A Satire Anthology

“Why not? It’s my fancy, there’s nothing could strike it
As more comme il faut.” “Yes, but, dear me, that lean
Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it,
And I won’t appear dressed like a chit of sixteen.”
“Then that splendid purple, that sweet mazarine,
That superb point d’aiguille, that imperial green,
That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine – ”
“Not one of all which is fit to be seen,”
Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed.
“Then wear,” I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed
Opposition, “that gorgeous toilette which you sported
In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation,
When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation;
And by all the grand court were so very much courted.”
The end of the nose was portentously tipped up,
And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation,
As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation,
“I have worn it three times at the least calculation,
And that and most of my dresses are ripped up!”
Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash —
Quite innocent, though; but, to use an expression
More striking than classic, it “settled my hash,”
And proved very soon the last act of our session.
“Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling
Doesn’t fall down and crush you! Oh, you men have no feeling.
You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures,
Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers,
Your silly pretence – why, what a mere guess it is!
Pray, what do you know of a woman’s necessities?
I have told you and shown you I’ve nothing to wear,
And it’s perfectly plain you not only don’t care,
But you do not believe me” (here the nose went still higher):
“I suppose, if you dared, you would call me a liar.
Our engagement is ended, sir – yes, on the spot;
You’re a brute, and a monster, and – I don’t know what.”
I mildly suggested the words Hottentot,
Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief,
As gentle expletives which might give relief;
But this only proved as a spark to the powder,
And the storm I had raised came faster and louder;
It blew, and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed
Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed
To express the abusive, and then its arrears
Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears;
And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs-
Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs.

Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too,
Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo,
In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay
Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say;
Then, without going through the form of a bow,
Found myself in the entry – I hardly knew how —
On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square,
At home and up-stairs, in my own easy chair;
Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze,
And said to myself, as I lit my cigar:
Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar
Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days,
On the whole, do you think he would have much to spare
If he married a woman with nothing to wear?

    William Allen Butler.

A REVIEW

THE INN ALBUM, BY ROBERT BROWNING

WHAT’S this, a book? 16mo. Osgood’s page,
Fair, clear, Olympian-typed, and save a scant
O’ the margin, stiff i’ the hurried binding, good!
Intituled how? – “The Inn Album, Robert Browning, Author.”
Why should he not say, as well,
The Hotel Register?– cis-Atlantic term!
Nay, an he should, the action might purvey
To lower comprehensions: so not he!
Reflect, ’tis Browning! he neglects, prepense,
All forms of form: what he gives must we take,
Sweet, bitter, sour, absinthean, adipose,
Conglomerate, jellied, potted, salt, or dried,
As the mood holds him; ours is not to choose!
Well (here huge sighs be heard), commending us
To Heaven’s high mercy, let us read.

Three hours:
The end is reached; but who begins review,
Forgetful o’ beginning, with the end?
Turn back! – why, here’s a line supplies us with
Curt comment on the whole, though travesty —
“Hail, calm obliquity, lugubrious plot!..”
Yea, since obliquity the straight path is,
And Passion worships as her patron saint
The Holy Vitus, and from Language fall
The rusty chains of rhythm and harmony,
Why not exclaim, “Hail, sham obliquity!”
“Too hard,” you murmur, sweet, submissive minds?
But take a bite o’ the original pie! Set teeth,
’Ware cherry-stones, and if a herring-spine
Stick crosswise i’ the throat, go gulp, shed tears,
But blame us not! So runs the opening: