Baked meats of the funeral a collection of essays, poems, speeches, histories, and banquets |
PARNASSUS REVISITED. |
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 | Baked meats of the funeral |  |
PARNASSUS REVISITED.
MORE ABOUT PIRATICAL PRIVATEERING.
Whenever the history of Literary Larceny
comes to be fully written, blackest upon the infamous
record will stand the name of Miles
O'Reilly, the soi-disant “Soldier-Poet.” In the
first number of Mrs. Grundy, we held up before
our readers a Magic Mirror of Scorn, in which we
showed them clearly the form of this Literary
Profligate, engaged in the congenial task of burrowing
into the grave of the late Claudius
Claudianus, the last of the Latin Classic Poets,
and the protégé of the Empress Serena. Subsequently,
a lame attempt was made by him in the
columns of The Citizen—a journal over which he
appears to exercise but too much control—to
throw discredit upon the statements made by us
with regard to that flagitious transaction. He
pretends to reject the idea of there being in existence
any such edition of Claudius Claudianus
as the one to which we referred, viz.: the “Amsterdam
edition by Burmann, 1760.” To this we
reply, that immediately upon the publication of
his “defence,” we invited Mr. O'Reilly to visit
us at our private residence, where the vellum-bound
upon our desk, ready for his inspection. To that
invitation we have never received any response.
The Literary Profligate, dazzled by the Calcium
Light suddenly brought to bear upon his doings,
retired for a while into the obscurity so necessary,
at times, to the Owls and Bats by which the Republic
of Letters has ever been infested.
But with characteristic audacity, the piratical
Private O'Reilly again emerges from his cavern.
Friedrich Gerstaecker is this time the victim of
our Literary Profligate, whose “original poem,”
“The Waste of War,” is a literal, though rather
meagre, translation from the German poet. We
give both poems in full, in order that our readers
may judge for themselves:
THE WASTE OF WAR.
[Translated from the German of Friedrich Gerstaecker, by
Miles Au-Relius, and audaciously palmed off by him as
an Original Poem.]
Three years ago, to-day,We raised our hands to Heaven,
And, on the rolls of muster,
Our names were thirty-seven;
There were just a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven,
As we took the oath of service
With our right hands raised to Heaven.
In memory still adored,
That day of our sun-bright nuptials
With the musket and the sword!
Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,
And beneath a cloudless heaven
Far flashed a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven
Of the thousand stalwart bayonets
Two hundred march to-day;
Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,
And hundreds in Maryland clay;
While other hundreds—less happy—drag
Their mangled limbs around,
And envy the deep, calm, blessed sleep
Of the battle-field's holy ground.
For the swords—one night a week ago
The remnant, just eleven,—
Gathered around a banqueting-board
With seats for thirty-seven.
There were two came in on crutches,
And two had each but a hand,
To pour the wine and raise the cup
As we toasted “Our Flag and Land!”
And the room seemed filled with whispers
As we looked at the vacant seats,
And with choking throats we pushed aside
The rich but untasted meats;
As we stood up—just eleven—
And bowed as we drank to the Loved and the Dead
Who had made us Thirty-seven!
Uebersetzung von Friedrich Gerstäcker.
Drei Jahre sind es heut' gerad',Da kamen zusammen wir
In diesem Saale, im vollen Staat
Siebenunddreiß Offizier';
Die führten wir zum Strauß.
Aus diesem Saale,'s nun drei Jahr,
Da rückten wir fröhlich aus.
Der uns dem Schwert getraut,
Wie funkelte so hell und hehr
die scharfgeschlissne Braut!
In der Sonne Glanz und Strahl
Die tausend Klingen von Eisen just
Und die siebenunddreißig von Stahl!
Zweihundert halten noch Stand,
Denn hunderte in den Süpfen ruhn,
Und hundert' in Maryland,
Die schleppen—verkrüppelt und wund,
Durch's Leben sich noch, und neiden den Schlaf
Der Todten im blutigen Grund.
Da kam aus dem Schlachtgewühl
Der Rest zusammen—noch elf an der Zahl,
Für siebenunddreißig Stühl'.
Zwei hatten je eine Hand,
Aber hoch erhob die eine das Glas
Zum Toast: ,, Unser Banner und Land!"
Zu viel Stühle standen ja leer—
die Teller schoben sie Alle zurück,
Nur die Gläser langten sie her,
Und hoben den Trank zum Mund;
Den Todten brachten sie still den Wein,
Den Schläfern im blutigen Grund.
And here a curious complication of literary
crime presents itself. Turning over the leaves of
our favorite Claudius, we stumble upon the following
trumpet-tongued poem, which occurs in
the De Bello Gettico—still referring, of course, to
the Burmann edition of 1760—and from which
Gerstaecker's production has audaciously been
filched:—
DEVASTATIO BELLI.
Circum ter orbis volvitur annuus,Postquam supinas sustulimus manus
Septem et triginta, cuspidesque
Mille acie micuere acutâ.
Dies fideli pectore conditus!
Dies coruscus nuptiarum,
Cuspide cum gladio revinctâ!
Cantus tubarum, flamina tibiæ
Sub axe puro stridula personant;
Clare nitescunt mille tela,
Lucida ferra micant reclusa.
Ex mille duris cuspidibus ferè
Restant ducenti, Virginiæ tenent
Multos paludes (heu! nefandum),
Terra tenet Mariana multos.
Multi trahentes, sorte miserrimi!
Confecta diro vulnere corpora,
Campo cruento somniantes
Invidiâ socios tuentur.
Sol lumen orbi septimus attulit,
Ex quo dolentes reliquiæ ensium,
Undeni, ad integrum torale
Conveniunt, dapibus paratis.
Fulti bacillis sunt miseri duo,
Manus duobus singula, quâ tulit
Cratera, quum vexillo amato,
Et patriæ cyathos dabamus.
Plena et susurris interior domus
Sedes relictas visa tuentibus,
Nec passus angor mentis ore
Sumere delicias saporum.
Stat quisque fleno vertice, tristius
Propinat amissis, amatis,
Nec lacrymæ caruêre amaræ.
The Germans are a people noted for their classical
research, nor is Herr Gerstaecker an exception
to the rule. If great wits jump with simultaneous
instinct, so also of eminent Literary Profligates;
and it is well for Miles O'Reilly that his name
should appear on the docket of Literary Piracies,
in juxtaposition with that of Friedrich Gerstaecker.
RESIGNED.
Never again on the shoulderTo see our knightly bars;
Never again on the shoulder
To see our lordly leaves;
Never again to follow
The flag of the Stripes and Stars;
Never again to dream the dream
That martial music weaves.
Never again to call Comrade
To the men who were comrades for years;
Never to hear the bugles,
Thrilling and sweet and solemn;
Never again call Brother,
To the men we think of with tears;
Never again to ride or march
In the dust of the marching column.
In the first chilly hours of the strife,
When, at dawn, the skirmish-rifles
In opening chorus rattle;
Never again feel our manhood
Kindle up into ruddy life,
'Midst the hell of scenes and noises
In the hot hours of the battle.
Crippled, forlorn, and useless—
The glory of life grown dim;
Brooding alone o'er the memory
Of the men who fell at my side;
Nursing a painful fancy,
And nursing a shattered limb—
Oh, comrades! resigning is bitter:
'Twere better with them to have died.
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