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121
Fifth Chain.
Scene, a club-room. Enter two decayed poets, with several manuscripts which have been submitted to them for consideration. They seat themselves solemnly at a table, and proceed to open court.Smytherres
(one of the decayed poets).
My colleague in poetic emperorhood,
I deem it best that we discourse in rhyme;
In the set sonnet of the olden time;
Miltonic sonnet; for 'tis well and good,
That we, who might surpass him if we would
(Our predecessors o'er him used to climb),
Should let our strains his modest voice o'er-chime;
Though we ourselves are still misunderstood,
Excepting by ourselves and by each other,
And people will not read the things we write,
Unless we ask them to—a precious bother!—
Yet we in criticism can vent some spite,
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So ope these efforts to our suffering sight.
Johnnes
(the other decayed poet).
That we discourse in sonnets, I consent;
Though from myself, dear brother, please to ask
Shakespearian rhyme.—So I have precedent,
My style is proper.—Let us to the task.
Of manuscripts this package doth consist,
Which we must now examine, and decide
Whether they have our license to exist,
Or whether they in failure must abide.
Ah me!—a great responsibility
It is, to say what shall and shall not live
In literature and art—especially,
When some survive, for all the pains we give.
Draw forth the first presumer that doth wait,
And let us seal the verdict of his fate.
Smytherres
(opening a package).
I know not whether it were best to give
These lines within our time and thought a place;
They discourse of a non-poetic race;
Who, though of course we must permit to live,
Are mostly ignorant and primitive;
Therefore the title shows, upon its face,
An utter lack of true poetic grace.
But let us shake it in our critic-sieve;
For some opinion must be renderèd
On all the manuscripts we are receiving,
And we have been accused oft-times, 'tis said,
Of thoughtless, half-malicious judgment giving;
Therefore these lines shall every word be read
(Besides, too, that's the way we make our living).
Reads:
THE NEGRO FUNERAL.
I was walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim,
When there slowly through the window came a plaintive funeral hymn;
And a sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew,
Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew.
When there slowly through the window came a plaintive funeral hymn;
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Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew.
Out at front a colored couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild;
On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was a child.
I could picture him when living—curly hair, protruding lip—
And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried Southern trip.
On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was a child.
I could picture him when living—curly hair, protruding lip—
And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried Southern trip.
But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of Death
That had fanned more flames of sorrow with his little fluttering breath;
And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy profound
Than was in the chain of tear-drops that enclasped those mourners round.
That had fanned more flames of sorrow with his little fluttering breath;
And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy profound
Than was in the chain of tear-drops that enclasped those mourners round.
Rose a sad old colored preacher at the little wooden desk—
With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque;
With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face;
With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying race.
With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque;
With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face;
With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying race.
And he said: “Now don' be weepin' for dis pretty bit o' clay—
For de little boy who lived dere, he done gone an' run away!
He was doin' very fine here, an' he 'preciate your love;
But his sure 'nuff Father want him in de large house up above.
For de little boy who lived dere, he done gone an' run away!
He was doin' very fine here, an' he 'preciate your love;
But his sure 'nuff Father want him in de large house up above.
“Now He didn' give you dat baby, by a hundred thousan' mile!
He just think you need some sunshine, an' He lend it for a while!
An' He let you keep an' love it, till your hearts was bigger grown;
An' dese silver tears you're sheddin's jest de interest on de loan.
He just think you need some sunshine, an' He lend it for a while!
An' He let you keep an' love it, till your hearts was bigger grown;
An' dese silver tears you're sheddin's jest de interest on de loan.
“Here yer oder pretty chilrun!—don't be makin' it appear
Dat your love got sort o' 'nop'lized by dis little fellow here;
Don' pile up too much your sorrow on deir little mental shelves,
So's to kind o' set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves!
Dat your love got sort o' 'nop'lized by dis little fellow here;
Don' pile up too much your sorrow on deir little mental shelves,
So's to kind o' set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves!
“Just you think, you poor deah mounahs, creepin' 'long o'er Sorrow's way,
What a blessèd little picnic dis yere baby's got to-day!
His gran'faders an' gran'moders crowd de little fellow round
In de angel-tended garden of de Big Plantation Ground.
What a blessèd little picnic dis yere baby's got to-day!
His gran'faders an' gran'moders crowd de little fellow round
In de angel-tended garden of de Big Plantation Ground.
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“An' dey ask him, ‘Was your feet sore?’ an' take off his little shoes,
An' dey wash him, an' dey kiss him, an' dey say, ‘Now what's de news?’
An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose; den de little fellow say,
‘All our folks down in de valley tries to keep de hebbenly way.’
An' dey wash him, an' dey kiss him, an' dey say, ‘Now what's de news?’
An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose; den de little fellow say,
‘All our folks down in de valley tries to keep de hebbenly way.’
“An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty things he view;
Den a tear come, an' he whisper, ‘But I want my paryents, too!’
But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song:
Says, ‘If only dey be fait'ful dey will soon be comin' 'long.’
Den a tear come, an' he whisper, ‘But I want my paryents, too!’
But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song:
Says, ‘If only dey be fait'ful dey will soon be comin' 'long.’
“An' he'll get an education dat will proberbly be worth
Seberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth;
He'll be in de Lawd's big school-house, widout no contempt or fear;
While dere's no end to de bad t'ings might have happened to him here.
Seberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth;
He'll be in de Lawd's big school-house, widout no contempt or fear;
While dere's no end to de bad t'ings might have happened to him here.
“So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest,
An' don' go to critercisin' dat ar One w'at knows de best!
He have sent us many comforts—He have right to take away—
To de Lawd be praise an' glory now and ever!—Let us pray.”
An' don' go to critercisin' dat ar One w'at knows de best!
He have sent us many comforts—He have right to take away—
To de Lawd be praise an' glory now and ever!—Let us pray.”
Johnnes.
What horrid taste! what disregard of rules!
To pick up such a story as this one,
And voice it! where are our poetic schools,
When such absurd things can be safely done?
The proper subjects for poetic flights,
Are clouds, stars, skies, courts, tournaments, and kings,
And sickly love-tales.—We must set to rights
A state of things which tolerates such things.
Let's give that author such a verbal basting
That he will never dare again to show
His head in printed letters, after tasting
The cup of our acidulated woe.
To think that pen and type should be defiled
Upon the funeral of a negro child!
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And dialect—foe to poetic speech—
Appears here, in this undeserving verse,
And if 'twere possible, would make it worse.
Its growing prevalence mankind should teach,
That when an author downward thus doth reach,
He should incur the critic's hottest curse—
His Pegasus being harnessed to his hearse;
And though the lines of some good writers preach
That th' exact language men and women use
Is proper, when their ideas you're expressing,
Yet 'tis what we prefer to have our views,
That dialect is an improper dressing.
Shakespeare, Burns, Dante, Homer, if you choose—
Had lapses of the same—but 'twas distressing!
[Sighs deeply, opens another manuscript, and reads:
THE FOUR TRAVELLERS.
They were telling their experience—just a small band of that race
Whose religion oft illumines e'en the darkness of the face;
Whose true fancy passes limits that cold reason can not reach;
Whose expressions are more accurate for the rudeness of their speech.
And they drew their illustrations—not from ancient lore profound—
But from nineteenth-century wonders, that are scattered all around.
Whose religion oft illumines e'en the darkness of the face;
Whose true fancy passes limits that cold reason can not reach;
Whose expressions are more accurate for the rudeness of their speech.
And they drew their illustrations—not from ancient lore profound—
But from nineteenth-century wonders, that are scattered all around.
And one said: “I'm goin' to hebben in de row-boat ob God's grace;
An' I'm pullin' mighty lively, for to win de hebbenly race.”
But the leader said: “Be keerful; for de arm ob flesh may fail,
An' de oars may break—or danger may come ridin' on de gale;
An' be sure you make dat boat large; for no Christian ken affo'd
To say ‘No’ to any helpah who desires to step abo'd.”
An' I'm pullin' mighty lively, for to win de hebbenly race.”
