 | The poetical writings of the late Willis Gaylord Clark |  |
84
BOOTS:
A SLIPSHODICAL LYRIC.
The watch has brawled “elevin,” and the moon
Walks through the evening heaven like a queen.
Raining soft influences on lovers' minds,
While I, with fragrant and serene cigar
Pressed satisfactorily betwixt my lips,
Am lounging in that Traveller's Paradise,
Hight bar-room in the vulgate, looking round,
With honest speculation in mine eye
In quest of food for thought. By Jove, 't is here!
I have 't: in yonderhuge and gloomy pile
Of travellers' boots, isinspiration hid.
Come, bustle, honest Muse, and help me sing,
In fanciful disportings on the theme,
Till from this scented tube departs the fire,
And all its ashes slumber on my lyre.
Walks through the evening heaven like a queen.
Raining soft influences on lovers' minds,
While I, with fragrant and serene cigar
Pressed satisfactorily betwixt my lips,
Am lounging in that Traveller's Paradise,
Hight bar-room in the vulgate, looking round,
With honest speculation in mine eye
In quest of food for thought. By Jove, 't is here!
I have 't: in yonderhuge and gloomy pile
Of travellers' boots, isinspiration hid.
Come, bustle, honest Muse, and help me sing,
In fanciful disportings on the theme,
Till from this scented tube departs the fire,
And all its ashes slumber on my lyre.
Time was, when boots were not; when graceful feet
Of men and women, unrestricted, pressed
Their mother earth denuded. Then, suddenly,
The Greek and Roman sandal camein vogue:
August Athena's streets, to soles of cork,
Trod by philosophers and stoics—Jews,
Cretes and Arabians—echoed as they trode;
And e'en the solemn groves of Academe
Beheld the feet that bore a master mind
'Neath Plato's lofty and impressive brow,
Press the gay sandal on the olive leaves,
Which autumn winds had shaken to the ground.
In Rome, the tribune lictor, senator,
Proconsul, headsman, and centurion,
The graceful sandal wore. Apostles, too,
Did patronize the article. The light
Which burst on Peter's dungeon, as he lay
Hedged in by soldiers at the midnight hour,
Was scattered froman angel's odorous wing,
And on the prisoner's chains and sandals streamed:
The first fell off—the latter he did don,
And walked abroad in freedom. And in sooth,
Where'er the Greek or Roman power had sway,
The sandal, with its dainty tie, became
The fashionable thing.
Of men and women, unrestricted, pressed
Their mother earth denuded. Then, suddenly,
85
August Athena's streets, to soles of cork,
Trod by philosophers and stoics—Jews,
Cretes and Arabians—echoed as they trode;
And e'en the solemn groves of Academe
Beheld the feet that bore a master mind
'Neath Plato's lofty and impressive brow,
Press the gay sandal on the olive leaves,
Which autumn winds had shaken to the ground.
In Rome, the tribune lictor, senator,
Proconsul, headsman, and centurion,
The graceful sandal wore. Apostles, too,
Did patronize the article. The light
Which burst on Peter's dungeon, as he lay
Hedged in by soldiers at the midnight hour,
Was scattered froman angel's odorous wing,
And on the prisoner's chains and sandals streamed:
The first fell off—the latter he did don,
And walked abroad in freedom. And in sooth,
Where'er the Greek or Roman power had sway,
The sandal, with its dainty tie, became
The fashionable thing.
—At last boots came;
But how, or when, it boots not now to tell,
Save that they did advene; and through all time
Since their first origin, have kept their state,
Circling the calves of youth, and the slim shanks
Of weak and trembling age. Of various name,
Their titles I invoke not—for I know
Their number numberless; nor eke of style,
Of Wellington, Suwarrow, tasselled, laced,
Civil, or military; seven-leagued,
Or Chinese kinds, diminished, have I time
To dwell on at this present, nor need tell
How since their date, their fabricators swarm.
St. Crispin's followers are everywhere:
In France, the cordonnier; in England, named
Knights of the enwaxed end. The race is large,
And keep their azure Mondays—festivals
Of old renown—with wassail and with song.
My present business doth not lie with these,
But rather to discourse, as in me lies,
About this pile of boots before mine eyes.
It seems to rise, as if its apex strove
To reach that constellation, Bootes y'clept,
To which Arcturus clings. But I demand
My fancy from the stars, to help me here.
But how, or when, it boots not now to tell,
Save that they did advene; and through all time
Since their first origin, have kept their state,
Circling the calves of youth, and the slim shanks
Of weak and trembling age. Of various name,
Their titles I invoke not—for I know
Their number numberless; nor eke of style,
86
Civil, or military; seven-leagued,
Or Chinese kinds, diminished, have I time
To dwell on at this present, nor need tell
How since their date, their fabricators swarm.
St. Crispin's followers are everywhere:
In France, the cordonnier; in England, named
Knights of the enwaxed end. The race is large,
And keep their azure Mondays—festivals
Of old renown—with wassail and with song.
My present business doth not lie with these,
But rather to discourse, as in me lies,
About this pile of boots before mine eyes.
It seems to rise, as if its apex strove
To reach that constellation, Bootes y'clept,
To which Arcturus clings. But I demand
My fancy from the stars, to help me here.
There stands a scurvy pair, with tops of red,
Sore wasted at the heel, and slim at toe.
The straps are broken; and the owner's mind
And disposition, thus to me exposed,
Are clear, as if I knew him. He's a young
And hair-brained biped, hasa sprawling foot,
But fain would be “genteel,” and so has cased
His pedal adjuncts in a narrow space,
By much too small for comfort. When he draws
Those boots upon his legs at morn, he chafes,
And stamps the floor, and vents the spiteful “d---n!”
