The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe Household Edition : with illustrations |
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PART OF AN AFTER-DINNER SPEECH. |
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 | The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe |  |
PART OF AN AFTER-DINNER SPEECH.
[_]
SPOKEN AT THE FESTIVAL OF THE 41ST ANNUAL CONVENTION OF ΨΙ ΥΨΙΔΟΝ AT DELMONICO'S, NEW YORK, APRIL 8, 1874.
Dear Brothers: I'm something unhappy. I heard
Such abuse, t' other day, of an innocent word
It roused all the wrath of the mildest of men
To a height as colossal, I fancy, as when
A former occasion provoked the inquiry
In the mind of the Mantuan, “Tantæne iræ?”
You'll say there was reason,—I'll state you the case:
There 's a boy in my house in whose handsomish face
Are features from which one may easily gather
He is fairly entitled to call me his father:
A youngster of thirty; as yet rather slim,
But of excellent promise in stature and limb.
Well,—to tell you the story,—a saucy young boor
Of Johnny's acquaintance came up to the door,
And, ringing the bell in a violent way,
Sent up the Hibernian maiden to say
That a gentleman wanted, a moment, to see
“Mister” (adding the surname belonging to me).
“Bid him come to my study!” I civilly said.
In a minute or so Maggie popped in her head;
“It was not for yourself, sure, the fellow did ax:
He said it was young and not old Mister S—e
He wanted to see!”
Such abuse, t' other day, of an innocent word
It roused all the wrath of the mildest of men
To a height as colossal, I fancy, as when
A former occasion provoked the inquiry
102
You'll say there was reason,—I'll state you the case:
There 's a boy in my house in whose handsomish face
Are features from which one may easily gather
He is fairly entitled to call me his father:
A youngster of thirty; as yet rather slim,
But of excellent promise in stature and limb.
Well,—to tell you the story,—a saucy young boor
Of Johnny's acquaintance came up to the door,
And, ringing the bell in a violent way,
Sent up the Hibernian maiden to say
That a gentleman wanted, a moment, to see
“Mister” (adding the surname belonging to me).
“Bid him come to my study!” I civilly said.
In a minute or so Maggie popped in her head;
“It was not for yourself, sure, the fellow did ax:
He said it was young and not old Mister S—e
He wanted to see!”
And am I to be told
By a blundering booby that I—I am old?
The word, I'm aware, is by no means a new one,
And for people of eighty, no doubt, is the true one;
What incensed my soul to such fierce indignation
Was its very improper, absurd application!
Is he old who can climb to the highest of attics,
And never complain of fatigue or “rheumatics”?
Is he old who, in spite of his fast-thinning curls,
Has a joke for the boys and a smile for the girls?
Is he old whom fair women—(No! not the duress
Of prison or torture shall make me confess!)
Is he old who owes nothing to fraudulent art?
Above all, is he old who is young at the heart?
I rather think not! But, quien sabe? Who knows?
The bud of last evening to-day is a rose;
And roses will fade; and, in like manner, when
We jolly young fellows grow middle-aged men,
Perhaps the Good Father (it surely were kind)
Makes us to our failings convenietly blind.
“Know yourself!” said the Grecian. A difficult task,
And rather too much of a mortal to ask;
We all know the name of the fellow who penned it,
And how he asserted “e cœlo descendit!”
“Know yourself!” It is well; but for my part, my brothers,
I would rather extend my acquaintance with others,
As promising, surely, a better return
Than aught of myself I could possibly learn!
To learn Human Nature is truly an art,
And many imagine they 've got it by heart,
Because they are keen at detecting offenses,
Base motives, sly vices, and shallow pretenses;
Let us study, the rather, to find out the merit
The faultiest neighbor may chance to inherit;
To publish the virtue that's misunderstood,
And always and everywhere seek for the good.
There was one “Paddy Goldsmith,” an author of note,
(And who has not read what “poor Oliver” wrote?)
A scholar, philosopher, writer of plays,
And a poet who still wears the freshest of bays,—
Every dandy in town, every chambermaid Moll,
Could tell of his blunders and laugh at poor “Noll”;
Every coxcomb could see he was homely and rough,
And of follies and foibles had more than enough:
But it took the profoundest of sages to scan
The learning and genius that lay in the man!
Sam Johnson could see, and was bold to declare,
There was spirit and humor and poetry there;
And to fools who might sneer, he had ever this answer:
“You may laugh as you will, sir! and say what you can, sir!
He 's a genuine wit and a wonderful man, sir!”
By a blundering booby that I—I am old?
The word, I'm aware, is by no means a new one,
And for people of eighty, no doubt, is the true one;
What incensed my soul to such fierce indignation
Was its very improper, absurd application!
Is he old who can climb to the highest of attics,
And never complain of fatigue or “rheumatics”?
Is he old who, in spite of his fast-thinning curls,
Has a joke for the boys and a smile for the girls?
Is he old whom fair women—(No! not the duress
Of prison or torture shall make me confess!)
Is he old who owes nothing to fraudulent art?
Above all, is he old who is young at the heart?
I rather think not! But, quien sabe? Who knows?
The bud of last evening to-day is a rose;
And roses will fade; and, in like manner, when
We jolly young fellows grow middle-aged men,
Perhaps the Good Father (it surely were kind)
Makes us to our failings convenietly blind.
“Know yourself!” said the Grecian. A difficult task,
And rather too much of a mortal to ask;
We all know the name of the fellow who penned it,
And how he asserted “e cœlo descendit!”
“Know yourself!” It is well; but for my part, my brothers,
I would rather extend my acquaintance with others,
As promising, surely, a better return
Than aught of myself I could possibly learn!
To learn Human Nature is truly an art,
And many imagine they 've got it by heart,
Because they are keen at detecting offenses,
Base motives, sly vices, and shallow pretenses;
Let us study, the rather, to find out the merit
The faultiest neighbor may chance to inherit;
To publish the virtue that's misunderstood,
And always and everywhere seek for the good.
There was one “Paddy Goldsmith,” an author of note,
(And who has not read what “poor Oliver” wrote?)
A scholar, philosopher, writer of plays,
And a poet who still wears the freshest of bays,—
Every dandy in town, every chambermaid Moll,
Could tell of his blunders and laugh at poor “Noll”;
Every coxcomb could see he was homely and rough,
And of follies and foibles had more than enough:
103
The learning and genius that lay in the man!
Sam Johnson could see, and was bold to declare,
There was spirit and humor and poetry there;
And to fools who might sneer, he had ever this answer:
“You may laugh as you will, sir! and say what you can, sir!
He 's a genuine wit and a wonderful man, sir!”
| The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe | |