University of Virginia Library

Preface

How active, longeval and fascinating, is hope; the accidents, reverses and misfortunes of today but invigorate it, and tomorrow it will be painting brighter goals, in all the colors of the rainbow, or embellishing the desert, where it faded yesterday, with the mirage. It follows but never comes up with the horizon; and when, at the end of its cable tow, it has reached the bourn, it is then, to many, so seductive in enchantment that death, in the hour of its triumph, is confused by the garlands hope wreaths upon the brow of faith.

Beguiled by this alluring vision, I have been seduced into the difficult, yet pleasing labors of writing verse, a small collection of which I am exposing to the consideration of the public, before I have acquired the skill of a novice; who, I am sure, could have done better, with less effort; and who will, perhaps, upon reviewng my work, blush derisively at my poverty of thought and vagueness of expression; such is his pleasure.

It is enough for me to indulge the fancy that an asylum survives for him who is seduced by the muses, in the lenitive passions of those, whose love for the beautiful, causes them to tolerate its worshipers; whose affections for the esthetic, make them partial to its vassals and whose loftiness of character and charity of spirit impel them to be lenient where they might be rash, and just where they might yield to malice; and who, in the exercise of these happy virtues, do not forget that the daisy comes as sweet from the fallow as the rose from the garden.

In selecting a name for this poor work, I have, perchance, done violence to the sensitive feelings of many zealous partizans of the art of composition, who have, with the usurpation common to squatter sovereigns, fenced off the domain of poesy, as an exclusive sporting ground for themselves, where trespassers, such as I am, are commanded to “Keep off the grass.” To all such I would like to say that the name is not chosen because the composition, for which it stands, is metrical; but rather because I am a member of that unhappy race of people which are treated as

alien enemies in the land of their nativity, and the victim of that tyrannous public opinion which makes in them and me, what were commendable in others, a bar to advancement; and since this inclement public opinion has barred us from pursuing those civic pursuits that distinguish the civilian from the savage, and the savage from the brute, may I not call this little volume “Lyrics of the Under World”?

The piece, “My Country,” is but a fanciful flight of hope from conditions that are to what ought to be the scope of one's environment in a country whose underlying principles are said to be, “Equal rights to all, special benefits to none.” And, since “My Country” is a creature of fancy, may it not be palmed off on the uninitiated as verse, if not poetry? Those of my fellows who upbraid me for indulging the fancy, together with those who would eliminate me under the doctrine, “This is a white man's country,” will not, I hope, further deprive me from enjoying through the imagination what seems to be impossible as a matter of fact.

If these truths are not self-evident, but false: “That all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these rights are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” let me at least hold them among the things imaginable. I cannot abandon the position that this is my country.

There is, I think, enough in the overt acts of some of the worshipers of the idol, Color, to justify the “Lines to Caste,” until a master comes, who will give the subject its proper treatment. “The Jaunt” is mere jargon, thrown in to take the place of “The Black Knight,” a poem I had intended for this collection, but which I prefer not to publish at this time. I may say, however, that in writing “The Jaunt” I was trying to build a continued discourse in sonnets, and failed utterly with the soliloquy of age.

Of the other subjects of this collection I prefer to say nothing, since the reader, a better judge of their merits and demerits than I am, will render a decision for hlmself.

I would like, however, to thank my two friends, Dr. W. A. Scott, the publisher, and Hon. W. E. Mollison, who have condescended, the one to publish the book and the other to write its introduction, for the encouragement they gave me in my labors.

They are the only two college graduates, among my many acquaintances, who did not think it humiliating to themselves to recognize me, whom abject poverty during my youth and early manhood deprived of the benefits of school training.

As to the illustrations, I give “Sam in Sleepy Corner” the place of honor, because he is an old companion of mine who used to sit with me while I munched my food on the curb, or was kicked into the gutter by the haughty and proud for intruding upon the public thoroughfare. And yet I am free to say that there is as much happiness upon the curb as there is in the palace, and that I haven't had a happy day since I left it. But—

I am indebted to my son, Richard Henry Beadle, for the photographic illustrations, and to Mr. Boon for the cartoon, that appear in this book.

I entertain for the children of my fancy a fond solicitude, I part with them with a feeling akin to pain lest they will not give you as much pleasure, dear reader, in their perusal as I found in their creation.

If it were not out of place for me to commend them to you I would like to say a good word for Eulelia, Alice, Iona, Sam and the others. As it is I but consign them to your consideration without a word further than subscribing myself,