Partingtonian patchwork Blifkins the martyr : the domestic trials of a model husband. The modern syntax : Dr. Spooner's experiences in search of the delectable. Partington papers : strippings of the warm milk of human kindness. New and old dips from an unambitious inkstand. Humorous, eccentric, rhythmical |
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 | THE MODERN SYNTAX. |
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 | Partingtonian patchwork |  |
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THE MODERN SYNTAX.
DR. SPOONER IN SEARCH OF THE DELECTABLE.
I.
On Monday morning, with the sun uprist,Good Dr. Spooner ate his steak in haste,
And hurried down his coffee and his twist,
As though no moment he would idly waste,
Then took his cane within his sturdy fist,
With animation on his features traced,
And started forth in attitude reflectable,
To seek 'mid airs mundane, the goal Delectable.
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II.
Before him lay the undeveloped sceneThat Fate impatient waited him to show;
He stood a moment with a thoughtful mien,
As if uncertain which path he should go,
Then held his cane his finger tips between,
That, by its falling, he his course might know.
North-east! 'Tis well. Now all my doubts at rest,
Since chance so wills it, I'll go sou'-sou'-west.
III.
Not he, alone, to go adverse to Fate;Some do, with all prognostics pointing clear,
And full success attending at the gate;
They do not stop propitious hints to hear,
But clutch at phantom shapes that tempting wait,
Till, to their disappointment and their fear,
They see their error and neglected track,
With little hope of ever getting back.
IV.
All have desire to win the happy goal,And all strike out o'er some illusive gravel,
Investing hope and earnestness of soul
The mystery of the future to unravel,
Finding, too oft, to their dismay and dole,
Their road, like Jordan, very hard to travel—
Their delectation, like the Paddy's flea.
Within their grasp, and yet not quite to be.
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V.
Diversity of tastes prompts divers aims,And, as the whim controls, men blindly go it,
Pursuing here and there their little games,
Through which, for bliss set out, they think they'll show it;
Each plays his part, with equal hopes and claims,
Trusting that Fate propitious will bestow it;
But very few attain the culmination
That gives the sought-boon of delectation.
VI.
Though, for that matter, comes the question up,What is the boon for which they thus are striving?
Fill to the brim Joy's most enchanting cup,
Some would reject it, other draughts contriving,
Being more happy far to take a sup
From sombre springs, or in their depths be diving;
A strange anomaly we too often see,
Where happiness is sought in misery.
VII.
No sympathy have I with such as these;But what they do is what they deem the best;
The genial soul, the heart in fullest ease,
Comes up the nearest my ideal of blest;
We will not quarrel—each his pathway sees,
And travels it for happiness in quest:
Each to his taste, as the old lady said
What time she kissed the tenant of the shed.
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VIII.
So Dr. Spooner, with his heart aglow,Stood ready to attain the boon I speak of;
The Fates had fixed the path that he must go
By his cane's falling—you recall the freak of—
But rested as he felt the breezes blow
From a fair hill of which he saw the peak of,
And thus addressed them, like a necromancer
Demanding of unsentient things an answer:
IX.
“Tell me, ye wingéd winds, as on ye fly,Hast come from scenes where delectation waits?
Point me, O winds, that spot beneath the sky
Where perfect joy the craving spirit sates;
Direct my steps, that I may quickly hie
Where bliss unfolds its amaranthine gates!”
The winds deigned no reply, but swifter sped,
Tearing the doctor's hat from off his head.
X.
There is no more provoking thing I knowThan this: to have one's hat torn from his pate.
No sympathy doth any one bestow,
And grins the awkward accident await;
The curious crowd look on to see us go,
As we pursue the fleeing thing of hate,
Until, perhaps, some chap, a little faster,
Plants his thick No. Twelves on our new castor.
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XI.
He stood a moment when regained his tile,And on the incident reflecting dwelt;
He paid the fact the tribute of a smile,—
A feeling tribute, for the hat was felt.
“I've chased this hat the fraction of a mile,”
He said, “and this sage thought comes through my pelt:
That, as I've won it, racing with the wind,
‘In the long run’ I happiness shall find.”
XII.
And, thus assured, he sped with eager feet,Caroming here and there as on he flew,
Pushing some off the sidewalk to the street,
And by collision bringing others to,
Exciting talk we will not now repeat,
And angry thoughts awaking not a few,
When to a full stop was he quickly brought,
Like a blue-bottle in a fly-trap caught.
XIII.
There moved along, exactly in his way,One of those well-made-up, artistic women,
Who are, as one-might very justly say,
One quarter flesh and blood and three fourths trimmin':
He tried to pass her, giving ample play
To all the furbelows about her streamin',
When, spite of all his wary care and pain,
He found his boots entangled in her train.
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XIV.
He turned about and gazed on what he'd done,Confounded at the seeming mischief dire;
But when he saw the spitefulness that shone
Forth from her eyes, like that same baleful fire
We read about, excuse he proffered none,
But said, “If I am sorry I'm a liar;
What right had she, at just that time, to spread
Above the spot whereon I chose to tread?”
XV.
But in a moment more he felt contrite,And held his head down with emotion humble;
He o'er the pave had no exclusive right,
And, 'mongst her things-come-afterwards to stumble,
He had endangered an annoying plight,
At which she well might frown on him or grumble;
And then he turned, repentant, but, a goner,
He saw the lady turn a distant corner.
XVI.
And this impressed itself upon his mind:No one is happy disregarding others,
As men are so untwistingly combined
That rending one the great remainder bothers;
And but as one is just, polite, and kind,
And all his selfish aspirations smothers,
Can he expect that happiness below
Which the exalted soul alone can know.
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XVII.
He moved along 'mid scenes of active life,And stoutly strove his object to attain;
There was excitement in the pressing strife,
But with it all there mixed a sense of pain;
With selfishness society was rife,
And finding all his expectation vain,
Heart-sick and weary, with unlevel head,
He turned himself towards home, and went to bed.
XVIII.
And then the dreams born of his urgent wish!Led through fair scenes that waking ne'er reveals,
Feasting on spreads of flesh, and fowl, and fish,
Quaffing rare drinks of most attractive seals,
All right side up his favor-beckoning dish,
Holding such cards as kindest fortune deals,
Waking at morn with resolution stout,
His quest for happiness to carry out.
XIX.
One day is like another in the raceFor some pet object, every else forgot;
So the good doctor daily held his chase
To find 'mong mundane scenes the blissful lot,
The one strong hope to rest his weary pace
When he should reach the delectating spot.
Of all the spots that I know worth the trying
A fifty spot is the most satisfying.
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XX.
Thus, as with zeal elate he wandered out,His mind intent on seeking delectation,
And with an eager eye he looked about,
Giving all things a wise examination,
Unheeding an admonitory shout,
That of some danger made ejaculation,
There came a snow-slide from some upper height,
And Dr. Spooner disappeared from sight!
XXI.
A mingled feel waits accidents like these:A grateful thrill, like an unuttered prayer,
As one from peril saved his status sees,
And then a pressing tendency to swear,
Which from oppressive wrath the temper frees,
—So some folks think, in which I take no share,—
But the good doctor, as he moved once more,
Took stock in neither mood, nor prayed nor swore.
XXII.
In fact, just then in search for happiness,And doubtful if 'twere pious or profane,
He would not compromise his chance for bliss,
But non-committal would a while remain.
Many another does the same as this,
Desirous some pet object to attain;
For policy and selfishness prevail,
While interest steers and caution trims the sail.
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XXIII.
The greatest pleasure that the world can giveIs that we draw from intellectual sources;
Freed from the sensuous dross in which we live,
We 'mid the purer ethers vent our forces,
And misspent hours we happily retrieve
In following those crystal water-courses
That flow from founts in mental mountains springing,
And to our feet the choicest gifts are bringing.
