Various
A Satire Anthology
NOTE
Acknowledgment is hereby gratefully made to the publishers of the various poems included in this compilation.
Those by Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, John G. Saxe, Edward Rowland Sill, John Hay, Bayard Taylor and Edith Thomas are published by permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
The poems by Anthony Deane and Owen Seaman are used by arrangement with John Lane.
Through the courtesy of Small, Maynard & Co., are included poems by Bliss Carman, Charlotte Perkins Stetson-Gilman, Stephen Crane, and Frederic Ridgely Torrence.
Poems by Sam Walter Foss are published by permission of Lothrop, Lee & Shepherd Co.
The Century Co. are the publishers of poems by Richard Watson Gilder and Mary Mapes Dodge.
Frederich A. Stokes Company give permission for poems by Gelett Burgess and Stephen Crane.
The Buntling Ball, by Edgar Fawcett is published by permission of Funk and Wagnalls Company; Hoch der Kaiser by Rodney Blake, by the courtesy of the New Amsterdam Book Co. The poems by James Jeffrey Roche by permission of E. H. Bacon & Co.; and The Font in the Forest by Herman Knickerbocker Vielé, by permission of Brentanos.
The Evolution of a Name, by Charles Battell Loomis, is quoted from Just Rhymes, Copyright, 1899, by R. H. Russell.
He and She, by Eugene Fitch Ware, is published by permission of G. P. Putnams Sons.
INTRODUCTION
SATIRE, though a form of literature familiar to everyone, is difficult to define. Partaking variously of sarcasm, irony, ridicule, and burlesque, it is exactly synonymous with no one of these.
Satire is primarily dependent on the motive of its writer. Unless meant for satire, it is not the real thing; unconscious satire is a contradiction of terms, or a mere figure of speech.
Secondarily, satire depends on the reader. What seems to us satire to-day, may not seem so to-morrow. Or, what seems satire to a pessimistic mind, may seem merely good-natured chaff to an optimist.
This, of course, refers to the subtler forms of satire. Many classic satires are direct lampoons or broadsides which admit of only one interpretation.
Literature numbers many satirists among its most honoured names; and the best satires show intellect, education, and a keen appreciation of human nature.
Nor is satire necessarily vindictive or spiteful. Often its best examples show a kindly tolerance for the vice or folly in question, and even hint a tacit acceptance of the conditions condemned. Again, in the hands of a carping and unsympathetic critic, satire is used with vitriolic effects on sins for which the writer has no mercy.
This lashing form of satire was doubtless the earliest type. The Greeks show sardonic examples of it, but the Romans allowed a broader sense of humour to soften the satirical sting.
Following and outstripping Lucilius, Horace is the acknowledged father of satire, and was himself followed, and, in the opinion of some, outstripped by Juvenal.
But the works of the ancient satirists are of interest mainly to scholars, and cannot be included in a collection destined for a popular audience. The present volume, therefore, is largely made up from the products of more recent centuries.
From the times of Horace and Juvenal, down through the mediæval ages to the present day, satires may be divided into the two classes founded by the two great masters: the work of Horaces followers marked by humour and tolerance, that of Juvenals imitators by bitter invective. On the one side, the years have arrayed such names as Chaucer, Swift, Goldsmith, and Thackeray; on the other, Langland, Dryden, Pope, and Burns.
A scholarly gentleman of our own day classifies satires in three main divisions: those directed at society, those which ridicule political conditions, and those aimed at individual characters.
These variations of the art of satire form a fascinating study, and to one interested in the subject, this small collection of representative satires can be merely a series of guide-posts.
It is the compilers regret that a great mass of material is necessarily omitted for lack of space; other selections are discarded because of their present untimeliness, which deprives them of their intrinsic interest. But an endeavour has been made to represent the greatest and best satiric writers, and also to include at least extracts from the masterpieces of satire.
It is often asked why we have no satire at the present day. Many answers have been given, but one reason is doubtless to be found in the acceleration of the pace of life; fads and foibles follow one another so quickly, that we have time neither to write nor read satiric disquisitions upon them.
Another reason lies in the fact that we have achieved a broader and more tolerant human outlook.
Again, the true satirist must be possessed of earnestness and sincerity. And it is a question whether the mental atmosphere of the twentieth century tends to stimulate and foster those qualities.
These explanations, however, seem to apply to American writers more especially than to English.
The leisurely thinking Briton, with his more personal viewpoint, has produced, and is even now producing, satires marked by strength, honesty, and literary value.
But America is not entirely unrepresented. The work of James Russell Lowell cannot suffer by comparison with that of any contemporary English author; and, though now forgotten because dependent on local and timely interest, many political satires written by Americans during the early part of the nineteenth century show clever and ingenious work founded on a comprehensive knowledge of the truth.