But the leader said: “Be keerful; for de arm ob flesh may fail,
An' de oars may break—or danger may come ridin' on de gale;
An' be sure you make dat boat large; for no Christian ken affo'd
To say ‘No’ to any helpah who desires to step abo'd.”
And one said: “I'm goin' to hebben in de sail-boat ob de word;
An' my faith it stitched de canvas, an' my breeze is from de Lord;
An' my craft it foam de watahs, as I speed upon my way,
'Till it seems like I was makin' 'bout a hundr'd miles a day.”
But the leader said: “Be watchful; work an' struggle more an' more;
Look for lots o' calms a-comin'—look for breakers on de shore!”
An' my faith it stitched de canvas, an' my breeze is from de Lord;
An' my craft it foam de watahs, as I speed upon my way,
'Till it seems like I was makin' 'bout a hundr'd miles a day.”
But the leader said: “Be watchful; work an' struggle more an' more;
Look for lots o' calms a-comin'—look for breakers on de shore!”
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And one rose and said: “I'm trabellin' in de steamboat ob God's power,
An' it seems like I was makin' 'bout a hundred knots an hour!
An' my berth is all done paid for—an' my d'rection all is known,
Till our gospel steamer whistles for her landin' near de throne!”
And the leader said: “Be earnest; you jus' watch, an' toil, an' pray,
Les' yer engine bu'st its boiler, an' you shipwreck on de way.”
An' it seems like I was makin' 'bout a hundred knots an hour!
An' my berth is all done paid for—an' my d'rection all is known,
Till our gospel steamer whistles for her landin' near de throne!”
And the leader said: “Be earnest; you jus' watch, an' toil, an' pray,
Les' yer engine bu'st its boiler, an' you shipwreck on de way.”
Then a poor old woman rose up—bent and haggard, worn and weak—
And she leaned upon her crutches, and her tongue was slow to speak;
And she said: “I up an' started moah dan fifty yeahs ago—
Started off afoot for hebben—an' de journey's mighty slow!
Dere was streams dat had no bridges—dere was stone-hills for to climb—
Dere was swamps an' stubs an' briers waitin' for me all de time;
And she leaned upon her crutches, and her tongue was slow to speak;
And she said: “I up an' started moah dan fifty yeahs ago—
Started off afoot for hebben—an' de journey's mighty slow!
Dere was streams dat had no bridges—dere was stone-hills for to climb—
Dere was swamps an' stubs an' briers waitin' for me all de time;
“Dere was clouds ob persecution, full ob thunder an' cold rain—
Dere was any 'mount ob wanderin', dere was woes I couldn't explain:
Dere was folks dat 'fore I asked 'em, my poor waverin' footsteps showed
Into country dat was pleasant, but dat didn't contain de Road;
But de Lawd, he fin'lly tol' me, when I'm boun' to have de way,
An' I think perhaps I'm makin' maybe half a mile a day.”
Dere was any 'mount ob wanderin', dere was woes I couldn't explain:
Dere was folks dat 'fore I asked 'em, my poor waverin' footsteps showed
Into country dat was pleasant, but dat didn't contain de Road;
But de Lawd, he fin'lly tol' me, when I'm boun' to have de way,
An' I think perhaps I'm makin' maybe half a mile a day.”
Then the leader said: “Dere's nothin' 'gainst de rapid transit plan—
Jus' you get to hebben, my bredren, any honest way you can!
If you folks kin sail to glory, I don' know but dat's all right!
But I can not help believin'—if we all should die to-night—
When you boatmen land in Canaan, wid some narrow 'scapes to tell,
You'd fin' dat ol' sister waitin', wid her feet all washed an' well!”
Jus' you get to hebben, my bredren, any honest way you can!
If you folks kin sail to glory, I don' know but dat's all right!
But I can not help believin'—if we all should die to-night—
When you boatmen land in Canaan, wid some narrow 'scapes to tell,
You'd fin' dat ol' sister waitin', wid her feet all washed an' well!”
Johnnes.
Ignorant rhymester! delver 'mongst the clods!
Why should he choose such undeserving themes?
Why can't he take stars, angels, demons, gods,
And other subjects fit for poets' dreams?
Why doesn't he hint what can not be expressed?