XXIV.
So Dr. Spooner thought he'd take to books,And bought them lavishly,—all subjects choosing,—
Having them placed in their adapted nooks,
With catalogues their resting-place disclosing;
Bound handsomely in calf, that graceful looks
Might add attraction and enhance the using,—
All books that might a reader's thoughts awaken,
From Blood-and-Thunder Nibs to Friar Bacon.
XXV.
His heart ached at the woe of thrilling stories,Fraught with depictions of unreal life;
He read in histories the crowning glories
That flowed from fields of sanguinary strife;
Philosophy and physics passed before his
Eyes, with the light of ripe reflection rife,
Yet betwixt Reade and Bacon he confessed
He'd neither read, but thought Reade was the best.
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XXVI.
Then borrowers came, and fastened on his hoard,Splitting his sets remorselessly to pieces;
And in those cases where they were restored,
They came back dog-eared and defiled with creases;
Until, at last, beyond endurance bored,
Said he, “From now henceforward all this ceases!”
Then locked his door upon his precious shelves,
And left his authors pondering on themselves.
XXVII.
The tempter whispered, “Go it while you're young!Taste the delirious tumult of the hour;
The syren sings as sweet as e'er she sung,
The senses plead with unabated power;
Bring your dull soul joy's halcyon scenes among,
And pluck, while yet it blooms, life's brightest flower;
Don't mure yourself till felt years' chilling blasts,
And quaff the cup of pleasure while it lasts.”
XXVIII.
In dissipation did the doctor dip,And strove to find what fun there might be in it.
He pressed the sparkling goblet to his lip,
Till his old head hummed like an ancient spinet;
He joined in pleasure's jolly partnership,
In wild adventure mixing every minute;
But when he found his nose all raw and red,
“There's very little fun in sport like this,” he said.
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XXIX.
A wholesome lesson this, that all may learnWho try such roads to find the bliss they crave.
They're lit by lamps that oil Plutonic burn,
And lead through scenes that weaken and enslave;
Brigands of Passion lurk at every turn
To trip the feet of those their prowess brave,
And the “good times” that lured the soul away,
Are drafts on time, with no funds left to pay.
XXX.
Many of those these sprightly lines who readKnow how it is themselves—no slang intended.
Though fair the promise all too pronely heed,
With honeyed hope and expectation blended,
The hope soon prematurely goes to seed,
And winter comes before the summer's ended;
The roses turn to ashes 'neath the tread,
And dirges wail the season that has fled.
XXXI.
Were I disposed a moral to indite,Here most unquestionably is its place:
Don't wait repentance until appetite
No more has power its progress to retrace;
Complete worn-outness surely's not the plight
To give repentance much, if any, grace.
'Twas no great merit in old Uncle Ned
Corn-cakes to eschew with his teeth all shed.
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XXXII.
He walked and pondered, with his brow erect,Devising in his mind which way to turn
To gain the point his fancy did affect,
Convinced, indeed, that he had much to learn
Before he saw the beacon-lights reflect,
That on the coast of pure enjoyment burn,
When, lost in reverie, his reason fled,
He found himself down cellar—on his head.
XXXIII.
A cellar doorway, though a fearful trap,Affords a cautionary moral, clear,
To every visionary, dreamy chap,
Impelled by contemplation high or beer,
To heed his steps, lest they may chance, mayhap,
To lead him, witless, into trouble drear.
Although 'tis well uplifted gaze to show,
We should have half an eye for things below.
XXXIV.
And the good doctor lay a moment thus,Not knowing how or why he should be there,
The world all muddled in a precious muss,
Concerning which he didn't know nor care;
And then he rose, and said, “Ridiculous!”
Running his fingers through his matted hair,
In which confused and much-mixed-up condition,
He felt just fit to be a politician.
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XXXV.
In politics the doctor took a stand,And blurted with an unremitting zeal,
Retailing dogmas up and down the land,
Professing earnestly the public weal;
Condemning all who, on the other hand,
Chanced differently regarding them to feel,
And was a cog-wheel active as could be
In the great whirl of party enginery.
XXXVI.
As legislator, in the town and state,Across the stage with giant steps he strode;
His was the dictum on which hung the fate
Of mighty hobbies that the lobby rode;
He took no bribes his act to compensate,
And voted as the “greatest good” was showed;
Rich only in the sense of duty done,
And—certain gifts his self-denial won.
XXXVII.
Strange fancy his who seeks in politicsFor happiness; as well might he essay
To honey find in husks, or oil in bricks
Or new potatoes in New England May;
His chiefest recompense the meed of kicks
Constituents ungrateful always pay,
And find he's purchased, when it is too late,
A tiny whistle at a monstrous rate.
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XXXVIII.
Sure delectation must be found in Fame,As Solomon had said 'twas more than riches;
And so his sail he spread to catch a name,
Courting each breeze to draw and test its stitches;
His name appeared, with eulogy aflame,
And all the slabber that the vain bewitches;
Besides, his face graced each pictorial journal,
With praise or blame allied—alike infernal.
XXXIX.
He talked his mouth for fame in every place,Was always found, wherever wished or not;
From a street-corner speech to saying grace
He rose to the occasion piping hot;
Sometimes a slap he'd welcome in the face,
And a nose-pulling now and then he got;
But all such favors helped his little game
To win the “glittering height” on which was fame.
XL.
His head grew dizzy on his lofty perch,—His reputation mere factitious show,—
And, like a weather-vane upon a church,
He turned just as the fickle wind might blow,
Till counter breezes gave a sudden lurch,
And down he came 'mong common folks below,
The ridicule of every humble eye—
The golden cynosure but gilt, brought nigh.
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XLI.
For fame he'd sacrificed all thoughts of peace;Had found antagonism everywhere;
Had lied and swore his chances to increase;
Had tried philanthropy, and wore long hair;
For every wheel he had the needed grease;
In every public movement had a share;
Denied himself all comfort for a name;
“And this,” said he, “is all there is of fame.”
XLII.
In wit's display he next great effort made,And searched the dictionary through for puns,
While such extreme abandon he displayed,
His jokes popped off as though they had been guns;
Grave people all around him were afraid,
And 'gainst his influence bewared their sons,
Bidding them think their sires ne'er acted thus,
And calling him “disreputable cus-
XLIII.
Tomer,” which softens some the verbal force—Like the old clergyman of whom they tell,
Who, vainly trying to secure his horse,
By his momentum in the brambles fell;
And, angered thereat, made the matter worse
By shouting out vehemently, “O hell!”
But seeing in an instant his offence,
“Lelujah” added, which quite changed the sense.
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XLIV.
The doctor made a laugh where'er he went—He had no scruple thus to serve them so;
Even a funeral scene could not prevent,
And where an undertaker had to go,
His mates such unction to the season lent,
He said, “What 'sprit de corpse these folks do show!”
'Twas villanous, but those the rue that quaffed
Looked through their sables and at Spooner laughed.
XLV.
The Lecture Bureaus then must have him out,And curious people came from far and near,
With buttons sewed on more than extra stout,
Fearing to burst them with the fun they'd hear;
He heard, one side, the injudicious shout,
But something like a groan filled t'other ear;
Snowed in and criticised, self-reproved and weary,
He felt, as did admiring friends, 'twas dreary.
XLVI.
And next in Fashion's walks the doctor pressed,And clothed himself in most approved attire,
With brainless glorying at being dressed
Up to the standard that the modes require;
From hat to boots resplendent as the best,
With but to shine the limit of desire;
And every one inferred, who chose to scan,
That Dr. Spooner was a “killing man”!
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XLVII.
But then the thought upon his senses stole,“What am I but an ape?—though not so mean
Is mine as Darwin says was man's first role
Before the footlights of this earthly scene,—
The copy but of others, with a soul
That grasps infinitude—too grand, I ween,
To spend its faculties in such base use
As hatching goslings from a tailor's goose.”
XLVIII.
“This, then, is evident,” he further mused,“That delectation does not come to those
Who spend their strength in attributes abused,
Or ripen into gorgeousness of clo'es;
Neither to those with qualities unused,
Who dawdle, to day's dying, in a doze;
But unto those who try, by work or wit,
The world's great family to benefit.”
XLIX.
In gentle recreation did he strive,Attending all the small fêtes that were going;
Was great at fairs, where ladies so contrive
To keep the cream of human kindness flowing;
Tried summer picnics with their glee alive,
That such a wealth of promises where showing;
Joined social clubs and literary coteries,
And took a stand high up 'mong Pleasure's votaries
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L.
Thin dissipations, such as these, at best,Gave little recompense to his ambition;
He seaward turned, and on the ocean's breast
He thought he saw his ardent hope's fruition;
He sang sea-songs, and “Heave ho'd” with the rest,
But found the sea unsteady in position;
He didn't relish his first evening's supper,
And closed his “Heave ho's” in the leeward scupper.
LI.
He murmured faintly, “Please set me on shore;I love the grand and ever-restless ocean,
But I believe that I can love it more
On terra firma, where, unfelt its motion,
I can delight to hear its mighty roar,
And throw myself with rapturous devotion;
But here, alas! the power that rules the sea
Rules it too crookedly by far for me.
LII.
Then Dr. Spooner ventured into trade,And learned to buy and sell with ready art;
He many paying operations made,
And got the trick of traffic all by heart;—
So shrewd was he in action he displayed,
He won the fame of being “devilish smart,”
Which means—well, anything respectable—
But found that trade was far from the delectable.
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LIII.
It would have done you good to hear him lie—Or froze your blood—just as you felt inclined;
He'd swear that black was white a trade to tie,
And all so plausible, that caution, blind,
Took stock at once, without a how? or why?
Such marvellous integrity to find;
And then he slapped his pockets, well content
That he had made a mighty big per cent.
LIV.
“Mercantile shrewdness,” though it fleece and skin,Is ne'er dishonest by the rules of trade,
And those who deepest plunge and largest win
Sleep lightest on the bargains they have made;
Conscience to such makes no unpleasant din,
And, at the future not one whit dismayed,
They “will” their wealth with most complacent air,
And lay them down the just's reward to share.
LV.
To Education then the doctor flew,The very field for happiness, he thought;
The total that he guessed, and what he knew,
Were into active requisition brought;
He went to all Conventions with a gout
That was a substitute for what he sought,
And, being quite a favorite in the city,
They made him member of the School Committee.
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LVI.
Then pleasure turned to business—early, late,His door-bell rang with clamorous appeal,
Permits to grant, parental doubts to bate,
Teachers to hear, vexatious feuds to heal,
New books to choose, the salaries to rate,
The pangs of interrupted peace to feel,
The public growling in its discontent,
And watching, lynx-eyed, each invested cent.
LVII.
With not a chance to steal, and snubbed and bored,His privacy invaded as a right;
His motives doubted and his claim ignored,
His life a constant, ignominious fight;
The slave of school-book agencies, that poured
Their arguments so thick, that, vanquished quite,
He vowed no more his soul with such to vex,
Then “handed in” his thin official “cheeks.”
LVIII.
The doctor next dipped fiercely into morals,Went regularly every morn to prayer;
Mixed earnestly in theologic quarrels,
Where men for truth's sake pulled each other's hair;
Had for all ill the formulaic abhorrals,—
Two words, I think, you'll not find anywhere,—
Struck for hair-splitting dogmas left and right,
And deemed that he was “fighting the good fight.”
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LIX.
