Kitobni o'qish: «The Re-echo Club»

DIVERSIONS OF THE RE-ECHO CLUB

A recent discovery has brought to light the long-hidden papers of the Re-Echo Club. This is a great find, and all lovers of masterpieces of the world's best literature will rejoice with us that we are enabled to publish herewith a few of these gems of great minds. Little is known of the locale or clientèle of this club, but it was doubtless a successor of the famous Echo Club of Boston memory, for, like that erudite body, it takes pleasure in trying to better what is done. On the occasion of the meeting of which the following gems of poesy are the result, the several members of the club engaged to write up the well-known tradition of the Purple Cow in more elaborate form than the quatrain made famous by Mr. Gelett Burgess:

 
"I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one."
 

The first attempt here cited is the production of Mr. John Milton:

 
Hence, vain, deluding cows.
The herd of folly, without color bright,
How little you delight,
Or fill the Poet's mind, or songs arouse!
But, hail! thou goddess gay of feature!
Hail! divinest purple creature!
Oh, Cow, thy visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight.
And though I'd like, just once, to see thee,
I never, never, never'd be thee!
 

MR. P. BYSSHE SHELLEY:

 
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Cow thou never wert;
But in life to cheer it
Playest thy full part
In purple lines of unpremeditated art.
 
 
The pale purple color
Melts around thy sight
Like a star, but duller,
In the broad daylight.
I'd see thee, but I would not be thee if I might.
 
 
We look before and after
At cattle as they browse;
Our most hearty laughter
Something sad must rouse.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of Purple Cows.
 

MR. W. WORDSWORTH:

 
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dee;
A Cow whom there were few to praise
And very few to see.
A violet by a mossy stone
Greeting the smiling East
Is not so purple, I must own,
As that erratic beast.
She lived unknown, that Cow, and so
I never chanced to see;
But if I had to be one, oh,
The difference to me!
 

MR. T. GRAY:

 
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
I watched them slowly wend their weary way,
But, ah, a Purple Cow I did not see.
 
 
Full many a cow of purplest ray serene
Is haply grazing where I may not see;
Full many a donkey writes of her, I ween,
But neither of these creatures would I be.
 

MR. J. W. RILEY:

 
There, little Cow, don't cry!
You are brindle and brown, I know.
And with wild, glad hues
Of reds and blues,
You never will gleam and glow.
But though not pleasing to the eye,
There, little Cow, don't cry, don't cry.
 

LORD A. TENNYSON:

 
Ask me no more. A cow I fain would see
Of purple tint, like to a sun-soaked grape—
Of purple tint, like royal velvet cape—
But such a creature I would never be—
Ask me no more.
 

MR. R. BROWNING:

 
All that I know
Of a certain Cow
Is it can throw,
Somewhere, somehow,
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue
(That makes purple, 'tis said).
I would fain see, too,
This Cow that darkles the red and the blue!
 

MR. J. KEATS:

 
A cow of purple is a joy forever.
Its loveliness increases. I have never
Seen this phenomenon. Yet ever keep
A brave lookout; lest I should be asleep
When she comes by. For, though I would not be one,
I've oft imagined 'twould be joy to see one.
 

MR. D.G. ROSSETTI:

 
The Purple Cow strayed in the glade;
(Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)
She strayed and strayed and strayed and strayed
(And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!)
 
 
I've never seen her—nay, not I;
(Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)
Yet were I that Cow I should want to die.
(And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!)
But in vain my tears I strew.
 

MR. T.B. ALDRICH:

 
Somewhere in some faked nature place,
In Wonderland, in Nonsense Land,
Two darkling shapes met face to face,
And bade each other stand.
 
 
"And who are you?" said each to each;
"Tell me your title, anyhow."
One said, "I am the Papal Bull,"
"And I the Purple Cow."
 

MR. E. ALLAN POE:

 
Open then I flung a shutter,
And, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a Purple Cow which gayly tripped around my floor.
Not the least obeisance made she,
Not a moment stopped or stayed she,
But with mien of chorus lady perched herself above my door.
On a dusty bust of Dante perched and sat above my door.
 
 
And that Purple Cow unflitting
Still is sitting—still is sitting
On that dusty bust of Dante just above my chamber door,
And her horns have all the seeming
Of a demon's that is screaming,
And the arc-light o'er her streaming
Casts her shadow on the floor.
And my soul from out that pool of Purple Shadow on the floor
Shall be lifted Nevermore!
 

MR. H. LONGFELLOW:

 
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wing of night
As ballast is wafted downward
From an air-ship in its flight.
 
