No More Learning

"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 gratia_. '"

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!