He drew his skirts aside when others passedOf different belief from that he held;
He fanned dissension with persistent blast,
And with a Pharisaic rapture swelled;
He'd gained perfection in belief at last,
And, from his lofty perch, all else beheld
In darkness lost—salvation's chances slim—
But he was safe, and what were they to him?
LX.
Small delectation could he find herein,And worry of contention grayed his hair;
He'd searched in every other one for sin,
And looked within to find it rampant there;
He'd thought through self-perfection bliss to win,
But saw its fallacy in half-despair,
And then backed out, not finding what he'd fain,
Placing his baggage on some other train.
LXI.
He'd be a Mason: surely he could findWithin those ancient halls the thing he sought;
It seemed delightful to his ardent mind
That happiness, like onions, could be bought;
And so he acted as he felt inclined,
And soon was to the ancient gridiron brought,
Seeking for blissfulness one seldom sees,
As lawyers get to heaven, by degrees.
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LXII.
He spread himself on mystic pins and seals,And knew more signs than doth the Zodiac;
Was letter-perfect in the springs and wheels
Of night-trains running the mysterious track;
Took every step the Order's scope reveals,
Until, from the “ineffable” looking back,
He wept, like what's his name, who lived of yore,
Because he couldn't master something more.
LXIII.
Then Dr. Spooner took to rural shades,And dressed himself in most unique attire,
A costume something like the knave of spades,
As odd as piscator could e'er desire;
And then he followed brooks through grassy glades
To catch the trouts that epicures admire;
But ne'er could he by any subtle crook
Induce the fry to bite his baitless hook.
LXIV.
He sought dim nooks by water's babbling streams,He breathed the sweet “balm of a thousand flowers,”
He laid him on the emerald sward for dreams,
He hid himself within the woods' deep bowers,
He revelled in the morning's opening beams,
He dawdled through the sultry evening hours—
Poisoned by dogwood, bit by bugs and flies,
He fled from happiness 'neath rural skies.
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LXV.
And then despairingly he made complaint:“O, who can tell me where is happiness?
With much endeavor I am worn and faint,
And each step seems to show the progress less
In striving for that boon which hope did paint,
Which seems more distant as my steps I press.
Tell me, ye wise ones, in earth's mighty bound,
Where, tell me where, may happiness be found?”
LXVI.
“Here stay your steps, my boy,” a veteran spoke;“I'm just the chap'll point you to the spot;
I've sought for happiness through fire and smoke—
My brierwood pipe—and here is where I've got:
The search for happiness is but a joke,
For which you needn't go all round the lot;
I'll ease your caput of its great quandary—
For delectation—see the dictionary.”
LXVII.
Then laughed aloud that execrable hind,While Dr. Spooner turned in strong disgust.
But as he thought of it, he felt inclined
To think the rough man's ribaldry was just;
For to himself he said, “I nowhere find
The delectation of my hope and trust
But in the book; and therefore I will wait,
And let things happen—as it pleases fate.
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LXVIII.
And then he took things as they came about,Nor strove from fate his happiness to wring;
At unpropititious luck he made no rout,
But was serene as when joy's birds did sing,
And in contentedness of purpose stout,
He found himself as “happy as a king,”—
Feeling true delectation did not rest
On anything outside the seeker's breast.
Note.—The author read the foregoing to a young and charming critic, who had just completed the ecstatic story of “The Bloody Hand, or the Avenger of Darrville;” and she immediately suggested that if Dr. Spooner had found some amiable being worthy of his choice—as in the instance of which she had just read,—he would undoubtedly have found the happiness he sought. It seemed to her that he had thrown away a great deal of valuable time.
The author at the outset—before he has led the good doctor through any of the labyrinthine walks of life—with the independence of the poet, who will not be limited by the conventionalties of dictionaries, grammars, or common sense, claims the right to coin as many words as his opinion, or the needs of rhyme, may require. Hence the word “reflectable;” and the claim is introduced to disarm the critics of the Atlantic, North American, or Foreign Quarterly, who might snap at this seeming and only fault, as a pickerel might at a frog's leg.
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