 
I dream of a purple creature
Which is not as kine are now;
And resembles cattle only
As Cowper resembles a cow.
 
 
Such cows have power to quiet
Our restless thoughts and rude;
They come like the Benedictine
That follows after food.
 

MR. A. SWINBURNE:

 
Oh, Cow of rare rapturous vision,
Oh, purple, impalpable Cow,
Do you browse in a Dream Field Elysian,
Are you purpling pleasantly now?
By the side of wan waves do you languish?
Or in the lithe lush of the grove?
While vainly I search in my anguish,
O Bovine of mauve!
 
 
Despair in my bosom is sighing,
Hope's star has sunk sadly to rest;
Though cows of rare sorts I am buying,
Not one breathes a balm to my breast.
Oh, rapturous rose-crowned occasion,
When I such a glory might see!
But a cow of a purple persuasion
I never would be.
 

MR. F.D. SHERMAN:

 
I'd love to see
A Purple Cow,
Oh, Goodness me!
I'd love to see
But not to be
One. Anyhow,
I'd love to see
A Purple Cow.
 

MR. B. CARMAN:

 
Now the joys of the road are chiefly these,
A Purple Cow that no one sees,
A grove of green and a sky of blue,
And never a hope that cow to view.
But a firm conviction deep in me
That cow I would rather be than see.
Though, alack-a-day, there be times enow,
When I see pink snakes and a Purple Cow.
 

MR. H.C. BUNNER:

 
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
Where all the cows are purple?
Ah, woe is me! I never hope
On such a sight my eyes to ope;
But, as I sing in merry glee
Along the road to Arcady,
Perchance full soon I may espy
A Purple Cow come dancing by.
Heigho! I then shall see one.
Her horns bedecked with ribbons gay,
And garlanded with rosy may,—
A tricksy sight. Still I must say
I'd rather see than be one.
 

MR. R.L. STEVENSON:

 
In winter I get up at night
And hunt that cow by lantern light;
In summer quite the other way,
I seek a Purple Cow by day.
And does it not seem strange to you,
I can't find cows of purple hue?
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'm glad I'm not a Purple Cow.
 

MR. R. KIPLING:

 
In the old ten-acre pasture,
Lookin' eastward toward a tree,
There's a Purple Cow a-settin'
And I know she thinks of me.
For the wind is in the gum-tree,
And the hay is in the mow,
And the cow-bells are a-calling
"Come and see a Purple Cow!"
 
 
But I am not going now,
Not at present, anyhow,
For I am not fond of purple, and
I can't abide a cow;
No, I shall not go to-day,
Where the Purple Cattle play,
Though I think I'd rather see one
Than to be one, anyhow.
 

MR. O. HERFORD:

 
Children, observe the Purple Cow,
You cannot see her, anyhow;
And, little ones, you need not hope
Your eyes will e'er attain such scope.
But if you ever have a choice
To be, or see, lift up your voice
And choose to see. For surely you
Don't want to browse around and moo.
 

MR. S. CRANE:

 
Once a man said,
I never saw a Purple Cow;
Again he spoke,
I never hope to see one.
Then all the people said,
How noble his humble-mindedness!
How glorious his meek resignation!
Now this is the strange part—
The man has seen hundreds of purple cows,
Ay, thousands,
But the man was color blind,
And the cows seemed to him to be a reddish brown.
 

MR. D.G. ROSSETTI:

(Second Attempt.)

 
The blessed Purple Cow leaned out
From a pasture lot at even
One horn was sixteen inches long,
The other just eleven.
She had a ruminative face,
And the teeth in her head were seven.
She gazed and listened, then she said
(Less sad of speech than queer),
"Nobody seems to notice me,
None knows that I am here.
And no one wishes to be me!"
She wept. (I heard a tear.)
 

MR. A.C. SWINBURNE:

(Second Attempt.)

 
Only in dim, drowsy depths of a
    dream do I dare to delight
        in deliciously dreaming
Cows there may be of a passionate
    purple,—cows of a violent
        violet-hue;
Ne'er have I seen such a sight, I am
    certain it is but a demi-
        delirious dreaming—
Ne'er may I happily harbor
    a hesitant hope in my
        heart that my dream
            may come true.
Sad is my soul, and my senses
    are sobbing, so strong
        is my strenuous spirit
            to see one.
Dolefully, drearily doomed
    to despair as warily,
        wearily watching I wait;
Thoughts thickly thronging are thrilling
    and throbbing; to see is a
        glorious gain—but to be one!
That were a darker and
    direfuller destiny, that
        were a fearfuller,
            frightfuller fate.
 

