A Satire Anthology
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NOTE
Acknowledgment is hereby gratefully made to the publishers of the various poems included in this compilation.
Those by Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, John G. Saxe, Edward Rowland Sill, John Hay, Bayard Taylor and Edith Thomas are published by permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
The poems by Anthony Deane and Owen Seaman are used by arrangement with John Lane.
Through the courtesy of Small, Maynard & Co., are included poems by Bliss Carman, Charlotte Perkins Stetson-Gilman, Stephen Crane, and Frederic Ridgely Torrence.
Poems by Sam Walter Foss are published by permission of Lothrop, Lee & Shepherd Co.
The Century Co. are the publishers of poems by Richard Watson Gilder and Mary Mapes Dodge.
Frederich A. Stokes Company give permission for poems by Gelett Burgess and Stephen Crane.
“The Buntling Ball,” by Edgar Fawcett is published by permission of Funk and Wagnalls Company; “Hoch der Kaiser” by Rodney Blake, by the courtesy of the New Amsterdam Book Co. The poems by James Jeffrey Roche by permission of E. H. Bacon & Co.; and “The Font in the Forest” by Herman Knickerbocker Vielé, by permission of Brentano’s.
“The Evolution of a Name,” by Charles Battell Loomis, is quoted from “Just Rhymes,” Copyright, 1899, by R. H. Russell.
“He and She,” by Eugene Fitch Ware, is published by permission of G. P. Putnam’s Sons.
INTRODUCTION
SATIRE, though a form of literature familiar to everyone, is difficult to define. Partaking variously of sarcasm, irony, ridicule, and burlesque, it is exactly synonymous with no one of these.
Satire is primarily dependent on the motive of its writer. Unless meant for satire, it is not the real thing; unconscious satire is a contradiction of terms, or a mere figure of speech.
Secondarily, satire depends on the reader. What seems to us satire to-day, may not seem so to-morrow. Or, what seems satire to a pessimistic mind, may seem merely good-natured chaff to an optimist.
This, of course, refers to the subtler forms of satire. Many classic satires are direct lampoons or broadsides which admit of only one interpretation.
Literature numbers many satirists among its most honoured names; and the best satires show intellect, education, and a keen appreciation of human nature.
Nor is satire necessarily vindictive or spiteful. Often its best examples show a kindly tolerance for the vice or folly in question, and even hint a tacit acceptance of the conditions condemned. Again, in the hands of a carping and unsympathetic critic, satire is used with vitriolic effects on sins for which the writer has no mercy.
This lashing form of satire was doubtless the earliest type. The Greeks show sardonic examples of it, but the Romans allowed a broader sense of humour to soften the satirical sting.
Following and outstripping Lucilius, Horace is the acknowledged father of satire, and was himself followed, and, in the opinion of some, outstripped by Juvenal.
But the works of the ancient satirists are of interest mainly to scholars, and cannot be included in a collection destined for a popular audience. The present volume, therefore, is largely made up from the products of more recent centuries.
From the times of Horace and Juvenal, down through the mediæval ages to the present day, satires may be divided into the two classes founded by the two great masters: the work of Horace’s followers marked by humour and tolerance, that of Juvenal’s imitators by bitter invective. On the one side, the years have arrayed such names as Chaucer, Swift, Goldsmith, and Thackeray; on the other, Langland, Dryden, Pope, and Burns.
A scholarly gentleman of our own day classifies satires in three main divisions: those directed at society, those which ridicule political conditions, and those aimed at individual characters.
These variations of the art of satire form a fascinating study, and to one interested in the subject, this small collection of representative satires can be merely a series of guide-posts.
It is the compiler’s regret that a great mass of material is necessarily omitted for lack of space; other selections are discarded because of their present untimeliness, which deprives them of their intrinsic interest. But an endeavour has been made to represent the greatest and best satiric writers, and also to include at least extracts from the masterpieces of satire.
It is often asked why we have no satire at the present day. Many answers have been given, but one reason is doubtless to be found in the acceleration of the pace of life; fads and foibles follow one another so quickly, that we have time neither to write nor read satiric disquisitions upon them.
Another reason lies in the fact that we have achieved a broader and more tolerant human outlook.
Again, the true satirist must be possessed of earnestness and sincerity. And it is a question whether the mental atmosphere of the twentieth century tends to stimulate and foster those qualities.
These explanations, however, seem to apply to American writers more especially than to English.
The leisurely thinking Briton, with his more personal viewpoint, has produced, and is even now producing, satires marked by strength, honesty, and literary value.
But America is not entirely unrepresented. The work of James Russell Lowell cannot suffer by comparison with that of any contemporary English author; and, though now forgotten because dependent on local and timely interest, many political satires written by Americans during the early part of the nineteenth century show clever and ingenious work founded on a comprehensive knowledge of the truth.
Yet, though the immediate present is not producing masterpieces of satire, the lack is partially made up by the large quantity of really meritorious work that is being done in a satirical vein. In this country and in England are young and middle-aged writers who show evidences of satiric power, which, though it does not make for fame and glory, is yet not without its value.
CHORUS OF WOMEN
(From the “Thesmophoriazusæ.”)THEY’RE always abusing the women,As a terrible plague to men;They say we’re the root of all evil,And repeat it again and again —Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed,All mischief, be what it may.And pray, then, why do you marry us,If we’re all the plagues you say?And why do you take such care of us,And keep us so safe at home,And are never easy a momentIf ever we chance to roam?When you ought to be thanking HeavenThat your plague is out of the way,You all keep fussing and fretting —“Where is my Plague to-day?”If a Plague peeps out of the window,Up go the eyes of men;If she hides, then they all keep staringUntil she looks out again.Aristophanes.A WOULD-BE LITERARY BORE
IT chanced that I, the other day,Was sauntering up the Sacred Way,And musing, as my habit is,Some trivial random fantasies,When there comes rushing up a wightWhom only by his name I knew.“Ha! my dear fellow, how d’ye do?”Grasping my hand, he shouted. “Why,As times go, pretty well,” said I;“And you, I trust, can say the same.”But after me as still he came,“Sir, is there anything,” I cried,“You want of me?” “Oh,” he replied,“I’m just the man you ought to know:A scholar, author!” “Is it so?For this I’ll like you all the more!”Then, writhing to escape the bore,I’ll quicken now my pace, now stop,And in my servant’s ear let dropSome words; and all the while I feelBathed in cold sweat from head to heel.“Oh, for a touch,” I moaned in pain,“Bolanus, of the madcap vein,To put this incubus to rout!”As he went chattering on aboutWhatever he describes or meets —The city’s growth, its splendour, size.“You’re dying to be off,” he cries(For all the while I’d been stock dumb);“I’ve seen it this half-hour. But come,Let’s clearly understand each other;It’s no use making all this pother.My mind’s made up to stick by you;So where you go, there I go too.”“Don’t put yourself,” I answered, “pray,So very far out of your way.I’m on the road to see a friendWhom you don’t know, that’s near his end,Away beyond the Tiber far,Close by where Cæsar’s gardens are.”“I’ve nothing in the world to do,And what’s a paltry mile or two?I like it: so I’ll follow you!”Down dropped my ears on hearing this,Just like a vicious jackass’s,That’s loaded heavier than he likes,But off anew my torment strikes:“If well I know myself, you’ll endWith making of me more a friendThan Viscus, ay, or Varius; for,Of verses, who can run off more,Or run them off at such a pace?Who dance with such distinguished grace?And as for singing, zounds!” says he,“Hermogenes might envy me!”Here was an opening to break in:“Have you a mother, father, kin,To whom your life is precious?” “None;I’ve closed the eyes of everyone.”Oh, happy they, I inly groan;Now I am left, and I alone.Quick, quick despatch me where I stand;Now is the direful doom at hand,Which erst the Sabine beldam old,Shaking her magic urn, foretoldIn days when I was yet a boy:“Him shall no poison fell destroy,Nor hostile sword in shock of war,Nor gout, nor colic, nor catarrh.In fulness of time his threadShall by a prate-apace be shred;So let him, when he’s twenty-one,If he be wise, all babblers shun.”Quintus Horatius Flaccus Horace.THE WISH FOR LENGTH OF LIFE
PRODUCE the urn that Hannibal contains,And weigh the mighty dust that yet remains.And this is all? Yet this was once the bold,The aspiring chief, whom Attic could not hold.Afric, outstretched from where the Atlantic roarsTo Nilus; from the Line to Libya’s shores.Spain conquered, o’er the Pyrenees he bounds.Nature opposed her everlasting mounds,Her Alps and snows. O’er these with torrent forceHe pours, and rends through rocks his dreadful course.Yet thundering on, “Think nothing done,” he cries,“Till o’er Rome’s prostrate walls I lead my powers,And plant my standard on her hated towers!”Big words? But view his figure, view his face!Ah, for some master hand the lines to trace,As through the Etrurian swamps, by floods increased,The one-eyed chief urged his Getulian beast!But what ensued? Illusive glory, say:Subdued on Zama’s memorable day,He flies in exile to a petty state,With headlong haste, and at a despot’s gateSits, mighty suppliant – of his life in doubt,Till the Bithynian’s morning nap be out.Nor swords, nor spears, nor stones from engines hurled,Shall quell the man whose frowns alarmed the world.The vengeance due to Cannæ’s fatal field,And floods of human gore, a ring shall yield!Go, madman, go! at toil and danger mock,Pierce the deep snow, and scale the eternal rock,To please the rhetoricians, and becomeA declamation for the boys of Rome.Juvenal.THE ASS’S LEGACY
A PRIEST there was, in times of old,Fond of his church, but fonder of his gold,Who spent his days, and all his thought,In getting what he preached was naught.His chests were full of robes and stuff;Corn filled his garners to the roof,Stored up against the fair-times gayFrom St. Rémy to Easter day.An ass he had within his stable,A beast most sound and valuable;For twenty years he lent his strengthFor the priest, his master, till at length,Worn out with work and age, he died.The priest, who loved him, wept and cried;And, for his service long and hard,Buried him in his own churchyard.Now turn we to another thing:’Tis of a bishop that I sing.No greedy miser he, I ween;Prelate so generous ne’er was seen.Full well he loved in companyOf all good Christians still to be;When he was well, his pleasure still;His medicine best when he was ill.Always his hall was full, and thereHis guests had ever best of fare.Whate’er the bishop lacked or lost,Was bought at once, despite the cost.And so, in spite of vent and score,The bishop’s debts grew more and more.For true it is – this ne’er forget —Who spends too much gets into debt.One day his friends all with him sat,The bishop talking this and that,Till the discourse on rich clerks ran,Of greedy priests, and how their planWas all good bishops still to grieve,And of their dues their lords deceive.And then the priest of whom I’ve toldWas mentioned – how he loved his gold.And, because men do often useMore freedom than the truth would choose,They gave him wealth, and wealth so much,As those like him could scarcely touch.“And then, besides, a thing he’s doneBy which great profit might be won,Could it be only spoken here.”Quoth the bishop, “Tell it without fear.”“He’s worse, my lord, than Bedouin,Because his own dead ass, Baldwin,He buried in the sacred ground.”“If this is truth, as shall be found,”The bishop cried, “a forfeit highWill on his worldly riches lie.Summon this wicked priest to me;I will myself in this case beThe judge. If Robert’s word be true,Mine are the fine, and forfeit too.”“Disloyal! God’s enemy and mine,Prepare to pay a heavy fine.Thy ass thou buriest in the placeSacred by church. Now, by God’s grace,I never heard of crime more great.What! Christian men with asses wait!Now, if this thing be proven, knowSurely to prison thou wilt go.”“Sir,” said the priest, “thy patience grant;A short delay is all I want.Not that I fear to answer now,But give me what the laws allow.”And so the bishop leaves the priest,Who does not feel as if at feast;But still, because one friend remains,He trembles not at prison pains.His purse it is which never failsFor tax or forfeit, fine or vails.The term arrived, the priest appeared,And met the bishop, nothing feared;For ’neath his girdle safe there hungA leathern purse, well stocked and strungWith twenty pieces fresh and bright,Good money all, none clipped or light.“Priest,” said the bishop, “if thou haveAnswer to give to charge so grave,’Tis now the time.”“Sir, grant me leaveMy answer secretly to give.Let me confess to you alone,And, if needs be, my sins atone.”The bishop bent his head to hear;The priest he whispered in his ear:“Sir, spare a tedious tale to tell.My poor ass served me long and well.For twenty years my faithful slave;Each year his work a saving gaveOf twenty sous, so that, in all,To twenty livres the sum will fall;And, for the safety of his soul,To you, my lord, he left the whole.”“’Twas rightly done,” the bishop said.And gravely shook his godly head;“And that his soul to heaven may go,My absolution I bestow.”Now have you heard a truthful lay,How with rich priests the bishops play;And Rutebœuf the moral drawsThat, spite of kings’ and bishops’ laws,No evil times has he to dreadWho still has silver at his need.Rutebœuf.A BALLADE OF OLD-TIME LADIES
