Part 5
Once upon a time there was an idiot who had a few brains and in an unlucky moment he started to think, which is a very idiotic thing to do, as every one knows. The way to live peacefully is not to think, but just to grab everything that you want that is grabable, eat well, sleep well, work a little, but do not, on any account, think. It is bad; it is conducive to thoughts; and thoughts worry; and worry is indigestion; and indigestion is bad humour; and then peace is gone. Peace is the only thing that is worth anything and you cannot have it if you have thoughts.
Now this idiot was, of course, married,--a great many idiots are. His wife was a very wise lady idiot: she was undoubtedly nice because all the idiots she was idiot enough to entertain said she was a charming hostess. Well, the idiot and his wife retired to rest one night as usual; the wife to read the latest novel and the idiot to stare at the wall paper until sleep overcame him. As he stared at the wall paper he wondered at its ugliness, and he wondered why people who design wall papers make wondrous geometrical vines bearing fretwork tarts and lobster claws which worry one’s sight, instead of soothing, real things. And these musings led to other musings and he closed his eyes and looked inwardly for a minute and was horrified to discover that he himself was very much after the style of the wall paper design;--in that he was distorted by conventionality. And here he started to think hard, and the more he thought the more he was horrified. Finally, he sat up in bed and said suddenly to his wife:
“Do you know, Spot,” (her pet name was Spot), “I have been thinking--”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” responded Spot. “Go to sleep, if you don’t take care you will have ideas.”
But the idiot was not to be put off that way this time; the warning was too late, he had commenced to have ideas and very unpleasant ideas, too. One horrible idea that had forced its unpleasant presence into his brain was that his whole system of life had been and was wrong. He thought of his marriage,--how he had married the girl of his choice on $750 a year, and spent $300 on his wedding trip. That was a wrong to the girl and to himself, for when they got back they had to finish furnishing on the instalment plan. He thought how he had lived now at the rate of $2,500 a year on a salary of $1,500; he thought of his cigars, of his good clothes, of his children going to a good school; he thought of his $700 piano on the instalment plan, of his wife’s afternoon teas, of his two servants, of his rent $360 a year, of his debts, how they grew; and the more he thought the more he concluded that these things were all wrong, because he could not afford them. He thought of his salary--$4.10 per day--and wondered how he had ever expected to manage to keep four children, himself and wife and two servants on it. Then he thought of his notes floating about and how he had to juggle them every month and rob Peter to pay Paul. And it looked wrong.
Of course he was only an idiot to let these things worry him. But he explained all his thoughts to his wife, and the poor woman began to think and have ideas, too. It was a cruel blow to her,--she had never had an idea in her life, but had lived at peace, and now peace was gone. She agreed with her idiot husband that it was all wrong, and like a good, brave, dutiful and thoughtful woman agreed to help him to right it all as far as possible or further.
So these two poor idiots began to right things. They cancelled the lease of their house, took the children from the private school and sent them to a 50-cent-a-month school, the idiot stopped smoking cigars and took to a clay pipe and _tabac catholique_, they moved into six rooms at $12 per month, sold most of their furniture, gave up the instalment piano, never kept a drop of anything in the house, and never received any friends.
Rumour then said the idiot had got squeezed in stocks, and the rumour got to his employer’s ears. The fact of the terrible reduction in the expenses of the idiot seemed to substantiate the rumour, and so he was discharged.
Debts that would have waited indefinitely during the idiot’s apparent prosperity now began to press him, suits in law piled up costs against him, and he walked the streets without employment, and thought on and on and on. His friends said he had lost his position because he had used money that did not belong to him; his enemies said he was a thief.
His wife became prematurely old, slovenly and hopeless; the children ragged and tough; the idiot himself struck odd jobs now and again, but being unable any longer to hold up his head over a clean collar and shirt, on account of his thoughts, he never recovered his lost faith in himself. He drove a grocery wagon for two years at $9.50 per week and then died,--his wife said of a broken heart. The wife soon followed the idiot, and now his children are stablemen, cooks, waitresses and things like that.
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_Moral_:--Don’t be an idiot and think, just saw wood and keep up with the procession.
[Illustration]
The Game is worth while to the wise, the fool alone crieth out that it is not worth the candle.
THE BALLAD OF PARLIAMENT HILL
He did not wear a uniform, (We haven’t come to that) But he wore a tired expression, Crowned by last season’s hat; And the general air of him bespoke Existence dull and flat.
He walked among men of his kind In a suit of shabby grey, And with that hat upon his head, One couldn’t call him gay; For I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who looked So sadly at the Hill, Upon that little mount we call The “Bread and Butter Mill”; Where sham genteel and broken sport Swallow the bitter pill.
Ink stains were on his fingers, A desk hump on his back; He seemed to be quite mastered, And all ambition lack. And one could see at once he was A Departmental Hack.
I looked at him and wondered “What mystery here lurks? “Why does he look so tired, “And move with nervous jerks?” When a voice behind me murmured low, “_He’s in the Public Works_.”
Great Cæsar’s Ghost and Holy Smoke, What tricks had he done then, To bring him unto such a pass, And land him in that Pen; Where Regulation and Routine Suck the soul out of men.
What blow had blind fate struck him, What had his fortune been? To fashion him into a cog Of the State’s grim machine Which grinds and grinds exceeding small, But not so very clean.
It’s fine to walk with Hope ahead, It’s great to work for LOVE; But Hell to turn a daily crank For some one up above, And know that every turn you make Gives some one else a shove.
It’s good to be methodical, And right to be exact; But flat, stale and unprofitable, To line up to an Act, And forced at every turn and move To register the fact.
And so I left the Shabby Clerk His tiresome row to hoe, To sign the book when, he went in, And when he out would go; Making himself a laughing stock To some-- who do not know.
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Much wisdom often giveth much pain, but want of wisdom is death. To know thyself is the foundation of wisdom.
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It has been said by those of old time, “Blessed are the meek,” but verily I say unto you, cussed are the meek, for they inherit nothing and perpetuate their kind for ever and ever.
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The more thou art to thyself the less thou art dependent on others. Much dependence on others maketh thy moves complicated. One move involves another so no move may be considered in itself.
THE OLE SHIP
A good ole ship was Serviss, An’ she bore a good ole crew, Who certainly knew their business, An’ were sailors through an’ through. A’ course it may be said That some went on the spree, An’ some waz rather toughish, But sech will always be On sech a ship as Serviss, Which took a power o’ hands To manage her ole cranky ways An’ take her chief’s commands. Course Serviss wer’n’t no man o’ war; But just a good ole tub, Slow, and comfortable, an’ sure; A ship as you could dub A utilitarian craft; Not puttin’ on much style, Good fer what intended, Carryin’ things mercantile. We had good average times, we had, With pay the whole year round; Orficers not too crusty An’ in grub an’ grog well found; An’ we’d a been so ’til this day If we’d had enough sense To know when we waz well off, But we waz somewhat dense. An’ bites like a lot of suckers At a scheme of some smart guys To petition our ole capting To start an’ reorganize-- To give us uniforms to wear An’ drill us like marines, An’ polish us an’ make us smart Like a lot o’ bally machines. An’ our ole capting he agrees That we needs reorganization, An’ I bets he smiles to hisself As he sets in contemplation. The fust thing ole capting orders Is a general inspection, An’ he stops our grog an’ pay Fer the most ornary deflection. An’ when he gets through with us, I tell ye, s’elp me bob, There waz forty-seven sailor men A lookin’ fer a job; An’ the rest of us was busy A polishin’ Serviss up, An’ never gettin’ a bit o’ rest Except to sleep an’ sup. An’ a slob what objected, Or attempted to resist, He got a good rope’s ending An’ had irons on his wrist. So don’t go fer to ask o’ me What I thinks o’ reorganization; Cause I’ve been through the game An’ know it beats tarnation.
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REGRET 1909
Now that the Summer time has came, and Winter dark has went, We’ll stay indoors from nine to five, do penance and repent, That we so rashly took the veil and swore to serve the King, When we could have broken stones or done some other easy thing; We could have braved the briny, strange countries to explore, Or Christianized the Heathen without suffering any more Than we do here in our strict cage, pent up by rule and rote, To eat the bread of routine, like any ass or goat. What tho’ we truly strug and strive, to promptly do the task we’re given, We have to sign the book at five, so might as well have never striven.
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The Wise cultivate the power of adaptation, the fool standeth against circumstances and is carried away.
A TALE OF RUSSIA
Sloberino Pullovitch sat in his sumptuous office. He sat, because he had been out the night before and did not know yet how it had ended. Every time he moved, four secretaries jumped to listen to his commands. Every time he snored, the four secretaries rang bells, and seven messengers burst into the room, lined up and bowed, awaiting orders. Outside of these doings, all was quiet for several hours. Then Pullovitch spoke. He said, “Hoot mon.” It will be noticed that Pullovitch spoke with a Scotch accent; but he was not Scotch. He was a pure Russian; but his mother had been frightened by a Scotch Terrier before he was born--so Pullovitch was born with a Scotch plaid pattern on the soles of his feet, and spoke Scotch when he was half-cocked. It ought to be explained that Sloberino Pullovitch enjoyed a very lucrative position in the Russian government, and was big Indian, high up in political circles.
Pullovitch finally recovered consciousness about four p.m., and immediately there were doings. There were always doings when he recovered from a jag. “Send for Spitoonski,” he roared, and immediately the four secretaries and seven messengers got out of harm’s way.
Spitoonski was the chief cook and bottle washer of Pullovitch. He did for Pullovitch what Pullovitch did not care to do for himself. He told the Pullovitch lies and did the squirming about, and what is known in Russian Political Circles as “the dirty.”
It can be easily imagined that Spitoonski was not liked, but feared; and that every poor government clerk trembled when he came within the visual orbit of his little black pig-like eyes. He was of low origin, and had sunk lower. He would do anything for money but work, and was the willing tool of Pullovitch. He never smiled. He believed it was not dignified to smile. He made every effort he could to appear dignified, which was difficult, considering he was only the height of six pennyworth of copper, had a crooked neck and one shoulder higher than the other. Occasionally Spitoonski would allow his face to wrinkle up in a beautiful snarl. When he did this, he thought he was smiling, and checked it immediately, which was a very welcome relief to the on-looker; for it was very unsightly.
Immediately upon being notified, Spitoonski crawled into the presence of his Chief, smiling. “Cover up your teeth and listen to me, viper,” said Pullovitch.
Spitoonski bowed, and accepted the compliment.
“Among the rubbish we have employed under us,” continued Pullovitch, “we have one Slopft, who never does anything but chatter to himself, eat, and sleep. He will soon be fit for a padded room; but before he gets any more crazy, do thou prepare a solemn ukase and have him made Chief Investigator of Pot Holes at steen pieces of silver per month. His brother keeps a swell gambling house, and has much influence; so we must do something.”
Spitoonski listened patiently, and then ventured to protest: “Your highness,” said he, “if you will allow me to humbly make a remark, I would say that if this thing is done your noble person will be besieged by every Tom, Dick and Harry in your beautiful and well ordered department. They will make you feel like a singed horse in Fly Time. You know them.”
“Shut up and do my bidding. I did not ask for advice. Get out, skiddaddle, vamose, scoot, mizzle, fly, or I’ll straighten your crooked neck,” said Pullovitch, frothing at the mouth. And Spitoonski thanked him kindly, and withdrew.
The morning following the _Daily Dung Heap_ made the whole community wise to the fact that the eminent citizen, Mr. P. Q. R. S. Slopft, had been made Chief Investigator of Pot Holes.
Immediately there were doings in the Pullovitch Department. Every one employed therein, from the Deputy down to the Window Cleaner, prepared to pull such wires as they commanded to the end of having immediate increase or promotion, or both; and for seven days and seven nights the excitement was intense. Letters, telegrams and petitions rained like hail upon Pullovitch; but as Pullovitch had his personality submerged in strong drink, the strain was only on the paper basket. Among the importunates was one De Bum, a cunning rascal who had aided and abetted a certain Buttinsky in an election, and he spake with the said Buttinsky, saying:
“Go thou, Buttinsky, and fill Pullovitch up to the neck, and when he is right have me installed as a First Class Clerk. And do it quick, see?”
And Buttinsky was afraid lest De Bum should open his mouth; so he loaded Pullovitch as he was bid, and De Bum became in name and Salary, a First Class Clerk.
Now, these things being done, other happenings followed as a matter of natural consequence. The respectable ones in the Department of Pullovitch, who were not many by this time, murmured among themselves, and said: “If we remain in the service of Pullovitch we will lose our good name, and be classed with such as Slopft and De Bum. Let us, therefore, resign before it is too late.”
So every one who had any respect for himself resigned, and left the Department of Pullovitch, and it became absolutely corrupt.
Then other Departments became as that of Pullovitch, till corruption crept even to the Throne. And the enemies of Russia, who saw these things, waited and waited till she was rotten at the heart. Then they rose up and slew her.
Corruption creeps in softly and easily; but is only eradicated through much bloodshed and strife.
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IF AND BUT
If a man only knew all there was to know Of a fox and his cunning ways; If he knew all the turns of his cunning brain And could beat all the tricks he plays. If he had all the brutal force of an ox, And the tireless strength of the moose; If he could look as meek as a lamb, And as silly as any goose. If his eyes were as keen as an eagle’s, And he could look as sage as an owl; If he were as fierce as a lion, And could terrify with his growl; If he was as stubborn as a pig, And as patient as a mule; If he was as ruthless as a tiger cat, And had the assurance of a fool; If he were quick in danger, slow in wrath, And as coy as a country maid-- Why, then I really do believe He could make a success in TRADE. BUT, as I’m not any or all these things, And have no great love of pelf, I sit here tight in my Government job Quite satisfied with myself; Happy if I can finance my way From one fifteenth to another, And scribble my rhyme any old time And ambition’s promptings smother.