At the second meeting of the Re-Echo Club, some of whose proceedings have already been chronicled in these pages, the question arose whether the poet was at his best who gave to the world the classic poem about The Little Girl:

 
"There was a little girl
And she had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good,
She was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid!"
 

Some members held that poets had at times risen to sublimer poetic flights than this, while others contended that the clear-cut decision of thought it expressed placed the poem above more elaborate works.

 
Come you back and let me out!"
For she's in a punkin shell,
I have locked her in her cell;
But it really is a comfy, well-constructed punkin shell;
And there she'll have to dwell,
For she didn't treat me well,
So I put her in the punkin and I've kept her very well.
 

Algernon Swinburne was also in one of his early moods, and as a result he wove the story into this exquisite fabric of words:

IN THE PUMPKIN

 
Leave go my hands. Let me catch breath and see,
What is this confine either side of me?
Green pumpkin vines about me coil and crawl,
Seen sidelong, like a 'possum in a tree,—
Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!
 
 
Oh, my fair love, I charge thee, let me out
From this gold lush encircling me about;
I turn and only meet a pumpkin wall.
The crescent moon shines slim,—but I am stout,—
Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!
 
 
Pumpkin seeds like cold sea blooms bring me dreams;
Ah, Pete,—too sweet to me,—My Pete, it seems
Love like a Pumpkin holds me in its thrall;
And overhead a writhen shadow gleams,—
Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!
 

This intense poesy thrilled the heavens, and it was with a sense of relief to their throbbing souls that they listened to Mr. Bret Harte's contribution:

 
Which I wish to remark,
That the lady was plain;
And for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain
She had predilections peculiar,
And drove Peter nearly insane.
 
 
Far off, anywhere,
She wandered each day;
And though Peter would swear,
The lady would stray;
And whenever he thought he had got her,
She was sure to be rambling away.
 
 
Said Peter, "My Wife,
Hereafter you dwell
For the rest of your life
In a big Pumpkin Shell."
He popped her in one that was handy,
And since then he's kept her quite well.
 
 
Which is why I remark,
Though the lady was plain,
For ways that are dark
And tricks that are vain
A husband is very peculiar,
And the same I am free to maintain.
 

Oscar Wilde, in a poetic fervor and a lily-like kimono, recited with tremulous intensity this masterpiece of his own:

 
Oh, Peter! Pumpkin-fed and proud,
Ah me; ah me!
(Sweet squashes, mother!)
Thy woe knells like a stricken cloud;
(Ah me; ah me!
Hurroo, Hurree!)
 
 
Lo! vanisht like an anguisht wraith;
Ah me; ah me!
(Sweet squashes, mother!)
Wan hope a dolorous musing saith;
(Ah me; ah me!
Dum diddle dee!)
 
 
Hist! dare we soar? The Pumpkin Shell!
Ah me; ah me!
(Sweet squashes, mother!)
Fast and forever! Sooth, 'tis well.
(Ah me; ah me!
Faloodle dee!)
 

There was little to be said after this, so the meeting closed with a solo by Lady Arthur Hill, sung with a truly touching touch:

 
In the pumpkin, oh, my darling,
Think not bitterly of me;
Though I went away in silence,
Though I couldn't set you free.
 
 
For my heart was filled with longing,
For another piece of pie;
It was best to leave you there, dear,
Best for you and best for I.
 

At Christmas the members of the Re-Echo Club voiced these pleasant sentiments:

BY MR. TENNYSON:

 
Give me no more! Though worsted slippers be
The proper gift from woman unto man,
Component of the universal plan;
But, oh, too many hast thou given me,
Give me no more!
 

BY MR. SHAKESPEARE:

 
To give or not to give, that is the question;
Whether 'tis nobler on the whole to suffer
The old exchange of trinkets, gauds and kickshaws,
Or to take arms against this Christmas nuisance,
And, by opposing, end it? To buy—to give—
No more; and by that gift to say we end
The Christmas obligations to our friends
We all are heir to! To buy—to give;
To give—perchance to get; ay, there's the rub!
For in those bundles gay what frights may come
When we have shuffled off the ribbon bows
And tissue paper! Who would gifts receive
Of foolish books and little silver traps,
That make us rather keep the things we buy,
Than get these others that we know not of!
Thus Christmas doth make cowards of us all,
And, notwithstanding our good resolutions,
Each year we bandy gifts, and follow out
The same old Christmas programme!
 

