin: Sadly went he through the door Where sadly he cam’ in.

“O gin I had a popinjay To fly abune my head, To tell me what I ought to say, I had by this been wed.

“O gin I find anither ladye,” He said wi’ sighs and tears, “I wot my coortin’ sall not be Anither thirty years

“For gin I find a ladye gay, Exactly to my taste, I’ll pop the question, aye or nay, In twenty years at maist.”