Yet, though the immediate present is not producing masterpieces of satire, the lack is partially made up by the large quantity of really meritorious work that is being done in a satirical vein. In this country and in England are young and middle-aged writers who show evidences of satiric power, which, though it does not make for fame and glory, is yet not without its value.
CHORUS OF WOMEN
(From the Thesmophoriazusæ.)THEYRE always abusing the women,
As a terrible plague to men;
They say were the root of all evil,
And repeat it again and again
Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed,
All mischief, be what it may.
And pray, then, why do you marry us,
If were all the plagues you say?
And why do you take such care of us,
And keep us so safe at home,
And are never easy a moment
If ever we chance to roam?
When you ought to be thanking Heaven
That your plague is out of the way,
You all keep fussing and fretting
Where is my Plague to-day?
If a Plague peeps out of the window,
Up go the eyes of men;
If she hides, then they all keep staring
Until she looks out again.
A WOULD-BE LITERARY BORE
IT chanced that I, the other day,
Was sauntering up the Sacred Way,
And musing, as my habit is,
Some trivial random fantasies,
When there comes rushing up a wight
Whom only by his name I knew.
Ha! my dear fellow, how dye do?
Grasping my hand, he shouted. Why,
As times go, pretty well, said I;
And you, I trust, can say the same.
But after me as still he came,
Sir, is there anything, I cried,
You want of me? Oh, he replied,
Im just the man you ought to know:
A scholar, author! Is it so?
For this Ill like you all the more!
Then, writhing to escape the bore,
Ill quicken now my pace, now stop,
And in my servants ear let drop
Some words; and all the while I feel
Bathed in cold sweat from head to heel.
Oh, for a touch, I moaned in pain,
Bolanus, of the madcap vein,
To put this incubus to rout!
As he went chattering on about
Whatever he describes or meets
The citys growth, its splendour, size.
Youre dying to be off, he cries
(For all the while Id been stock dumb);
Ive seen it this half-hour. But come,
Lets clearly understand each other;
Its no use making all this pother.
My minds made up to stick by you;
So where you go, there I go too.
Dont put yourself, I answered, pray,
So very far out of your way.
Im on the road to see a friend
Whom you dont know, thats near his end,
Away beyond the Tiber far,
Close by where Cæsars gardens are.
Ive nothing in the world to do,
And whats a paltry mile or two?
I like it: so Ill follow you!
Down dropped my ears on hearing this,
Just like a vicious jackasss,
Thats loaded heavier than he likes,
But off anew my torment strikes:
If well I know myself, youll end
With making of me more a friend
Than Viscus, ay, or Varius; for,
Of verses, who can run off more,
Or run them off at such a pace?
Who dance with such distinguished grace?
And as for singing, zounds! says he,
Hermogenes might envy me!
Here was an opening to break in:
Have you a mother, father, kin,
To whom your life is precious? None;
Ive closed the eyes of everyone.
Oh, happy they, I inly groan;
Now I am left, and I alone.
Quick, quick despatch me where I stand;
Now is the direful doom at hand,
Which erst the Sabine beldam old,
Shaking her magic urn, foretold
In days when I was yet a boy:
Him shall no poison fell destroy,
Nor hostile sword in shock of war,
Nor gout, nor colic, nor catarrh.
In fulness of time his thread
Shall by a prate-apace be shred;
So let him, when hes twenty-one,
If he be wise, all babblers shun.
THE WISH FOR LENGTH OF LIFE
THE WISH FOR LENGTH OF LIFE
PRODUCE the urn that Hannibal contains,
And weigh the mighty dust that yet remains.
And this is all? Yet this was once the bold,
The aspiring chief, whom Attic could not hold.
Afric, outstretched from where the Atlantic roars
To Nilus; from the Line to Libyas shores.
Spain conquered, oer the Pyrenees he bounds.
Nature opposed her everlasting mounds,
Her Alps and snows. Oer these with torrent force
He pours, and rends through rocks his dreadful course.
Yet thundering on, Think nothing done, he cries,
Till oer Romes prostrate walls I lead my powers,
And plant my standard on her hated towers!
Big words? But view his figure, view his face!
Ah, for some master hand the lines to trace,
As through the Etrurian swamps, by floods increased,
The one-eyed chief urged his Getulian beast!
But what ensued? Illusive glory, say:
Subdued on Zamas memorable day,
He flies in exile to a petty state,
With headlong haste, and at a despots gate
Sits, mighty suppliant of his life in doubt,
Till the Bithynians morning nap be out.
Nor swords, nor spears, nor stones from engines hurled,
Shall quell the man whose frowns alarmed the world.
The vengeance due to Cannæs fatal field,
And floods of human gore, a ring shall yield!