Because they will not on. When in the street,
He hath a rapid gait, and stalks abroad,
On politics or business, with an air,
As if a nation's cares were on his mind,
Heavy as Atlas' load. Be sure, that man
Loves, eats, and drinks, and all his acts performs,
In the Cambyses' vein.
Sore wasted at the heel, and slim at toe.
The straps are broken; and the owner's mind
And disposition, thus to me exposed,
Are clear, as if I knew him. He's a young
And hair-brained biped, hasa sprawling foot,
But fain would be “genteel,” and so has cased
His pedal adjuncts in a narrow space,
By much too small for comfort. When he draws
Those boots upon his legs at morn, he chafes,
And stamps the floor, and vents the spiteful “d---n!”
87
He hath a rapid gait, and stalks abroad,
On politics or business, with an air,
As if a nation's cares were on his mind,
Heavy as Atlas' load. Be sure, that man
Loves, eats, and drinks, and all his acts performs,
In the Cambyses' vein.
Adjacent riseth, with the look of eld,
A pair of fair-tops; and to Fancy's eye,
Their owner stands beside them. He is one
Now near the turn of sixty, and his hair
Is powdered, white as snow-wreaths; and his cane
Is headed o'er with gold. Whene'er he treads,
The spotless dust on broadclothcollar falls;
And as he walks the street, full many a hat
Is touched to do him reverence. At his board
The choicest wines are found, that, quick and warm,
Ascend them to the brain. He readeth loud
The liturgy o' Sundays—while the priest
When as he glanceth toward his cushioned pew,
Bethinks him of that layman's sumptuous fare.
A pair of fair-tops; and to Fancy's eye,
Their owner stands beside them. He is one
Now near the turn of sixty, and his hair
Is powdered, white as snow-wreaths; and his cane
Is headed o'er with gold. Whene'er he treads,
The spotless dust on broadclothcollar falls;
And as he walks the street, full many a hat
Is touched to do him reverence. At his board
The choicest wines are found, that, quick and warm,
Ascend them to the brain. He readeth loud
The liturgy o' Sundays—while the priest
When as he glanceth toward his cushioned pew,
Bethinks him of that layman's sumptuous fare.
I like not that next pair—a clumsy mass
Of ill-conditioned leather. To a boor,
A walking porker, do I quickly trace
Their certain ownership. What sprawling heels!
And holes are cut anigh the spreading toes,
As if the ponderous feet in that wide space
Had still been “cabined, cribbed,” and wanted room;
Or else, that doleful crops of pedal maize,
Called by the vulgar corns, had flourished there.
I see the wearer plainly. Large of form,
He moves abroad like stern Rhinoceros,
Or Behemoth in the ocean; or, to rise
In metaphor, like old Sam. Johnson's form
Wending along Cheapside. In public haunts
He of his self-deportment takes no heed,
And spitteth evermore. His lips are scaled
And juicy, like wind-beparchéd mouth
Of ichthyophagous Kamschatkadale; and oft
With three sheetsin the wind, in upper tier
Midst mirthful Cyprians, he puts his feet
Over the box's front, and leaning back,
Guffaws and swears, like privateer at sea,
Until the pitlings from beneath, exclaim,
“Boots!” “Trollope!” and he straightway draws them in.
My fragrant tube is out—and objects swimOf ill-conditioned leather. To a boor,
A walking porker, do I quickly trace
Their certain ownership. What sprawling heels!
And holes are cut anigh the spreading toes,
As if the ponderous feet in that wide space
88
Or else, that doleful crops of pedal maize,
Called by the vulgar corns, had flourished there.
I see the wearer plainly. Large of form,
He moves abroad like stern Rhinoceros,
Or Behemoth in the ocean; or, to rise
In metaphor, like old Sam. Johnson's form
Wending along Cheapside. In public haunts
He of his self-deportment takes no heed,
And spitteth evermore. His lips are scaled
And juicy, like wind-beparchéd mouth
Of ichthyophagous Kamschatkadale; and oft
With three sheetsin the wind, in upper tier
Midst mirthful Cyprians, he puts his feet
Over the box's front, and leaning back,
Guffaws and swears, like privateer at sea,
Until the pitlings from beneath, exclaim,
“Boots!” “Trollope!” and he straightway draws them in.
Like coming dreams before my drowsy eyes;
Yet one more pair of boots, ere I retire,
I fain,in thoughtful mood, would scrutinize,
A dapper pair, yet gaudy not, but neat,
As if they needed neither brush nor shine,
For marks of both they bear. He who inserts
His understanding in them, comes to town
A merchant, trafficking and getting gain:
He hath a wife and pleasant babes at home,
89
Is like to heavenly music. That wife delights,
What time she sweetly “plies her evening care,”
To hear that squeak, and see the infant smile,
Tilted on parent knee. He lives and trades
In a fair village “throned by the West,”
Embowered in trees, and reached by rural roads,
All variously diverging, where in throngs,
The wealthy farmers come. He leads the choir
At church, andsets the quaint, old-fashioned tune—
The pitch-pipe blows, and is, in all respects,
The magnate of the village.
My subjects multiply—but to my gaze,
Half dimmed with sleep, fantastic boots arise,
And turn to shapes, and menace me with fear
Of kicks and damage, if I publish them.
I shrink from such a penalty. Now dreams,
And shades, and forms, and fluttering entities,
Surround my brain so fast, that I opine
My wakefulness is doubtful. Yea it is—
And all my pictures do themselves resolve
To mere oblivion.
| The poetical writings of the late Willis Gaylord Clark | |