BY MR. WORDSWORTH:

 
It was the very best of pies,
All plummy, thick and sweet;
A pie of most prodigious size—
And very few to eat.
 
 
'Twas passing rich, and few folks know
How rich mince pie can be;
But I have eaten it—and, oh,
The difference to me!
 

BY MR. DOBSON:

 
When she gave me cigars (!)
I smiled at the present.
Her eyes were like stars
When she gave me cigars.
(I can stand sudden jars.)
So I looked very pleasant
When she gave me cigars (!)
I smiled at the present.
 

BY MR. SWINBURNE:

 
If you eat turkey stuffing,
And I eat hot mince pie,
We'll vow that our digestion
Is quite beyond all question;
But soon we'll quit our bluffing
And curl us up to die,
If you eat turkey stuffing,
And I eat hot mince pie.
 

BY MR. LONGFELLOW:

 
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls on our little flat,
As a feather is wafted downward
From a lady's mushroom hat.
 
 
I've a feeling of fullness and sorrow
That is not like being ill,
And resembles colic only
As a pillow resembles a pill.
 
 
But the night shall be filled with nightmares,
And the food that was left to-day
Shall be given to poor street Arabs,
Or silently thrown away!
 

BY MR. MOORE:

 
'Twas ever thus, from childhood's bawl,
I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
Whatever I want most of all,
I do not get it Christmas Day!
 

BY MISS PROCTER:

 
Seated one day at the table,
I was stuffy and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the nuts and cheese.
 
 
I know not what I had eaten,
Or what I was eating then,
But I struck a delicious flavor
That I'd like to taste again.
 
 
It linked all elusive savors
Into one perfect taste,
Then faded away on my palate
Without any undue haste.
 
 
I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost taste so fine,
That came from the head of the kitchen,
And entered into mine.
 

BY MR. RILEY:

 
There, little girl, don't cry!
You are awfully broke, I know;
And of course you've spent
Far more than you meant,
And lots of bills you owe.
But at Christmas time one has to buy—
There, little girl, don't cry, don't cry!
 

The Re-Echo Club met in their pleasant rooms at No. 4, Poetic Mews. Spring had passed, so their fancy was lightly turning to other matters than Love, and it chanced to turn lightly to the Cubist Movement in Art.

"Of course," mused the President, rolling his eyes in an especially fine frenzy, "this movement will strike the poets next."

"Ha," said Dan Rossetti, refraining for a moment from the refrain he was building, "we must be ready for it."

"We must advance to meet it," said Teddy Poe, who was ever of an adventurous nature. "What's it all about?"

"The principles are simple," observed Rob Browning, glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; "in fact, it's much like my own work always has been. I was born cubic. You see, you just symbolize the liquefaction of the essence of an idea into its emotional constituents, and there you are!"

"Dead easy!" declared Lally Tennyson, who went out poeting by the day, and knew how to do any kind. "What's the subject?"

"That's just the point," said the President; "preeminently and exclusively it's subjective, and you must keep it so. On no account allow an object of any kind to creep in. Now, here's one of the Cubist pictures. They call it 'A Nude Descending the Staircase.' They pick names at random out of a hat, I believe. Take this, you fellows, and throw it into poetry."

"Any rules or conditions?" asked Billy Wordsworth.

"Absolutely none. It's the Ruleless School."

Then the Poets opened the aspiration valves, ignited the divine spark plugs, and whiz! went their motor-meters in a whirring, buzzing melody.

Soon their Cubist emotions were splashed upon paper, and the Poets read with justifiable pride these symbolic results.

Ally Swinburne tossed off this poetic gem without a bit of trouble.

 
Square eyelids that hide like a jewel;
Ten heads,—though I sometimes count more;
Six mouths that are cubic and cruel;
Of mixed arms and legs, twenty-four;
Descending in Symbolic glories
Of lissome triangles and squares;
Oh, mystic and subtle Dolores,
Our Lady of Stairs.
 
 
You descend like an army with banners,
In a cyclone of wrecked parasols.
You look like a mob with mad manners
Or a roystering row of Dutch dolls.
Oh, Priestess of Cubical passion,
Oh, Deification of Whim,
You seem to walk down in the fashion
That lame lobsters swim.
 

Here we have Mr. P.B. Shelley's noble lines:

 
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Nude thou never wert.
Not from Heaven nor near it
Breathed thy cubic heart
In profuse stairs of unintelligible art.
 
 
What thou art, we know not;
What is thee most like?
Snakes tied in a bow-knot?
Stovepipes on a strike?
Or Bellevue inmates on a Suffrage hike!
 
 
We look before and after,
And pine thy face to see;
Our sincerest laughter
Is aroused by thee.
Art thou perchance the sad cube root of 23?
 

Mr. R. Kipling felt a flash of his old fire, and threw in a high speed:

 
On an old symbolic staircase,
Looking forty ways at once;
There's a Cubist Nude descending,
With the queerest sort of stunts.
For the staircase is a-falling,
And the Noodle seems to say:
"Though you hear my soul a-calling,
You can't see me, anyway!"
 
 
Oh, this symbol balderdash,
And this post-Impression trash;
Can't you see their paint a-chunkin in a hotchy-potchy splash?
Where the motives bold and brash
Of the Cubist painters clash,
And the Nude descends like thunder down a staircase gone to smash!
 

Mr. D.G. Rossetti, ever a sweet singer, warbled thus tunefully:

 
The Blessed Nude at eve leaned out
From the gold staircase rail;
Her paint was deeper than the depth
Of waters in a pail.
She wore three bonnets on her heads,
And seven coats of mail.
 
 
And still she bowed herself and swayed
 

RUBÁIYÁT OF WALL STREET

 
Now the New Hope reviving dying fires,
The Thoughtful Soul to speculate aspires;
And the lean Hand of Shylock and his Kin
Puts out some Money, which he gladly Hires.
 
 
Myself, when Young, did eagerly Frequent
Broker and Broke; and heard Great Argument
About it and about. Yet evermore
Came out far Shrewder than when in I went.
 
 
With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And then I thought I'd sure be in The Know;
And this is all the Wisdom that I gained:
If you buy High, Quotations will be Low!
 
 
Some for the Glories of the System; Some
Sigh for the big Fool's Paradise to come.
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Profits go,
Nor heed the Rumble of a Boston Drum!
 
 
The System that with logic absolute
Both Standard Oil and Copper can confute;
The Sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
National Lead can into Gold transmute.
 
 
Indeed, indeed, at Brokers oft Before
I swore. But was I Cautious when I swore?
And then Came Gay State Gas and Rise-in-Hand;
I plunged—and Lost some Fifty Thousand More.
 
 
And then that New Prospectus cast a Spell,
And robbed me of my Hard-Earned Savings. Well,
I often wonder what the Magnates buy
One-Half so precious as the Fools they Sell.
 
 
Ah, My Beloved, all Goes up in Smoke!
Last week is past Regret; To-day is a joke;
To-morrow—why, to-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Seven Thousand Broke!
 
 
You know, My Friends, with what a Brave Carouse
I put a Second Mortgage on my House,
So I could Buy a lot of Copper Shares—
I even used the Savings of my Spouse!
 
 
I sent my Soul down where the Magnates flock
To learn the Truth about some Worthless Stock;
And by and by my Soul returned to me,
And answered: "I, myself, have Bought a Block!"
 
 
Oh, threats of Curbs, and Hopes of Bucket-shops,
Whether Industrials, Railroads, Mines or Crops;
One thing is Certain, and the Rest is Lies—
The Stock that you have Bought Forever Drops!
 
 
And if, in Vain, down on the Stubborn Floor
Of the Exchange you Hazard all your Store,
You Rise to-day—while Crops are up—how then
To-morrow, when they Fall to Rise no more?
 
 
Waste not your Money on Expected Gain
Of this or that Provision, Crop or Grain.
Better be Jocund with Industrials,
Than sadden just Because it Doesn't Rain!
 
 
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend
Before we, too, into the Pit descend!
Dust unto Dust, and without Dust to Live,
Sans Stock, sans Bonds, sans Credit and sans Friend.
 
 
The Moving Ticker tells. And, having told,
Moves on. Nor all your Poverty nor Gold
Shall lure it back to Raise one-half a Point,
Nor let you Realize on what you Hold.
 
 
For I remember stopping in the Jam
To watch a Magnate shearing a Poor Lamb.
And with an Eager and Excited Tongue
It murmured: "Oh, how Fortunate I am!"
 
 
No book of verses! But a Ticker Tape,
Quotation Record and a Daily Pape;
A yellow-haired stenographer—Perhaps
That Wilderness might be a Good Escape!
 
 
When You and I are hid within the Tomb,
The System still shall Lure New Souls to Doom;
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As Wall Street's Self should heed a Lawson Boom.
 
 
Ah, Love! could you and I lay on the Shelf
This Sorry Scheme of Ill-begotten Pelf,
Would we not Shatter it to Bits, and Then
Remould a System just to suit Ourself?