(Translated by John Payne.)TELL me, where, in what land of shade,Hides fair Flora of Rome? and whereAre Thaìs and Archipiade,Cousins-german in beauty rare?And Echo, more than mortal fair,That when one calls by river flow,Or marish, answers out of the air?But what has become of last year’s snow?Where did the learn’d Héloïsa vade,For whose sake Abelard did not spare(Such dole for love on him was laid)Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear?And where is the queen who will’d whilereThat Buridan, tied in a sack, should goFloating down Seine from the turret-stair?But what has become of last year’s snow?Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that madeSweet music as if she a siren were?Broad-foot Bertha? and Joan, the maid,The good Lorrainer the English bareCaptive to Rouen, and burn’d her there?Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys – lo!Where are they, virgins debonair?But what has become of last year’s snow?EnvoiPrince, you may question how they fare,This week, or liefer this year, I trow:Still shall this burden the answer bear —But what has become of last year’s snow?François Villon.A CARMAN’S ACCOUNT OF A LAWSUIT
MARRY, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch hame coals,And he her drounit into the quarry holes;And I ran to the consistory, for to pleinyie,And there I happenit amang ane greedie meinyie.They gave me first ane thing they call citandum,Within aucht days I gat but libellandum;Within ane month I gat ad opponendum;In half ane year I gat inter-loquendum;And syne I gat – how call ye it? —ad replicandum;Bot I could never ane word yet understand him:And then they gart me cast out mony placks,And gart me pay for four-and-twenty acts.Bot or they came half gate to concludendum,The fiend ane plack was left for to defend him.Thus they postponed me twa year with their train,Syne, hodie ad octo, bade me come again;And then their rooks they rowpit wonder fastFor sentence, silver, they cryit at the last.Of pronunciandum they made me wonder fain,Bot I gat never my gude gray mare again.Sir David Lyndsay.THE SOUL’S ERRAND
GO, Soul, the body’s guest,Upon a thankless errand;Fear not to touch the best;The truth shall be thy warrant.Go, since I needs must die,And give them all the lie.Go tell the Court it glowsAnd shines like rotten wood;Go tell the Church it showsWhat’s good, but does no good.If Court and Church reply,Give Court and Church the lie.Tell Potentates they liveActing, but oh! their actions;Not loved, unless they give,Not strong but by their factions.If Potentates reply,Give Potentates the lie.Tell men of high condition,That rule affairs of state,Their purpose is ambition;Their practice only hate;And if they do reply,Then give them all the lie.Tell those that brave it most,They beg for more by spending,Who in their greatest costSeek nothing but commending;And if they make reply,Spare not to give the lie.Tell Zeal it lacks devotion;Tell Love it is but lust;Tell Time it is but motion;Tell Flesh it is but dust;And wish them not reply,For thou must give the lie.Tell Age it daily wasteth;Tell Honour how it alters;Tell Beauty how it blasteth;Tell Favour that she falters;And as they do reply,Give every one the lie.Tell Wit how much it wranglesIn fickle points of niceness;Tell Wisdom she entanglesHerself in overwiseness;And if they do reply,Then give them both the lie.Tell Physic of her boldness;Tell Skill it is pretension;Tell Charity of coldness;Tell Law it is contention;And if they yield reply,Then give them all the lie.Tell Fortune of her blindness;Tell Nature of decay;Tell Friendship of unkindness;Tell Justice of delay;And if they do reply,Then give them still the lie.Tell Arts they have no soundness,But vary by esteeming;Tell Schools they lack profoundness,And stand too much on seeming.If Arts and Schools reply,Give Arts and Schools the lie.Tell Faith it’s fled the city;Tell how the country erreth;Tell, Manhood shakes off pity;Tell, Virtue least preferreth;And if they do reply,Spare not to give the lie.So, when thou hast, as ICommanded thee, done blabbing,Although to give the lieDeserves no less than stabbing,Yet stab at thee who will,No stab the Soul can kill!Sir Walter Raleigh.OF A CERTAIN MAN
THERE was (not certain when) a certain preacherThat never learned, and yet became a teacher,Who, having read in Latin thus a textOf erat quidam homo, much perplexed,He seemed the same with study great to scan,In English thus, There was a certain man.“But now,” quoth he, “good people, note you this,He said there was: he doth not say there is;For in these days of ours it is most plainOf promise, oath, word, deed, no man’s certain;Yet by my text you see it comes to passThat surely once a certain man there was;But yet, I think, in all your Bible no manCan find this text, There was a certain woman.”Sir John Harrington.A PRECISE TAILOR