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Yearn for what wouldn't be known if 'twere possessed—
Aspire to what he knows can never be?
Or why not write as you do?—rake the past
For fancies that in others' minds have grown—
See that they are in proper measure cast—
Then cheerfully exploit them as his own?
Smytherres
(angrily).
You are a thief yourself!
Johnnes.
A robber, you!
Smytherres.
Knave!
Johnnes.
Plagiarist!
Smytherres.
Emasculated shrew!
[They pummel each other rhythmically, with the remaining manuscripts. One of them flies open, and reveals still another dialect poem, upon still another humble subject. This additional calamity unnerves them, and they fall into each other's arms, sobbing poetically. They read together in silence, as follows:
THE EARTHQUAKE-PRAYER.
'Twas a night of dread in Charleston, and the air was thick with fear;
Never yet had such a terror dropped its raven mantle here;
Never yet had deathly sorrow had so strange and sudden birth,
As upon the visitation of this tempest of the earth.
Never yet had such a terror dropped its raven mantle here;
Never yet had deathly sorrow had so strange and sudden birth,
As upon the visitation of this tempest of the earth.
For the startled ground was surging as the waves of stormy seas,
And the belfries of the churches fell like stricken forest-trees;
And the walls that long had lorded over seen and unseen foe,
Covered thick with costly ruins this tornado from below!
And the belfries of the churches fell like stricken forest-trees;
And the walls that long had lorded over seen and unseen foe,
Covered thick with costly ruins this tornado from below!
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There were some who prayed God's presence who to God had long been near;
There were some for help entreating with repentance made of fear;
There were some who raved in madness through the long and murderous night;
There were corses calmly waiting for a mourner's tearful sight.
There were some for help entreating with repentance made of fear;
There were some who raved in madness through the long and murderous night;
There were corses calmly waiting for a mourner's tearful sight.
And that dark race whose religion has a superstitious trend,
But whose superstition clambers toward an everlasting Friend,
They were shouting in their frenzy, or in terror meekly dumb;
For they thought the opening signal of the Judgment Day had come.
But whose superstition clambers toward an everlasting Friend,
They were shouting in their frenzy, or in terror meekly dumb;
For they thought the opening signal of the Judgment Day had come.
But there sudden rose among them one of earth's untutored kings,
One of those unlooked-for leaders whom an hour of danger brings:
And he prayed—as souls do often, full of sympathy and love—
Partly to the souls around him, partly to the God above.
One of those unlooked-for leaders whom an hour of danger brings:
And he prayed—as souls do often, full of sympathy and love—
Partly to the souls around him, partly to the God above.
And he said: “I guess it's come, Lawd—dis yer day we've prayed so long—
For de symptoms all aroun' here dey be mos' tremendous strong;
But we ain't quite ready yet, Lawd, neber min' how well prepared.
We feel safe in Thy good mercy, but we're ebberlastin' scared!
For de symptoms all aroun' here dey be mos' tremendous strong;
But we ain't quite ready yet, Lawd, neber min' how well prepared.
We feel safe in Thy good mercy, but we're ebberlastin' scared!
“For You see we're mos'ly human when de grave comes re'lly nigh,
An' de spirit wants its freedom, but de flesh it hates to die!
We've been teasin' You for hebben all de summer long, I know;
But we ain't in half de hurry dat we was a while ago.
An' de spirit wants its freedom, but de flesh it hates to die!
We've been teasin' You for hebben all de summer long, I know;
But we ain't in half de hurry dat we was a while ago.
“When we come to look de facts through, in de light ob pain an' fear.
Dere is holes in all our armor dat at first view didn't appear;
An' we'd like to patch 'em over, if it's all de same to You;
Put it off a yeah, for certain—or perhaps You'd make it two!
Dere is holes in all our armor dat at first view didn't appear;
An' we'd like to patch 'em over, if it's all de same to You;
Put it off a yeah, for certain—or perhaps You'd make it two!
“Then we've got some poor relations who may neber see Thy face
If dey do not earn de riches ob de sin-destroyin' grace;
Lawd, protect dem wid Thy patience, jus' de same-like as before,
An' keep diggin' roun' dose fig-trees for anudder year or more!