Go, madman, go! at toil and danger mock,
Pierce the deep snow, and scale the eternal rock,
To please the rhetoricians, and become
A declamation for the boys of Rome.
THE ASSS LEGACY
A PRIEST there was, in times of old,
Fond of his church, but fonder of his gold,
Who spent his days, and all his thought,
In getting what he preached was naught.
His chests were full of robes and stuff;
Corn filled his garners to the roof,
Stored up against the fair-times gay
From St. Rémy to Easter day.
An ass he had within his stable,
A beast most sound and valuable;
For twenty years he lent his strength
For the priest, his master, till at length,
Worn out with work and age, he died.
The priest, who loved him, wept and cried;
And, for his service long and hard,
Buried him in his own churchyard.
Now turn we to another thing:
Tis of a bishop that I sing.
No greedy miser he, I ween;
Prelate so generous neer was seen.
Full well he loved in company
Of all good Christians still to be;
When he was well, his pleasure still;
His medicine best when he was ill.
Always his hall was full, and there
His guests had ever best of fare.
Whateer the bishop lacked or lost,
Was bought at once, despite the cost.
And so, in spite of vent and score,
The bishops debts grew more and more.
For true it is this neer forget
Who spends too much gets into debt.
One day his friends all with him sat,
The bishop talking this and that,
Till the discourse on rich clerks ran,
Of greedy priests, and how their plan
Was all good bishops still to grieve,
And of their dues their lords deceive.
And then the priest of whom Ive told
Was mentioned how he loved his gold.
And, because men do often use
More freedom than the truth would choose,
They gave him wealth, and wealth so much,
As those like him could scarcely touch.
And then, besides, a thing hes done
By which great profit might be won,
Could it be only spoken here.
Quoth the bishop, Tell it without fear.
Hes worse, my lord, than Bedouin,
Because his own dead ass, Baldwin,
He buried in the sacred ground.
If this is truth, as shall be found,
The bishop cried, a forfeit high
Will on his worldly riches lie.
Summon this wicked priest to me;
I will myself in this case be
The judge. If Roberts word be true,
Mine are the fine, and forfeit too.
Disloyal! Gods enemy and mine,
Prepare to pay a heavy fine.
Thy ass thou buriest in the place
Sacred by church. Now, by Gods grace,
I never heard of crime more great.
What! Christian men with asses wait!
Now, if this thing be proven, know
Surely to prison thou wilt go.
Sir, said the priest, thy patience grant;
A short delay is all I want.
Not that I fear to answer now,
But give me what the laws allow.
And so the bishop leaves the priest,
Who does not feel as if at feast;
But still, because one friend remains,
He trembles not at prison pains.
His purse it is which never fails
For tax or forfeit, fine or vails.
The term arrived, the priest appeared,
And met the bishop, nothing feared;
For neath his girdle safe there hung
A leathern purse, well stocked and strung
With twenty pieces fresh and bright,
Good money all, none clipped or light.
Priest, said the bishop, if thou have
Answer to give to charge so grave,
Tis now the time.
Sir, grant me leave
My answer secretly to give.
Let me confess to you alone,
And, if needs be, my sins atone.
The bishop bent his head to hear;
The priest he whispered in his ear:
Sir, spare a tedious tale to tell.
My poor ass served me long and well.
For twenty years my faithful slave;
Each year his work a saving gave
Of twenty sous, so that, in all,
To twenty livres the sum will fall;
And, for the safety of his soul,
To you, my lord, he left the whole.
Twas rightly done, the bishop said.
And gravely shook his godly head;
And that his soul to heaven may go,
My absolution I bestow.
Now have you heard a truthful lay,
How with rich priests the bishops play;
And Rutebœuf the moral draws
That, spite of kings and bishops laws,
No evil times has he to dread
Who still has silver at his need.
A BALLADE OF OLD-TIME LADIES
(Translated by John Payne.)TELL me, where, in what land of shade,
Hides fair Flora of Rome? and where
Are Thaìs and Archipiade,
Cousins-german in beauty rare?
And Echo, more than mortal fair,
That when one calls by river flow,
Or marish, answers out of the air?
But what has become of last years snow?
Where did the learnd Héloïsa vade,
For whose sake Abelard did not spare
(Such dole for love on him was laid)
Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear?
And where is the queen who willd whilere
That Buridan, tied in a sack, should go
Floating down Seine from the turret-stair?
But what has become of last years snow?
Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that made
Sweet music as if she a siren were?
Broad-foot Bertha? and Joan, the maid,
The good Lorrainer the English bare
Captive to Rouen, and burnd her there?
Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys lo!
Where are they, virgins debonair?
But what has become of last years snow?
Prince, you may question how they fare,
This week, or liefer this year, I trow:
Still shall this burden the answer bear
But what has become of last years snow?