A TAILOR, thought a man of upright dealing —True, but for lying, honest, but for stealing —Did fall one day extremely sick by chance,And on the sudden was in wondrous trance;The fiends of hell mustering in fearful manner,Of sundry colour’d silks display’d a bannerWhich he had stolen, and wish’d, as they did tell,That he might find it all one day in hell.The man, affrighted with this apparition,Upon recovery grew a great precisian:He bought a Bible of the best translation,And in his life he show’d great reformation;He walkéd mannerly, he talkéd meekly,He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly;He vow’d to shun all company unruly,And in his speech he used no oath but truly;And zealously to keep the Sabbath’s rest,His meat for that day on the eve was drest;And lest the custom which he had to stealMight cause him sometimes to forget his zeal,He gives his journeyman a special charge,That if the stuff, allowance being large,He found his fingers were to filch inclined,Bid him to have the banner in his mind.This done (I scant can tell the rest for laughter),A captain of a ship came, three days after,And brought three yards of velvet and three-quarters,To make Venetians down below the garters.He, that precisely knew what was enough,Soon slipt aside three-quarters of the stuff.His man, espying it, said in derision,“Master, remember how you saw the vision!”“Peace, knave!” quoth he, “I did not see one ragOf such a colour’d silk in all the flag.”Sir John Harrington.THE WILL
BEFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe,Great Love, some legacies: Here I bequeatheMine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see;If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee;My tongue to fame; to embassadors mine ears;To women or the sea, my tears.Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore,By making me serve her who had twenty more,That I should give to none but such as had too much before.My constancy I to the planets give;My truth to them who at the court do live;My ingenuity and opennessTo Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness;My silence to any who abroad have been;My money to a Capuchin.Thou, Love, taught’st me, by appointing meTo love there where no love received can be,Only to give to such as have an incapacity.My faith I give to Roman Catholics;All my good works unto the schismaticsOf Amsterdam; my best civilityAnd courtship to a university;My modesty I give to soldiers bare;My patience let gamesters share.Thou, Love, taught’st me, by making meLove her that holds my love disparity,Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.I give my reputation to thoseWhich were my friends; mine industry to foes;To schoolmen I bequeathe my doubtfulness;My sickness to physicians, or excess;To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ;And to my company my wit.Thou, Love, by making me adoreHer who begot this love in me before,Taught’st me to make as though I gave, when I do but restore.To him for whom the passing bell next tollsI give my physic-books; my written rollsOf moral counsel I to Bedlam give;My brazen medals unto them which liveIn want of bread; to them which pass amongAll foreigners, mine English tongue.Thou, Love, by making me love oneWho thinks her friendship a fit portionFor younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.Therefore I’ll give no more, but I’ll undoThe world by dying, because love dies too.Then all your beauties will no more be worthThan gold in mines where none doth draw it forth;And all your graces no more use shall haveThan a sundial in a grave.Thou, Love, taught’st me, by making meLove her who doth neglect both thee and me,To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all three.John Donne.SHAKESPEAREAN SATIRE
FROM “KING HENRY IV”MY liege, I did deny no prisoners;But I remember, when the fight was done,When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress’d,Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reap’d,Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home.He was perfuméd like a milliner,And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he heldA pouncet-box, which ever and anonHe gave his nose and took ’t away again;Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,Took it in snuff: and still he smil’d and talk’d,And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly,To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corseBetwixt the wind and his nobility.With many holiday and lady termsHe question’d me; among the rest, demandedMy prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf.I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,To be so pester’d with a popinjay,Out of my grief and my impatience,Answer’d neglectingly I know not what,He should, or he should not; for he made me madTo see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,And talk so like a waiting-gentlewomanOf guns and drums and wounds – God save the mark! —And telling me the sovereign’st thing on earthWas parmaceti for an inward bruise;And that it was great pity, so it was,This villainous saltpetre should be digg’dOut of the bowels of the harmless earth,Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’dSo cowardly; and but for these vile guns,He would himself have been a soldier.This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,I answer’d indirectly, as I said;And I beseech you, let not this reportCome current for an accusationBetwixt my love and your high Majesty.Shakespeare.