LUCKY JIM
He hasn’t got no sweetheart or no wife, Or anything like that, to bother life. He don’t keep no house, nor entertain, Nor waste his time in other pleasures vain. And so I sing This little thing: “Oh, Lucky Jim, How I envy him!”
His business is to see that others do the work, And you can bet when he’s about no one dares to shirk; But Jim he takes things soft, and doesn’t give a damn; He lives in beautiful and undisturbed calm. And so I sing This little thing: “Oh, Lucky Jim, How I envy him!”
His office is quite cozy, and very cheap in rent; But Jim doesn’t stay there to any great extent. He’ll wander in with dignity about the hour of noon, Looks about, takes lunch, and wanders out quite soon. And so I sing This little thing: “Oh, Lucky Jim, How I envy him!”
For all this work Jim gets several thousand dollars, And the Lord only knows how much more he collars. They say that Jim is slow but sure, and I’m free to declare That’s Jim’s as slow, but not so sure, as any polar bear. And so I sing This little thing: “Oh, Lucky Jim, How I envy him!”
Why girls don’t up and marry Jim I really can’t make out; For he’s the easiest mark in town, without any doubt. But Jim is wary of the sex that makes us toe the line; He’s not a bit domestic, and for love he doesn’t pine. And so I sing This little thing: “Oh, Lucky Jim, How I envy him!”
SING A SONG O’ SIXPENCE
Sing a Song of Service, The Civil one, I mean, Men and women working In the government machine. If you think it’s easy, Come and have a try; But I for one may tell you That it really isn’t pie.
When the House is open, And members start to spout, The Service starts a-digging facts To help the members out. With musty books and papers, We struggle all the day, Making figures fit the facts, Or around the other way.
The Party saves the country, The Churches save the soul, The Service saves the Minister From getting in the hole; Each one saving something In their little way, And for all this saving The Country has to PAY.
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And to him that taketh away thy goods, see that thou getteth his note--if he hath a good endorser.
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Energy is thy ammunition; waste it not in folly; store it in thyself until thou findest a fit object on which to exert it. The Game is not like a horse-race wherein judges declare the weight a racer shall carry.
A DELUSION
If you’re sick and tired of life And the wear of business strife, And decide to take the veil, To a Minister you tell, Whom you know very well, Your long and sad, sad tale. When he grabs you by the hand And says in manner bland: “You can certainly count on me When we have a vacancee, As sure as sure can be; You’ll get the tip On the strict Q.T.” If to yourself you say, As you go your hopeful way: “I certainly get a Government job At a decent salaree.” What a singularly deluded jay You certainly will be.
If you’re up to all the tricks Of the game of politics, And know a few M.P.’s; You would naturally think That as easy as a wink You’d get nearly what you please; But you’d be singularly lacking In the necessary backing If this was all you had, And you looked for an appointment You would suffer disappointment In a manner very sad. You see it’s just this way: You can say just what you may, But Political Pull is a very funny thing. It’s as strange as strange can be. If you’re doubtful of the fact, Just go against the Act To get a Civil Service sit and see.
[Illustration]
Conventionality counteth not high in the game, but it counteth.
TO MADGE
THE SOCIAL NOTES SAY MADGE WILL MARRY
Grind the organ, toot the flute; Push the trombone in an’ oot; Tickle the strings of your mandolin; Howl yer joy an’ crack the grin; Salute the Stars, the Sun, an’ Moon-- Our own Madge will marry soon.
Clang the cymbals, twang the harp; Blow the bazoo loud and sharp; Finger the strings of the wailing cello; Make welkin ring with joyous bellow; Ring out wild bells your merry tune-- Our own Madge will marry soon.
Pipe the playful flageolet; Blast the ear with the gay cornet; Blow the tuba, strike the lyre; Light the heavens with red fire; Make merry with the big bassoon-- Our own Madge will marry soon.
Scrape the gut of the violin; Loud Hosannah’s sing with vim; Beat the merry Zilophone; Keep records on the gramophone; Shake the foot in the Rigadoon-- Our own Madge will marry soon.
[Illustration]
The possession of wealth only makes some people look ridiculous who otherwise would occasion no comment.
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Every man hath a burden with which he hath laden himself. See that thou knowest thy strength before thou take on thy burden.
THE SUFFRAGETTES
“Phat shud we do wid thim if they sthart their tantrums here?” sez he.
“Who is thim?” sez oi, widout lookin’ up to see who waz addressin’ me.
“The Suff-Rage-Etts,” sez he.
“Oh, it’s yerself,” sez oi, turnin’ an’ foindin’ the dear ould lad besoide me.