If dey do not earn de riches ob de sin-destroyin' grace;
Lawd, protect dem wid Thy patience, jus' de same-like as before,
An' keep diggin' roun' dose fig-trees for anudder year or more!
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“Let 'em off a little longer! In de light ob dis event,
Dey may recognize de season as a fine one to repent!
Dey will like Ye when dey know Ye, an' be glad to enter in,
An' dere's some dat's awful good, Lawd, ef it wasn't for deir sin!
Dey may recognize de season as a fine one to repent!
Dey will like Ye when dey know Ye, an' be glad to enter in,
An' dere's some dat's awful good, Lawd, ef it wasn't for deir sin!
“Dis yer world has lots of fine folks, who is anxious, I'm afraid,
For to pick a little longer 'fore dey have deir baskets weighed;
An' dere'd be a large major'ty who would vote, it must be owned,
For to hab de world's big fun'ral eberlastin'ly pos'poned!
For to pick a little longer 'fore dey have deir baskets weighed;
An' dere'd be a large major'ty who would vote, it must be owned,
For to hab de world's big fun'ral eberlastin'ly pos'poned!
“An' You know, O good deah Fathah, dat Your time is all homemade,
An' a thousan' years is nothin' in your golden steel-yards weighed;
Keep de same ol' footstool yet, Lawd; hol' it steady, I implore!
It'll maybe suit You better if You use it jes once more!
An' a thousan' years is nothin' in your golden steel-yards weighed;
Keep de same ol' footstool yet, Lawd; hol' it steady, I implore!
It'll maybe suit You better if You use it jes once more!
“But ob co'se our weak-eyed wisdom's like a rain-drop in de sea,
An' we ain't got any business to be mendin' plans for Thee;
If it's time to leave dese quarters an' go somewhar else to board,
Make de journey jes as easy as Your justice can afford!
An' we ain't got any business to be mendin' plans for Thee;
If it's time to leave dese quarters an' go somewhar else to board,
Make de journey jes as easy as Your justice can afford!
“An' we know You hab a fondness for de average human soul,
So we'll hab consid'ble courage at de callin' ob de roll;
You're our sure 'nuff livin' Fathah—You're our fathahs' God an' frien'—
To de Lawd be praise an' glory, now an' evermore! Amen!”
So we'll hab consid'ble courage at de callin' ob de roll;
You're our sure 'nuff livin' Fathah—You're our fathahs' God an' frien'—
To de Lawd be praise an' glory, now an' evermore! Amen!”
'Twas a day of peace in Charleston, after many days of dread,
And the shelterless were sheltered, and the hungry had been fed;
And the death-invaded city through its misery now could grope,
And look forward to a future fringed with happiness and hope.
And the shelterless were sheltered, and the hungry had been fed;
And the death-invaded city through its misery now could grope,
And look forward to a future fringed with happiness and hope.
And those faithful dusky Christians will maintain for evermore,
That the fervent prayers they offered drove destruction from their shore;
And how much faith moves a mountain, or commands a rock to stay,
Is unknown to earthly ignorance, and for only God to say.
That the fervent prayers they offered drove destruction from their shore;
And how much faith moves a mountain, or commands a rock to stay,
Is unknown to earthly ignorance, and for only God to say.
The English sonnet, so far as I have been able to observe, consists, as such, principally of being composed of fourteen lines—rhymed partly under a certain rule, and partly according to the fancy or ability of the author. The great danger in undertaking it seems rarely to have been escaped: that of paying so much attention to the rhymes that the sense and sentiment are neglected. Among the happy exceptions to this unhappy rule are Milton and Shakespeare, who sometimes say more in the compactness of their sonnets even than in some of their more inflated forms. But there is a singular difference between their rhyming methods: Milton following the intricate Italian style, while Shakespeare, in that direct, slashing way with which he goes about everything, simply rhymes alternate lines, finishes up with a rhymed couplet, and so makes an end of it. It strikes me that the two senile poets who appear in the accompanying pages, in selecting models after whom to chipper away at each other, have chosen two good representative sonneteers of the English language, and—imitator-like—made a bad mess of it.
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